This morning I was greeted by a hair ball, a pet puke, and an offensive odor.
Speaking of offensive, I should blog. I’ll start by singing the accolades of my favorite major league catcher.
Wait, my husband says it’s too early in the day for me to sing. Actually, he says there’s never a reason for it.
I’ll stick with typing and bad poetry.
Carlos Ruiz is my half-pint hero. He may be small but he’s really six foot six inches of heart packed into two enormous thighs.
I’ve sometimes used that same excuse myself. Like I say, “Does this ass make my pants look big?”
Now, hindsight might be 20/20—and often makes experts out of liars, but I’ve posted a few blogs vying for the attention someone else deserves that prove I’ve loved Chooch from afar (only because of those new stalker laws).
Last May, I even penned some cheesy poetry on his behalf and because my blogs aren’t worth reading the first time, let alone worthy of review, I’ll copy and paste it here (for your convenience):
Ode to Carlos
The guy behind home plate
Hails from another place
Van Halen praised it in a song
Our hero’s home’s in Panama
I’m gonna have that tattooed on my behind.
Trust me, there’s plenty of room.
Honey, does this tattoo make my pants look ass?
When it comes to another player I adore, I’ve often referred to what he does best as The Placido Effect. That’s what happens to me when Polanco wears pinstripes. That guy makes me so breathless I get a side-ache.
Besides his bald head looks like a bowling ball. And I have a thing for bowlers. There’s just something about running my fingers over those smooth ceramic balls that makes me sweat.
I guess that’s why they have those little blowers.
Hold on, my son has a question: “Why does Jayson Werth grow a beard and then shave it off?”
“Because he can,” I said.
My husband looked at him and said, “It’s the same excuse your mom uses.”
Speaking of excuses, the new guy on the block makes none. Mike Sweeney aka Sweeney Mike, cut up the Mets in game one. And when he was tagged “Chevrolet Player of the Game,” he gave credit where credit was due: “Brad Lidge came in and closed the door—as always.”
My husband said, “Sweeney’s played a lot of ball—he hasn’t seen a lot of ball.”
And what’s up with Cole Hamels? It’s like he’s being punked. He had eight no decisions coming into his eighth loss and I don’t know how many of those were due to lack of run support.
I have an underwire from Victoria’s Secret that gives me more support than that.
My husband says nothing gives me that much support.
Hey, at least my boobs make other girls' boobs look big.
So I’m not a busty woman. Like I always say, I’m Irish—I’m not even human.
In any case, the Phils can’t win ‘em all. If they did that with three guys missing from the lineup, it’d give Ruben Amaro, Jr. a complex—if he doesn’t already have one. He’s been chastised for trading away prospects to get what he could have had in the first place—three top notch pitchers, including one who compLEEtes me.
As a result, Cliff Lee now has some tough Texas company. His mound-mate, Dustin Nippert, was hit in the head by a line drive but stood up simply rubbing his owie.
I’m not saying he’s hard-headed but the ball deflected off his skull and landed in left field. It was almost caught by the outfielder. That’d been a 1-7 putout.
I’ll bet that guy never gets brainfreeze.
Is brainfreeze one word or two? I know, I’ll consult the fictionary.
They say everything’s bigger in Texas. Thank God it didn’t hit him in the crotch. The ball would have landed in the seats. That would’ve made one hell of a souvenir. I wonder if you could get that authenticated. They’d call it an HBD. That’s hit-by…
Well, you get the point.
My husband says I have to wrap this up. He’s hungry and wants to eat at this new place.
Hold on. “Honey, I don’t know if I want to eat at a place called The Eulogy. Are you trying to tell me something?”
He said, “You’re Irish. What do you have to lose?”
He’s lucky he’s a bowler.
See you at the ballpark.
Copyright 2010 Flattish Poe all rights reserved.
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