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Monday, June 14

I grew a beard watching yesterday's game

First off, excellent bunch of comments over the weekend, and yep, I DO need to deal with the fact that if I flop it out there, there are some of you that aren't gonna like it. The post was meant to be more far-reaching, like our society as a whole, not just the small band of pre-verts that come here.

If you're of Mediterranean descent, or otherwise just someone with a regular male level of testosterone (and I mean YOU too, Sharon Panozzo), you're probably thinking: "no big deal" about growing a beard.

But I am definitely testosterone-challenged, so when I finally picked my big fat ass up after Jon Lester (why even try to spell his real name?) nailed down the Angels in the 50th inning, my wife said something about "welcome to the real world, Rip Van Winkle. Now go out and grill us some dinner, fatback."

She wasn't referring to sleeping, cause I wasn't. Yep, I had grown a real beard. It was amazing. Just like the game, because so much improbable shit happened.

- Fred McLee went 5 for 5?
- Todd Hollandsworth nearly snapped his neck pulling down some serious asynchronous sattelite in the 12th. Good hit, no glove, indeed...
- On a bang-bang play in the last inning, they gave the runner (us) the call? When in the hell does that ever happen? If the fielder makes an outstanding a play as Choad Fingers did, they always get the benefit of the doubt. Replays showed Walker beat the play, but Scosia ran out there anyway, because like I said, the fielder ALWAYS gets the call, and he probably wanted to know when and where HE pissed in the ump's Cheerios, anyway?
- The Great Vlad fucked up a fly ball. Of course, he came back and stuck it right up LaTroy's ass...

But the biggest surprise? To paraphrase the ancient philosopher, Happy Gilmore, somebody taught Corey how to bunt...

This series was HUGE, a series win against a quality opponent, with what I hope was Corey and DLee finally turning a corner, and Sosa coming back for this weekend.

Many of you are probably thinking "Hey, windbag, why all the Sammy luv these days?" OK, I deserve it, and don't worry, I don't love him THAT much. I am just really encouraged by the fact that, for some reason, it appears that the dumb ass donkey finally learned from Corkgate, and is getting himself some rehab. Did any of you see him stretch that double into a single? No matter, I don't give a shit if he isn't running, he's hitting, and good lord potatochips, we need him to come back hitting.

Tonight is a big ol' barndance, with #22 going up against Andy Pettitty's massage partner. I said that thick-assed penis was going to win 8 games ALL YEAR. Shit, the fucker ought to be 10-0, if his pen didn't do a Borowski on him one game. I'd like to think that Prior is just gonna strut up there tonight and shove hit up his big thick ass.

I dunno. It seems that ol' Rog has got some magic going, as if God has bestowed His blessings upon him for recompense for having to deal with the single most genetically short-changed bunch of ankle-biters this side of Mel-Kay Trailer Park in Diamond, IL. His oldest son, Kady or Kory or Kinko, I forget his name, still thinks his dad throws for the Blue Jays. And the kid is, in fact, mainstreamed in the local school system, which says something about either the quality or benevolence of South Texas schools.

A co-worker, good guy, came in and he thinks we're gonna yank the big old shitty horseshoe out of Rapid Roger's butt tonight. That'd be nice.