So I didn't kill myself. Or anyone else yet. And here we are now, Spring Training around the bend I could really give a fuck. This season should provide plenty of material for stabbing myself in the face with a butter knife, because I'll be eating pure butter with a knife, hopeful I'll die of cardiac arrest before the All-Star break, but something tells me that, with a ready weapon in hand, a tenth consecutive 1 to 0 loss will put me one toke (of PCP) over the line and the butter knife will have punctured my skull multiple times...
Unless Jay Gibbons hits 35 home runs. Or that all nine players "platooning" three different fucking positions will all have really incredible seasons. This looks like a disaster. But last season they looked good and played for shit. So, I never have any idea what will happen but usually it doesn't look good, it's fun for a minute and then we witness countless dickmoves and don't win the World Series.
Fuck Frank McCourt. Gotta say it again and again. It's nothing new but I can't help thinking about another swindle by some swine. Some despotic rich dickface strolls into town, buys our shit up, charges us more money than ever, fucks it all up and sells it back to Fox. Slumlords need to be burned alive in the stadium parking lot while we're deep into a case beer and on our fifth pregame blunt. And when the Narcs come around in their black SUV, "just enjoyin' drivin' around the parking lot," we can tell them to get fucked and move along. Or else get burned.
Class war aside, I am excited for another season of failure and the eradication of my soul. It's an inexplicably hopeless cause. At least, Vin will be there to tell it straight, lay down the poetry and remind me that the canopy of blue sky above Chavez Ravine is certainly a sight to see.