Lost Boys v. Cowboys

I just realized that the Dallas Cowboys are playing a must-win game against the Chicago Bears this week. The 'Boys lost in embarrassing fashion on Thanksgiving Day, and their playoff hopes ride on beating the Bears. It's a very big deal.

The game is Thursday night. At the same time as Peter Pan Live.

You know, this is a pretty terrible promo picture, now that I
look at it again.

I'm live-blogging (and potentially drunk-blogging) Peter Pan. Period. Sorry, Cowboys.

Also, sorry anyone else in the house who may think a football game is more important than watching Christopher Walken tap-dance on a pirate ship.

Look! They can fly! Sorry, no dice.

Cowboys-Bears may not be the only battle fought on Thursday night.

This will be interesting.

Tune in, won't you?

It's Just a Fanstasy (Oh Oh Oh Oh)

One of my favorite Drunkards, Bill the Butcher aka Raghead, was a bit puzzled by my post about the Puppy Bowl X Fantasy Draft.

So I get to post more pictures of Puppy Bowl.
OMG, puppies!

Bill asks:

I'm sorry, what is fantasy football? I have no idea. Is that football as in, y'know, football, or American " " " " " " " " " " football " " " " " " " " " ?

Sir, what are you suggesting with all those quotation marks?

I think the doge meme is hilarious, OK? Bite me.

First, yes, football, as in American football. I don't know why we call it that, either. I know the rest of the world uses the word to describe what we call soccer, and I don't know why we do that, either. We're just bastards over here, OK?

Also, 'Murica.

Still, your question is a valid one: What is fantasy football?

I shall endeavor to explain.

American football is a sport that involves elaborate plays carried out with split-second timing by multiple athletes working together. The statistics of any individual on the team are as dependent on the performance of his teammates as they are on his own skills. That's why American football, while a brutal, visceral sport, also is a game of finely-honed strategy and almost balletic precision.

Almost.

Fantasy football, on the other hand, is...well, here's how Wikipedia describes it.

Fantasy football is an interactive competition in which users compete against each other as general managers of virtual teams built from real players.

OK, forget Wikipedia. That's a stupid definition.

Fantasy football is like the stock market. You have a lot of companies that make things and provide services and work very hard to be successful. Then you have a bunch of investors who don't lift a finger except to buy stock in those companies. And they watch the performance of those companies very carefully - not to see if they're well run or the employees are happy or the products they make are of high quality.  No, the investors only care if the companies make money. If they do, the investors declare victory. If they don't, the planet is plunged into global recession.

But the investors are OK, and that's the important thing.

In fantasy football, the investors are the "owners" of virtual "teams" who have no "life." They cherry-pick individual players from all the NFL teams to create their rosters. Then they flat-out pretend that the weekly performance of their players isn't critically influenced by their real-world teammates, coaches, field conditions, rivalries, etc. Instead they aggregate the statistics of each player in isolation from any of the factors that football an exciting, dynamic team sport. Whichever "team" puts up the best statistics wins.



All the excitement of taking a freshman statistics class,
with even less chance of getting laid.

Folks who participate in fantasy football take it very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that often they don't actually bother to watch any real-world football games. After all, why should they? In the real world their teams don't exist, only actual professional teams playing a real sport in real time. What fun is that?

I am not making this up, Bill.

Fantasy footballers will tell you that tracking artificial statistics of contrived teams is just as exciting and emotionally engaging as following the real games they don't bother to watch because they interfere with calculating how well their fake teams would have done if they had actually played a game and also with pretending their fake teams actually played so they can calculate how well they would have done if they had.

At least D&D geeks have good weed and don't whine about how
they only lost because their wizard got a groin pull in the 3rd quarter.

So that's fantasy football. Me, I'm going to play some fantasy solitaire now. That's where I put all the cards in the correct order before I deal them and see if I win. It just adds an extra layer of excitement that way.

Fan-tastic News for Sports Hounds

Faithful readers know that I am a sometimes-compensated spokesperson for fantasy football. Due to my total expertise on the subject.

Fantasy football: Bringing together nerds and jocks
in a beautiful and not at all homoerotic partnership.
I'm pretty sure.

