"Hell may have no fury like a woman scorned but heaven hath no sweetness like a sports fan vindicated." - Samcat

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Time to Pay Up

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This one will do just fine...

Dear Fat Man,

Kindly remember our deal. You don't pitch like shit and I stop making fun of you. Or you continue to suck boiled eggs and you buy me a pony. Please see the above pony. It can be purchased at a farm in New Hampshire for a reasonable price. I shall expect it to be waiting for me, tied to the fence post and lazily munching on my front lawn when I return from work this evening.


I don't really want to talk about it. Can we just pretend it never happened? Except for Tek's Monster shot. That most assuredly did happen. Truthfully, I missed most of the game in actual real-live action because I was being a good little worker bee and retired directly to the mouse-infested BPL to do some freelance work immediately after, well, work. "I can do this," I told myself. "This will be fine. You can ignore the game for one night. You don't need to know what's going on every second of every game. You need to get your work done if you ever want to make the downpayment on your new apartment." This was the rational side of my brain speaking. The irrational side countered, "Ooo, look! The BPL has wireless internet! Gamecast, SGMB, email, here I come!" Technology is a cruel mistress.

However, after three innings or so, it became clear that the poorly drawn "hitters" and the crudely constructed "strike zone" on my laptop were not going to be telling me anything I wanted to hear. After a while, David Wells' mug shot actually appeared to be mocking me. "Screw you, Fat Man," I said under my breath, "You're back on the shit list."

As was, I might add, Amy1, who got to attend the game and felt the need to inform me that she was "right behind the bullpen. I can throw pebbles at Varitek. Oooo, he's stretching! Your boy's hot." I believe I responded in a stage whisper, "I hate you." It's not true, of course, I love Amy dearly, but that is not nice, that is. Rubbing it in and such. However, I have further incontrivertible proof that Varitek does indeed love me as I got a text message from Amy, "Send some mojo!" and a voicemail message shortly thereafter, "Your mojo worked! Send more!" Boy knows who loves him. I'm just sayin'.

So, aside from that, can we just forget about the rest of the game? Let's just pretend that yesterday was an off-day and tonight the newly christened Neptune Nuts (Clement) faces off, again, against Rodrigo Lopez and these Orioles who have begun to drive me batshit. Also, there are far too many people named Lopez and/or BJ on the Orioles. Amy2 and I are calling for a moratorium. They're just being greedy. That, and no grown man should be able to refer to himself as "BJ" without giggling.

See y'all tomorrow. Pony rides for everyone!

Until then, let's just look at the following stats and bask in their hearty glow. Three guesses who's numbers these are. And the first two don't count. Someone's pullin' their weight around here: