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If You Take ‘Em Out to the Ball Game, Make Sure You Take ‘Em Home, Too!

Ah, that’s better. Eleven-thirty, and finally home from the office, done with dinner, and finished with the work I brought home. Now I can relax, watch some Simpsons on the tube, and catch up with you nice people.

(And you naughty people. I don’t see nearly enough of you naughty people. Yeah, you know who you are. Pervs.)

Anyhow, it’s been a busy week so far, but there is some good news — it’s not even April yet, and the damned New York Yankees are in last place in the American League East standings. Sure, it’s only thirty degrees here, and the BoSox are still getting their tans in spring training games down south. But half a world away, the Bronx Bumblers are getting their butts handed to them. And by the Devil Rays, no less! The Tampa Bay Devil Rays! Kicking the Yanks’ cans all over the diamond in Japan. And it counts! Woo hoo!

Of course, I might not be quite as hot and wiggly about baseball in a couple of weeks, when the wife and I go to our first Fenway game of the season. Now, I love baseball and all, but have you ever scrunched your ass into a freezy metal chair for three hours, with the wind whipping through your bloomers while you struggle to stuff popcorn into your mouth through your shivery, chattery teeth? It’s no picnic, I can tell you. It’s not nearly as pretty or as glamorous as it sounds, that’s for sure. All the pretty words in the world like ‘freezy’ and ‘bloomers’ and ‘mouth’ simply don’t do it justice.

I’ve never actually been to Fenway in April, to be honest. But I’ve been there in September — I think I may have left a testicle or two stuck to the seat, too. I can’t be sure; all I know is that I walked into the stadium with them, and when I got home four hours later, they were nowhere to be found. Maybe they fell off, maybe they stuck to the seat, and maybe they were just hiding way up inside me. I don’t know; all I can say for sure is that that shit was cold, dammit! Drinking those frosty beers probably didn’t help, but hey — you’ve got to have priorities, right? I’m willing to suffer a little bit of intestinal frostbite for a few sips of brew on a cold day. Never let anyone say I don’t have my head on straight, you got it?

Okay, that’s enough of the baseball talk. I know there are a few of you out there — poor, misguided, dropped-on-head souls — who don’t so much care for the baseball talk. I’m not sure what the hell is wrong with you, but it’s gonna take more than a couple of paragraphs to make you come around. I’ll work on you gradually, over a few months or so. Before you know it, you’ll be a baseball nut, too; it’s inevitable. It’s a slow, painful process, but it’ll happen. It’s a bit like Chinese water torture, only without all that icky moisture. That stuff will wreak havoc with your complexion.

(Oh, and by the way, just in case you’re interested in the state of my nethers — and you know you are — I can assure you that ‘the boys are back in town’ now. I rediscovered the little guys soon after that September game a couple of years ago. Of course, I can’t recall now whether they just warmed up and reappeared, or showed up on the doorstep, or got mailed back to me by a friendly Fenway attendant.

Hey, it was a long time ago. I’ve done an awful lot of things, and had an awful lot of beer, since then — the important thing is that they’re back, right? I’m not gonna examine the things to see if there’s an expired postage stamp on ’em; I’ve moved on. You really should, too.)

Okay, I really can’t leave you on that note, can I? Much as I’d prefer to get my sorry ass into the sack to sleep up for that nine am meeting I’ve got tomorrow, I simply can’t bring myself to end a post by waxing poetic about my testes.

(No, really, there’s no need to search through the archives to try to prove me wrong. Not that I imagine it would be difficult, but think about it — do you really want to read more about my ‘leetle freends’? Nah. Too much is way more than enough, don’t you think?)

Unfortunately, I don’t have anything rump-shattering (or earth-shaking, for that matter) to end with, so I’ll just ask you this: have you ever realized, after shaving, that you’ve accidentally left one or two hairs in a particularly annoying place, and that said hairs are going to bug the shit out of you all damned day? And further realize that there’s nothing you can do about it, because you’ve already left the house, and you don’t happen to work for Gillette or Schick, where you might be able to score a razor and nip off for a quick hair-grazing?

And no, before any of you in the peanut gallery decides to comment on it, I have not gone back to talking about my ‘nads again. Personally, I’m talking about face shaving, though I’ll happily open the discussion up to those having the same issues with leg or underarm shaving.

(I’ll less happily open the floor to back or ass shaving; nobody needs to hear about that, dude. On the other hand, if any ladies out there want to chime in about their, um, ‘deforestation’ efforts down under, I don’t have any problem with that. Just be sure to comment in a husky voice, and feel free to leave a piccy or two, if it helps to make your case. Nothing wrong with visual aids, now, is there?)

(By the way, in case you’re wondering, yes, I was sorely tempted to use the word ‘bushwhacking’ in that last paragraph. But I’m pretty sure that if I did that, I’d have to come up with yet another topic after this one. I’m having trouble enough ending on a ‘high’ note as it is.)

Anyway, bringing this train wreck to an end, my follicular adversary today was a bristly little bastard just south of the outside edge of my right nostril. It’s a little tiny bit of moustachery that I must have missed this morning, and it’s been driving me ape shit all day. Every time I’ve crinkled my nose or moved my lips today, that damned hair scraped against my nose, reminding me over and over that I should really put my contacts in before I pick up the shaver in the morning. I’m gonna go upstairs right now and take the little prickly prick out right now. At least I won’t have to worry about him for another few days.

So, with that, I’m out. It’s been quite the whirlwind post, no? We’ve covered the national pastime, the freezing (and presumed thawing) of my genitals, and my rogue facial hair. I’d say that’s quite enough for one night, wouldn’t you? Yeah, I thought you might. But I love you anyway, folks. Nighty-night!