America’s Favorite Game Returns: A Mariners-Themed Edition of You Can Only Have One!

kate-upton-bed-640x423Welcome to You Can Only Have One! It’s America’s favorite game and soon to be your favorite, too!

For those who are new to You Can Only Have One! here’s how the game works. You will be presented with two different scenarios. You will have to decide which scenario you prefer, then act upon that very scenario. There are only two rules to follow in the process. Those rules are:

Rule 1.0 a. You cannot have neither.

Rule 36.5 b. You cannot have both.

Pretty simple, right? For a background on the origin of the game and its ancient Sri Lankan roots made popular in the good ol’ U-S-of-A by a Seattle-based radio talk show host, feel free to read more here.

For everyone else, allow me to introduce today’s theme. Today’s theme is … the Seattle Mariners. That’s right, folks. Every YCOHO scenario we present to you today will pertain to your Seattle Mariners. So whaddaya say? Ready to have some fun? Alright!

Now let’s play … You Can Only Have One!


YCOHO 1: Willie Bloomquist in your starting lineup every day OR a really bad sexual experience with Kate Upton that results in both of you crying tears of sadness and subsequently destroys any chance you have of ever getting with her again.

If you’re a warm-blooded male (or even a warm-blooded female), engaging in coitus with Kate Upton might be considered the ultimate conquest of our species. Just one night spent in the presence of someone of Upton’s ilk would be a life-changing interaction.

But what if that interaction turned into a complete disaster? What if everything that could go wrong did go wrong? What if the evening culminated in both of you sobbing miserably at opposite ends of the room as you apologized profusely and she vowed to never, ever see your face again? How would that make you feel?

If it made you feel worse than seeing Willie Bloomquist penciled in as, say, your everyday starting shortstop for all 162 games of a Major League Baseball season, then your choice here would be easy. But if your favorite ballclub is running Willie B. out there 100-percent of the time, your team probably sucks. And keep in mind that even spending one night betwixt the loins of Kate Upton is still quite the achievement, no matter how badly that night may end up.

Buuuuuuutttt, there’s something to be said for completely blowing it with a super model when you could, however improbably, leave the door open for success somewhere down the line.

My choice: Willie Bloomquist in your starting lineup every day.


YCOHO 2: Fernando Rodney (versus any other pitcher on earth) coming in to close a game to save your life OR a tramp stamp of a mermaid sliding down a rainbow into an ocean of naked mermen on your back.

Do you realize that we’ve entered an era where a vast subset of women with lower back tattoos (aka tramp stamps, aka skank stickers, aka bulls-eyes) are now mothers tasked with raising the future leaders of America? How crazy is that?

Sure, that tattoo might have seemed like a good idea back in 2001 – along with all those puka shell necklaces, neon yellow tech vests, billowy Abercrombie & Fitch cargo khakis, and the three or four GeoCities pages you built – but more than a decade later, you’re going through life with a daily reminder of the painfully ill-advised decisions of your past perched right above your ass. And at some point down the road you’ll need to explain this emblem of frivolity to your growing son or daughter, who will then leverage your youthful transgression against you to do something that he or she knows you don’t want him or her doing. Good luck!

No knock on those who possess tramp stamps, because let’s face it, they are (or were) freakin’ hot. But times have changed. And your lower back tat doesn’t mean nearly as much now as it did back in the day.

That said, would you do it all again? And would you let someone else pick the design? What if allowing the likeness of humanoid sea creatures (and a rainbow, don’t forget the rainbow) to penetrate your skin would in turn spare you from having to watch the Seattle Mariners play a game to save your precious life? And if that weren’t enough, what if it all meant you didn’t have to witness Fernando Rodney come jogging across the outfield grass, cap askew, to try and nail down a save with but a mere run serving as a buffer between you and the prospect of impending doom? Would you do it? WOULD YOU?!

Life wouldn’t be worth living with the image of a mermaid sliding down a rainbow into the waiting arms of a group of naked mermen who would surely proceed to mer-bukkake this poor, yet willing soul in the depths of the sea upon your back. So to that end, I believe in Rodney.

My choice: Fernando Rodney (versus any other pitcher on earth) coming in to close a game to save your life.


YCOHO 3: Lloyd McClendon performing a strip tease (complete with a full-on lap dance) at your birthday party OR playing Seven Minutes in Heaven with a person who smells like fish.

