Thanks to Josh and Amy, I've got another child. Only this one is green, with baggy pants and I don't have to actually feed him.Sometime soon, Wally the Build A Bear will arrive on my front porch.
I give him 2.3 hours before Rakes has him tied to the ceiling fan or Trot has him hogtied to the bush in the front yard. This place is like "Goodfellas", only for minors. Which means the mayhem is the same but the language is a little more PG.
I'm pretty sure I'm not gonna make it until Friday night for a Red Sox game; I'm already twitching in my easy chair as I flip channels and curse under my breath. What can I say; the winter is never a fun time around the RSD's house.
And so I wait. For Joe Maddon, Erik Hinske, and Carlos Pena to invade my living room from the tomb known as Tropicana Field. For Chip freaking Carey and Buck Martinez to send me over the edge. And for Papi to send a James Shield fastball rattling around the catwalks of that mortuary they call home field. As much as I'm glad to see the Yankees sitting at home for the playoffs, I'm that much more irritated we've gotta play the Rays in the ALCS; they don't KNOW they shouldn't be here.
I've spent the last few days getting prepared; Extra Pepto in the medicine cabinet, a Raggedy Andy doll to punch repeatedly, and Darrin at Best Buy on speed dial just in case I decide to go Elvis Presley on my television Friday night.
Somebody tell me again how all this is good for me?
No comments:
Post a Comment