The Gray Lady has an amusing piece today limning a day in the life of the slavering subhuman horde that is the habitual autograph hound. The column tags them as "Sharpie-wielding stalkers," which might be a terrible slight to stalkers everywhere. I mean, at least most stalkers know who they're pursuing, like me and Kerry Washington. You'll love me yet. These guys, though - buncha rank amateurs.
They stood with a horde of other fans along the hotel's circular driveway, waiting for players to pop out of taxis and limousines.
At one point, a silver stretch limo arrived. The back door opened, and a handsome young man emerged.
Someone yelled, "Hey, it's Jimmy Rollins," and the mob lurched forward and surrounded the man, who was startled.
"Jimmy who?" he said.
"Hey, Jimmy, sign my ball," someone shouted. "Jimmy! Jimmy!"
"I'm not Jimmy," the man said. "I think you got the wrong guy."
Rollins said as he swept his opened palm over their faces. "I am not the man you seek. You will go home now. You will make an honest living. An honest living."
"Yes... honest living," said the autograph hound in a trance.