seventh inning sluts

You guys, I don't know why, but this was so hard (twss). Maybe I caught The Block from Kat, I don't know, but geez. Also, I totally ripped off Kat's Dreamy Boyfriend's idea for the chorus. Thanks, Kat's Dreamy Boyfriend!

Aaaaaaaanyway . . . raise your glasses and I'll put on my super-deep, announcer man voice.

Today we salute YOU, Miss Baseball Diamond Fashionista,

Why wear sneakers and jeans to the game when you can rock stilettos and that teeny tiny dress? While all those other suckers are sweating in their oversize jerseys, you draw stares from the crowd as you teeter down the steps, clutching the railing to keep your balance.
(if you fall, it will huuuuu-uuuurrrrt)

Don't worry that there's a line of sports fans behind you, their arms full of hot dogs and nachos and beer, who just want to get to their seats before the game is over. Take your time . . . one day Mr. Right will swoop in and carry you to your seat.
(He drives a Camaaaaarooooooo)

Sure there was that one time you tripped over your heels and fell flat on your face on your way to the bathroom. And there was that other time someone spilled nachos all over your new leather pants. But it's a small price to pay for being the best dressed in the ballpark. After all, you're just killing time until Derek Jeter gazes into the stands, sees you posing and preening in your seat, and whisks you away to a life of glamour and fancy clothes. Paris Hilton's got nothing on you.
(Paris doesn't like basebaaaaaaall)

So tug up that tube top, you pretty, pretty princess. Scotch guard that Coach purse, because beer stains are impossible to get out, and the chances that some irate fan will "accidentally" throw beer on you? Are good. Very good. Enjoy the game.