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Wednesday, October 27

Get out the brooms

If the Cubs cannot win the World Series, then I would guess that watching the Cardinals get swept by a team that has not won one themselves since World War One is the Next Best Thing.

I will admit that I haven't watched a single solitary pitch of this bitch, and will continue to avoid it like a Meryl Streep marathon on Lifetime. Things are going pretty well the way things are, so why fuck with it? I get just as much a precarious vicarious thrill by reading about the games on the internet.

Besides, as I pointed out a few days ago, these ARE the Red Sox, and if they still DO have a curse about them, and if they are up 3 games to zilch over the Evil Satanic Fowl...well, not to be overdramatic about it, but... would be the single-most worst chokejob in the history of human competition.

Which is NOT something I want to watch.

Let me just say that I enjoy knowing that Steve Klein doesn't even get to dress for this beast, and Cal Eldred does. I enjoy knowing that the Geeeenyous, Dago McMullett, is getting more and more smarmy, sarcastic, and disingenuous with each passing loss.

I like hearing that Albie PooHoles is beginning to show his age, that Matt Morris really does fuck his sister, that Jim Edmonds is hobbled because So Taguchi stuck the bathroom plunger an inch Too Far up his ass the other night, and that the stinking corpse of Darryl Kile is beginning to leak colorful, noxious fluids all over the front of his game shirt, and as the putrefication is starting to finally take hold, his whole inert mass is sliding off of the director's chair in front of his locker, and when Morris is forced to remove the reeking carcass from the premises at the end of the series, he is going to need a large serving spoon, three rolls of Bounty, the quicker picker upper, and a couple of tubes of Vagisil to help him grease the skids so he can jam the infested remains of DK57 into his fucking red duffel bag.

And then, when he starts to walk across the parking lot to his car, he will probably get knocked down by a whole pack of starving overalls-clad hillbillies, attracted by the smell. They'll steal the duffel bag, thinking it was a real big possum or something, and lug it home for their sister-daughters to cook for supper. And then Mutt Morris will sit in the middle of the asphalt lot and cry huge dripping tears, for the memory of his friend, for the loss of the World Series, and most of all, because he has to go home to his wife, who looks like a fucking troll, and his ugly toothless kids, who eat nothing but paste, boogers, and Peeps.

Fuck ALL Cardinals, all Cardinal fans, and everyone in St. Louis, the surrounding counties, and most of all, Fuck anyone in Illinois who has the opportunity to root for the Cubs, but instead drinks anti-freeze, bathes only on odd-numbered Tuesdays, and shits in a hole in the ground.