Friday, February 13, 2009
The Wait is Over
It's finally here. Go ahead and get your fat-fucking-ass off of that sofa cushion you've been farting into for the past four months and open a window. Take a deep breath of something besides Marlboro Lights and Papa John's butter sauce. So what if it's 30 degrees out - it's all about the signs. Signs of a new day. Signs of a better life. Signs that this endless hell of snow, ice and wind will soon come to an abrupt end.
Pitchers and catchers report today. The baseball gods would like to say, "you're welcome".
And pardon me for being so excited, but I've been emotionally away of the sports scene since some old fucker decided to commandeer one of my teams and drive the wagon right off a cliff. The NBA? Show me a video of a man watering his lawn and I'm more anticipatory. You want me to fill out brackets for March Madness? I'd rather use them as toilet paper. Hockey? FUCK. OFF.
But the days of obsessing over retread stories and perusing free agent trackers are almost over. Who's the next player to drunk-drive their car into a telephone pole? Who's the next superstar to get caught with a needle in their ass? I don't know! I don't know! But I'm so fucking excited, I think I just pissed my pants!
Who gives a shit! Let's go get drunk and eat peanuts and awful sausage and peppers on rolls that taste like plaster, and curse in front of young children and tell the beer vendors that their beer is fucking luke-warm and call them gay, and let's squeeze into the subway cars and sneak butts between innings and personally upgrade our sections, and let's threaten Boston fans fifty years our seniors just for the fuck of it, and let's go down to the bar on a Tuesday and lose our voice and maybe have a few too many and then get stuck sleeping on the couch.
Oh man, this is going to be a good season...