So, I went to the Red Sox-Yankees game last night.
You know, the one that didn’t happen? That one, that got rained out? Yeah. I was there.
Actually, I was at a bar just behind Fenway Park. Early, too. And the beautiful thing about going to a game three hours early that gets called an hour an hour before game time is that your trip to the ballpark then turns into a night out drinking. It’s not quite as exciting, but it beats sitting your ass on the couch eating TV dinners, eh?
(Not that there’s anything wrong with sitting on the couch eating TV dinners. I don’t want to make any of you out there feel badly, if that’s the sort of thing you’re doing right now.
And hey, that beats the hell out of sitting on your TV dinners and eating your couch, yes? It could always be worse. Try to keep that in mind.)
And as a bonus, our tickets are now good for Monday’s game. So I get to miss another couple of hours of work. Score!
(I mean, I mean… I have to miss work. Tragically. Heartbreakingly.
You know, just in case anyone from the office is checking in. Never hurts to put on a good face for the boss, right?)
Of course, that’s assuming that there is a game on Monday. If the Sox should get swept — the frozen ghost of Ted Williams forbid — then Monday will be just another day. No game. No World Series. And those damned Yankees on top again. Just thinking about it makes my kidneys crawl.
(Unless that’s my liver. We did have a few beers last night, so it’s not so easy to tell exactly which organs are squirming around in there right now. Could be more than one, actually — there’s an awful lot of movement going on. It’s like a hoedown in my torso, and everybody’s clogging! Hoo hah!)
All right, this has just gotten damned silly. I think I’ll wrap this nightmare up and call it a post. But I’ll be back this afternoon, and hopefully with better shit next time. Until later, vaya con dios, baby. I’m out.Permalink | 1 Comment