Thursday, September 28, 2006

This Sure Beats "Sex and the City"

I was tempted to jump in the car and head down to D.C. after Team Vomit won that five-hour torture and turned into pumpkins at the stroke of midnight today. The Old Lady had already missed another tantalizing repeat of “Sex and the City,” and whenever that happens, bedtime just ain’t the same.

The whores on that show are so clever. Imagine some skinny, hideous gash coming up with a nickname like “Mr. Big” for one of her mansluts. Surely, that had Carrie Bradshaw nominated for a Pulitzer in the “Most Creative Name for a Guy with a Large Penis” category. But wouldn’t you know it – I cracked the morning internet open after a little shuteye and there was Chollie going hog wild with the imagery after the game, thirsty reporters gaga over the bizarre material. Even Sarah Jessica Parker’s skeletal mask of a face would have been blushing. She might have even fingered herself.

“We’ll put some glue on his pants or something,” Chollie said of the slippery Michael Bourne, seeing more playing time even after his Tuesday impression of the cocaine-era Lonnie Smith. “Some pine tar. Keep him from sliding past the base.”

Then Old Backwoods had a revealing Carrie Bradshaw moment, suggesting a little sado-masochism when he said maybe he could provide Bourn with “one of those shock collars. That's what I put on Varsh sometimes.”

Whew doggie! Sounds like Chollie hit that moonshine while the game was in progress. I can’t blame him. This shit is a little too much to take at my age. Five fucking hours of push-me pull-you bullshit. Erectile dysfunction with men on base. Throwing the ball around like girls. A rookie pitcher getting a pinch hit. More bad umpiring. A smiling Pat Burrell. Two blown saves.

And then, our beloved Jelly Roll -- he of the do-rag, the Cadillac strut, the two errors that almost cost us the season -- got the big hit, further proof that he is an egomaniac who only responds to pressure in August and September, the rest of the year be damned.

Unfortunately, we may never know how good he is in October until he learns to answer the bell in April and May, when he’s busy uppercutting the ball and popping out – and considering the paucity of walks he receives, handicapping the top of the lineup, undercutting production, and costing the team wins.

Go get ‘em, Mr. September.


Anonymous JG said...


As soon as I saw that shock collar comment, all kinds of weird shit started flying through my head. I knew you wouldn't let it slip by unnoticed. The extra innings were friggin killing me. They tried like hell to lose it and somehow snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. Maybe they're destined to get in. Whatever the case, I can't take that again. It's like when you're sick and have to puke and it comes in waves before you actually heave.

28/9/06 3:26 PM  

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