*Image courtesy of Kelly O' and www.sittingstill.net*
I'm less than a month away from turning 40, have boys sniffing around my door looking for Ciera, and Rakes apparently attempted a Stone Cold Stunner on Trot tonight which fortunately didn't result in any broken bones but it wasn't for lack of trying.
I've got a mortgage I'll pay off sometime around the time pigs fly, moderately high blood pressure (not helped by my recent addiction to Tabasco flavored Slim Jims) and I found a new gray hair in my beard today. That makes 23 now but who's counting?
Yet I'll go to bed frothing about the fact Big Papi woke up from his month long slumber to hit 2 bombs, Youk launched one that looked like it came close to dinging Sputnik, and Adrian Beltre is doing his best Pete Rose impression at the plate for the past 8 games but the Sox STILL lost to the O's 12-9.
It's the Barney Fife rule of "If you give 'em 35 they'll take 40", only in baseball terms. Right now, if the pitching is good the bats are dead. If the bats are on fire, the pitchers are throwing BP. If the starters are cruising, the pen is going to be shaky. If the starters are impersonating a gas can, the pen will be lights out.
Up is down, left is right, and Ted is having deep, meaningful conversations with the bottle of TUMS on my left shoulder and the bottle of Valium on my right.
Let me add it's May the 1st and we've got 5 more months to go.
'Course a 7 inning outing by The Commander tomorrow would go a LONG way toward helping with things.
Surrender the Farmhouse Sink
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