Cameron Maybin has enough steez, not to mention dip, for the whole team, Blanks is now firing everything but, and Orlando is still something only being enjoyed by toddlers and teeny-bops who don't understand how much they're being ripped off, let alone called out. Best year evar, right?

Eh.

So while we sit around in the 2012 Season Waiting Room with only a few numb magazines sitting around, none of which Charlie Sheen seems to have naming rights to, how about I throw a little Padres-related anecdote on the rack?

Eh.

Doing it anyway.

The year was last. Our scrappy little Padres were rolling along, steady maintaining their seemingly comfortable perch above the San Arizangado Douchefucks, poised to add a playoff layer to our immediate, blue and smog-free atmosphere. So, like any normal San Diego sports fan I was like, "k," and was eventually persuaded to take part in our miraculous run by, I guess, attending one of those "home game" things. I stated my case to two friends, whom, after much deliberation and some rearranging of breakfasts and "all the other things a sports fan would rather do in San Diego," agreed to join me.

Chase Headley bobblehead night began with the short drive to the Murph for some free parking and a quick, ultimately unintentional, hotbox. We arrived at the Q in the afternoon to a sea of cars, which, looking back was an oddly large amount considering the downtown game and one locked out NFL offseason. However, we also didn't see a soul in the entire parking lot, so we proceeded to smoke a few joints. We took our time as we passed left and put on our sunscreen, chatting away about how much we were looking forward to the World Series victory riots. But then began the dull, distant roar. After one of us decided to look back at the stadium, we found ourselves in a panic, hand-cranking our windows up as thousands people poured out of the stadium like smoke, and smoke poured out of our car like thousands of people. Within seconds we found ourselves surrounded by a passing crowdof what we later discovered to be convention-going Jehovah's Witnesses, witnessing intently one single hazy car. Three kids deep, yet completely silent. Smoke-filled and roasting, yet frozen still. We waited and waited for what seemed like an entire PLAYOFF-IMPLICATIONS-NEW YORK-BOSTON-ESPN-PRIMETIME-SUNDAY-NIGHT-WEDNESDAY-BASEBALL-RUBBER-MATCH-CLASSIC-BEAN-BALL-OMGFUCKYES-BLOCKBUSTER game, not knowing what to do. Eventually, Adrian Gonzalez grounded into the shift to end the game and, thank Jah, no convention-goers ended up knocking on any of our doors, allowing us to slip out of the car with minimal smoke leakage. And even more thank-Jah-fully, we were able to remember to go back to the car to get the seeds and tickets seconds before boarding the trolley.

We got to Petco and were able to safely take in a ballgame, as well as many hot dogs, from some great seats behind the foul pole, sans Blanks' driver, and left with some sweet bobbleheads, an awesome memory, and most importantly, a Friar victory.

*Please return magazine to rack. 2012 is the year. Go Padres.