The essence of fantasy football is the way it sucks all the drama and immediacy from the sport by reducing the definition of victory to a dry amalgam of statistics that utterly fail to reflect the dynamic, unpredictable nature of human competition. It's sort of like a cooking competition where, instead of tasting any of the dishes, the judges declare a winner based on how many total tablespoons of stuff were in each recipe.

So many ingredients! It must be good!

So yeah, fantasy football is pretty lame, unless I'm getting paid to write about it, in which case HURRRRRRR FOOTBALL 'MURICA.

But you know what would make fantasy football not only very cool, but also much more adorable?

Puppies.

Human sacrifice optional but also potentially adorable.

Fortunately, the wise humans at Animal Planet are way ahead of me on this. That's why this year, for the first time, the cable channel's famous Puppy Bowl will include a fantasy draft.

As an important player in the world of fantasy football journalism, probably I should know exactly what a fantasy draft is.

Something to do with this, maybe.

What I do know is that Puppy Bowl is the cutest thing in the world and I watch it every year on Super Bowl Sunday because puppies. And this year you'll be able to put together a fantasy puppy team so you can prove how pathetic you are more fully engage with the game.

Although I'm sure some of you will only watch for the cheerleaders.

So you'll be able to follow the stats of your favorite players and see how your fantasy puppy team stacks up against your friends' teams, assuming any of your friends are willing to admit they're doing this. And if your fantasy team wins, you'll be able to...well, you'll have the honor of...that is to say...

D'awww...puppy.

Anyway, if you need to satisfy your gambling addiction and/or insatiable need to achieve a mathematical victory, then be sure to check out the first-ever Puppy Bowl Fantasy Draft. Because...sure, why not? Also...puppies.

Hey, Animal Planet, this endorsement is free of charge. But I'm willing to be hired as an analyst. I'll bring my own squeaky toy.

Back to the Future

The other night, whilst deep in a funk, I wrote a post wondering about the future.

I may or not have been wallowing in self-pity.
I'm not saying.

I want to thank you, my lovely Drunkards, for the nice things you said to me in comments, Facebook posts, and e-mails. You made my self-indulgent rhetorical ramblings seem less like a pathetic plea for sympathy and more like half a caring and funny conversation about what life holds.

And especially Christopher Waldrop and Simoree, whose comments on the original post made me smile so big.

Almost just that big.

Well, as often happens, the day before yesterday's tomorrow is now today's yesterday. And I can tell you the answers to the questions I posed as they actually happened.

They're not all that fascinating, really. But enough of you cared that I figured I'd share them.

The Questions I Posed and the Answers I Found

So if you live in any time zone east of me, it's already Precocious Daughter's 14th birthday. Tell me...does it go well? Does she like the new clarinet I just spent my life's savings to buy her?

I'm happy to report that PDaughter's birthday was most excellent. She loves her new clarinet. Although she had sussed out that she was getting a clarinet, she thought she was getting a used, slightly scratch-and-dent model. But she got a brand-spanking-new one, and she loves it. Frankly, it would have been wiser for me to get the second-hand instrument and keep the extra cash for the rainy days I know lie ahead. But did I mention she loves it?

Do the Giants beat the Cowboys?

Holy shit, the Cowboys beat the Giants. Which only goes to show that you should never, ever give up, because the craziest things can happen.

Also...suck it, Eli.

Are the three members of Willie Nelson's band who were injured in a bus crash just hours after I saw them give a great show doing OK?

Yes, thank goodness. Paul and Billy English and Tom Hawkins are going to be fine. I feel as if they're family now, and I'm sending them mad love.

Do I get over having my heart broken?

Turns out it wasn't broken. It's tough like that.

So I'll see you guys later. You know, in the future. It's pretty bright, I think we'll all be able to find it.

The Future

So if you live in any time zone east of me, it's already Precocious Daughter's 14th birthday.

Tell me...does it go well? Does she like the new clarinet I just spent my life's savings to buy her?

Do the Giants beat the Cowboys?

Are the three members of Willie Nelson's band who were injured in a bus crash just hours after I saw them give a great show doing OK?

Do I get over having my heart broken?

I know I'll find out all of these things for myself tomorrow...if I bother to get out of bed.

I just thought maybe someone out there could tell me and save me the trouble.

Can You Squeeze In a Massage?

Having a tough day?

Mean guys knocking you down and trying
to take your football?

Need to relax?

You're killing me. You are literally killing me.

Looking for something new in your life?