Seven Minutes in Heaven, for those who don’t know, is a party game that takes two partygoers of the opposite sex, puts them in a closet together, and forces them to make out with one another for a period of seven minutes. At the end of the seven-minute duration, the two people are allowed to exit the closet to the catcalls of their peers. If this game sounds kind of stupid, that’s because it is. But for those of you who have ever watched any teen movie produced in the ‘80s, chances are you’ve been impacted in some way by this magical, magical contest.

If you’re a single, eligible, hormone-raging young adult who’s totally DTF (or, perhaps more accurately, DTK), Seven Minutes in Heaven doesn’t sound so bad. And in fact it isn’t. But what if that person you were paired with smelled like day-old trout? How are you supposed to tongue wrestle a guy or gal for one minute, let alone seven, when they evoke images of dead flounder trapped in a locked car sweltering under the heat of the desert sun for hours on end?

This is quite the predicament we have here. But we can definitely kick it up a notch.

Say friends, have you ever pictured Lloyd McClendon doing the Nae Nae dance in nothing but a leopard-print banana hammock? Surely you have just now. How did that make you feel? Are you (circle one):

a) Terrified?

b) Excited?

c) Aroused?

d) Amused?

e) Intrigued?

f) Banging your head against the desk to try and rid your mind of that horrible image?

If you answered b), c), or d), you can forget all about that makeout session with the wannabe fishmonger, because your choice is an easy one. But if you answered a) or f), your options are limited. Let’s break this down.

By all accounts, the Mariners manager is a healthy (but slightly chubby, let’s be honest) dude. He doesn’t have any communicable diseases that we know of and he seems like a fun guy. Would you be harmed in any way by letting him grind up on your naughty bits for the length of two or three Pitbull songs? Besides the damage inflicted upon your eardrums by a bald Cuban man shouting “Culo!” and “Dale!” repeatedly, probably not.

On the other hand, someone who smells like rotting sea urchin could very well have syphilis, or dysentery, or rubella, or something else you might find yourself contracting in high school/college/the Oregon Trail. Plus, maybe spending seven whole minutes in close proximity with someone who smells like fish is long enough for you to emerge smelling like fish, too. Kind of like how every time you walk into a Subway, you leave reeking of shitty, half-assed bread made from the ingredients found in yoga mats. No one wants to smell like either of those things, the fish or the bread. No one wants to obtain a disease, either.

My motto is “safety first.” Therefore, the decision has been made.

My choice: Lloyd McClendon performing a strip tease (complete with a full-on lap dance) at your birthday party.


YCOHO 4: ROOT Sports provides television coverage of your wedding OR Felix Hernandez drills you in the ribs with a 95-mile-per-hour fastball.

For many of you, having your wedding televised may very well be the thrill of a lifetime. The opportunity to follow in the footsteps of The Bachelorette’s bachelorette, the royal family, or one of the Kardashians would be absolutely exhilarating.

Ah, but what if ROOT Sports earned the right to provide coverage of your holy matrimony? All of a sudden everything would change. Instead of Chris Harrison interviewing you about your nuptials, you’d have Jen Mueller lobbing softballs in broken Spanglish, Bill Krueger providing a trio of “Keys to the Marriage,” and Dave Sims bestowing wacky, semi-emasculating monikers upon you and your partner.

To top it all off, your names would likely be misspelled onscreen and all breaks in the ceremony would be brought to the viewing audience by “Trucks, TRUCKS, and MORE TRUCKS!!!” Sure, you’d have HD-quality video of your wonderful day, but watching that video would be gut-wrenching.

Speaking of gut-wrenching, allowing Felix Hernandez to unleash a four-seam fastball square into the side of your torso would undoubtedly cause you more than a little pain. You’d probably cry a bit, possibly vomit, maybe piss yourself. You might even break a rib, and you’d surely be plagued by a bruise the size of a watermelon that wouldn’t dissolve for weeks. Would it be worth it to prevent ROOT Sports from bastardizing one of the happiest moments of your entire life?

Yes. Absolutely yes.

My choice: Felix Hernandez drills you in the ribs with a 95-mile-per-hour fastball.


That’s it for today’s edition of America’s favorite game, everyone! Thanks for stopping by and playing with us today! Be sure to join us next time on … You Can Only Have One!

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