NIGHT TERROR

had this dream last night where I traveled around some small town that had one of those dead relics called main street, void of a jamba juice or a taco bell, it was a vague and murky setting but i was wandering around with some faceless friend of mine and who do I see but right-handed Dodger pitcher hiroki kuroda, this year's ace on the eve of a pitching duel with johan santana and hiroki, he's being lead around by this well-to-do white woman and i walk up to him and say what's up, my dumbfounded excitement under a thin veil and my bro's goin' off about how he's the man, etc. and kuroda smiles and says hello and whispers to the white woman, something i assumed was for her to translate to us since kuroda looked happy to see us and speaks japanese but the woman kind of whispers back to him in muffled japanese and looks at us menacingly and says, we have to go and she grabs his arm and they recede into the end of the night and the dream and the world and me and my friend, we wander into this antique shop where they have an array of antique revolvers and we're insulted by the elderly proprietor but i'm not sure why or i don't remember what the fuck he said and that was it.

in an ignorant analysis, i say that hiroki kuroda is going to pitch a no-hitter in new york but some rich white lady will lead him astray and turn it all to shit. maybe she's the bullpen or maybe she's david wright. i don't know. all i can say concerning my relationship with baseball these days is, "stay the fuck out of my dreams!" At least allow my mind some hours to recover from the shit you've stained it with. please and thank you, amen.