Dig deeper, grasshopper.

Maybe you should try python massage.

Weren't expecting that, were you?

Python massage is a thing.

Hi, I'm Sven. I'll be your massssssseur today.

These highly trained therapeutic serpents are ready to slither your cares away.

So, you a Cowboys fan? Uh-huh, that's nice.

I realize this may be a polarizing idea. Some people think the idea of having warm, heavy reptiles draped across their body is awesome.

Mmmm...musky.

Others, not so much.

Everyone has their own take on things, I guess.

Myself, I would totally go for it.

So...many...snakes.

Except, you know, I have an unfortunate sensitivity to snakeskin. Yeah. Makes me break out. So, darn.

Oh, OK. :(

Still...python massage, theoretically great.

Love you, snakey.

Your mileage may vary.

Another Word for "Whore" Is "Professional" [SPONSORED POST]

The traditional difference between an amateur and a professional is that a professional gets paid for her work, and an amateur doesn't. Unless you're an Olympic athlete.

Ryan Lochte, in the spirit of volunteerism.

Therefore, I'm a professional writer, editor, and administrative goddess. On the other hand, I'm an amateur mother. Obviously.

Also, by this definition, I'm an amateur blogger.

BUT NOT ANY MORE.

The good folks at FanDuel.com have kindly offered to place sponsored content right here on little old Always Drunk. That's right - I'm pimping their site. I've turned pro. I'm turning on the red light. I can only imagine the sophisticated metrics that led them to align the target market of "people who like fantasy sports leagues" with a blog written by a "crazy person who drinks too much and rants about stupid shit."

It gets very mathy, I'm sure.

The first entry in what I hope is a long and mutually humiliating relationship between our two websites is a piece about my favorite smirking choke artist, Dallas Cowboys quarterback Tony Romo. And here's the best part: I got to edit it to my liking. So it's not exactly what they sent me. But it does contain a link to my sponsor, and it would be really cool if you would click it, in order to show that Drunkards support fantasizing about grown men in tight pants.

Or not. But please enjoy this sponsored content, which has been professionally written and professionally blogged.

Aww, yeah.

My edits are marked, so you can see how a pro works.

Tony Romo Continues To Be So Tony Romo

Quarterbacks in the NFL are always being labeled fairly early in their careers. Peyton Manning has the reputation of being a regular season quarterback beautiful god among men, while Tom Brady is the playoff master a total douche. Robert Griffin III is already “injury-prone,” while Andrew Luck is known as being cerebral. Aaron Rodgers makes really terrible commercials, but at least he can act a little, unlike that Koepernick guy, who can't even rise to the dramatic challenge of a McDonald's ad.

However, perhaps no quarterback in the NFL has a worse, yet pretty accurate, label than Tony Romo. Simply put, Romo is known as a choker. That's right, he's a simple necklace made to be worn snugly around the neck. I think. I don't know much about football. When an undrafted quarterback out of Eastern Illinois becomes the starting quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys, it seems more like a fairy tale the premise of a really implausible porno than anything. Romo has certainly beat the odds to be one of the best fantasy football quarterbacks in the NFL, and that has helped him reach three Pro Bowls while holding the starting job, and that smirk on his face, since 2006.

For all the good Romo has done, he continues to earn his label as a choker simply because he seemingly comes up short in every single important game. He is responsible for losing games played by other teams, in entirely different sports. He's awful. Did I mention the smirk? The narrative is that Romo can’t handle the big stage, and he can’t be the long-term solution for America’s Team. Romo’s 1-3 record in the playoffs doesn’t make him look all that legendary, but a lot of that can be put on the fact that management has not provided him with a very solid running attack to balance out the offense he sort of resembles a constipated marmoset and also tends to suck at moments he really shouldn't suck.  It is a bit much to expect a quarterback to lead a team without a lot of help when everybody thinks he's a wanker, but for most of his career, that is what Romo has had to deal with.

It can't be easy on the marmosets, either.

The Cowboys game against the Broncos was the perfect example of Romo’s career, packaged into one game. He was a fantasy football standout, setting a Cowboys record with 506 passing yards, along with four touchdown passes. And if football games were played in Narnia and the opposing line was composed of goat-men and talking badgers, that would be a good thing. There were times when he actually looked better than Peyton Manning, as he helped Dallas stay in the game just kidding, no one looks better than Peyton mmmmmm Peyton. However, late in the fourth quarter, Romo made his one true mistake, which ended up leading to an interception and a field goal for Denver. What an asshat.

Sometimes in the NFL, the narrative is pushed a bit too much. Quarterbacks are always going to be labeled to help sell the story. Romo's label should read "May Cause Dizziness and Also Will Probably Fumble the Snap." With Romo, he continues to give the doubters ammunition, even when he is in the midst of one of his greatest games ever. But he doesn't give a crap, because he's got millions of dollars and his wife is hotter than yours.

***

Check it out, you guys. Tell 'em Chuck Baudelaire sent you.

Football: Now with More Blatant Disregard for Human Life

You may have heard that it's football season again.

Or, for my non-American readers, Handegg.

The object of American football is carry an oblong leather object euphemistically called a "ball" into the end zone of the opposing team. To do this, players must get past the defensive line of their opponents. In order to do their respective jobs, both teams must manage not to violate any of the game's approximately 350 million rules designed to prolong the game so the network can sell more commercials.

I'd like to take a moment to tell advertisers that I would buy
a watch promoted by Hitler before I would buy one
because Eli Manning is shilling for it. Seriously.

Yes, the rules are in place to preserve the integrity and sportsmanship and to protect players from serious injury.

On the other hand, the average player salary in the NFL as of 2012 was $1.9 million. I make considerably less than that, and I have to drive in Dallas traffic twice a day, which arguably puts me at much greater risk of bodily harm than playing football for a few hours a year. For two million bucks I would happily drive a Ford Pinto with a bullseye painted on the trunk. Yet if an NFL player gets touched in the wrong place, the world stops and we have to watch five minutes of a baby selling brokerage accounts while everyone makes sure little Bubba is OK.

"...and then he said rude things about my mom."

If it were up to me, the rules of the game would be very different. For example:

• No fair catches. You just got the ball kicked to you, you run, bitch. You run until the big men on the other team knock you down. That's your job. Taking a knee will cost you 20 grand, to be donated to a local shelter for domestic violence.

• No ineligible receivers. I don't understand this whole concept. There are 10 guys on the field beside the quarterback (10? is it 10? I'm way too lazy to look that up). Why do only a couple of them get to catch a pass? Throw that damn ball to anyone who looks as if he can catch it. Hell, throw it to someone on the other team, as long as you've previously bribed him to do your bidding.

• In fact, bribery in general would make the game much more interesting. Every player should have a jersey for both teams. During the game, as money changes hands and loyalties are switched, the jersey reflects who is playing for whom at any given moment. Fans should be able to get in on the action, too. Who wouldn't chip in to have Tony Romo quarterback the Cowboys' opponents every week?

• Get rid of the penalty for false starts. I don't even get this rule. You've got two opposing lines of large, heavily-padded men whose job is run into each other as hard as possible, and you're being a hard-ass about "ready, set, go"? The play starts when the bodies start moving. I wouldn't mind if a defender ran over to the other team's bench and took out the wide receivers before they even lined up on the field.

• Any player with long hair hanging out must be taken down only by grabbing and pulling their locks. When you think about it, guys wear cups because they don't want to be hit in the junk, right? If football players don't want their dreads grabbed, they should keep 'em hidden or get a buzz cut.

• Abolish field goals. If you ask me, giving a team three points for getting sort of close to the end zone is like those damn participation ribbons they give out to boost kids' self-esteem. You either get seven points or you don't get any. Pussies.

Man up, dudes.

• Finally, let's stop with the silly penalties for end zone celebrations. Not only that, let's make them mandatory and have them determine the number of point-after points instead of kicks or conversions. Yes, the referees will need some special training so they can accurately judge the merits of the post-touchdown dance moves, but ultimately it will add a lot to the game. For the record, lamely jumping into the stands will earn you zero. I want to see precision footwork and/or ensemble choreography.

It could really broaden the draft base, as well.

I'll be waiting patiently for my suggestions to be considered by the NFL. Until then, let's play handegg.

Photographic Evidence of the End Times: Olympics Edition

The batshit-crazy closing ceremonies of the 30th Summer Olympiad barfed all over our TV screens last night. I say that in the best possible way, of course.

If you didn't catch it, you can Google all kinds of images and video clips from the show, which included a flying saxophone player, a veritable army of of people wearing bowler hats topped with light bulbs, a giant foam jigsaw puzzle of John Lennon's face, and Russell Brand singing "I Am the Walrus" through a megaphone. I am not making any of this up. I am not that creative.

Let's see, there was also Eric Idle leading a crowd sing-along of "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" backed by rollerblading nuns and a kickline of Roman centurions. Some dude in an orange hoodie named Ed Sheeran - who looked like a cross between Prince Harry and Seth Rogen in Knocked Up - sang the world's most pointless version of "Wish You Were Here." The Spice Girls performed by popular demand of nobody I know. George Michael appeared dressed as at least two members of the Village People. The Pet Shop Boys performed in very large and pointy hats. Annie Lennox looked outrageously beautiful atop a Goth pirate ship. Seriously, this all happened.

But for me, the very best thing about the Olympic closing ceremonies- and by best I refer you back to the previous batshit-crazy characterization - is that they now give me the opportunity to write a sentence I never thought I'd get to do in a completely non-ironic, journalistic context:

Ladies and gentleman, allow me to present Fatboy Slim smiling and waving from a giant, translucent, neon-lit octopus balloon.

Because when the organizers of the London Games saw the magnificent Olympic pageant in Beijing in 2008 and thought "That's the mark, that's what we have to top in 2012," this is what they spawned.

Sorry, Rio de Janeiro. I don't know if there are enough magic mushrooms in all of Brazil to inspire you to surpass what London hath wrought.

Olympic Couch Coaching

Goddamn, I love me some Olympics.

If team Mary Poppins vs. giant Voldemort isn't a medal event
by 2016, I'm going to be pissed.

I love the fact that I celebrate the grace and athleticism of international sport by becoming a complete couch potato for two weeks. I'm glued to the TV at every opportunity, riveted by awesome physical specimens who have sculpted their bodies and honed their minds to be the best in the world in their event.

And also the weightlifters.

What I really love about the Olympics is the chance to offer expert opinions on sports I know nothing about, generally by yelling them at the TV from the comfort of my softest chair. It's my way of supporting the athletes, staying involved in the Games, and getting in my daily requirement of snark.

Where do I try out for the Olympic heckling team?

Here are the top 10 things I'll be shouting during the 2012 Summer Olympics.

1. "Dammit, you nailed it in the preliminaries!"

2. "The degree of difficulty alone should put him on the platform, you morons!"

3. "Bitch, all you had to do was stick the landing!"

4. "How the hell do you expect to complete three and a half rotations if you don't tuck immediately off the board?"

5. "Dude, you totally set him up to roof you on that return! Also, why don't male beach volleyball players play shirtless?"

6. "Oh man, he pressed out on that clean-and-jerk! Better luck with the snatch!" (Followed by five Hail Marys.)

7. Awesome! A perfect quadriffis into a textbook randy! Wait...freaking trampoline is an Olympic event?"

8. "Come on, get your oars in the water and firm up on the strokeside!" (Followed by ten Hail Marys.)

9. "What are you judges smoking, and where can I get some?"

10. "Will someone on set please touch up Mr. Costas' eyeliner?"

Baseball Zen

I'm not ready to talk about baseball.


Photo borrowed from middlethirds' Flickr page.

 My Texas Rangers lost the World Series. *choke* They collapsed at the feet of the Cardinals. *sob* It's still very painful to talk about. *kicks a squirrel*


Sorry, Mr. Nibbles.
(Photo borrowed from http://bobtres.blogspot.com)

 But I can't let this morning's news go unremarked upon (upon which it is unremarked...damn prepositional phrases). According to MLB commissioner Bud "I Was Abner Doubleday's Little League Coach" Selig, the Houston Astros are going to become an American League team in 2013.

Did you hear me?


HELLO???
(Photo borrowed from Harpo42's Flickr page)

 Texas has two baseball teams: the Rangers and the Astros. The Rangers are an American League team, the Astros are a National League team. That's because the unwritten law of baseball is that any city or state with more than one team should have a team from each league. It's the natural order. It's practically biological.

I'm totally not comparing baseball leagues to reproductive organs.
Unless you're OK with that. In that case, yes, I am.

New York has the National League Mets and the American League Yankees. *goddamnyankeeshowihateyou* Sorry, my fingers spasmed on the keyboard there.

Chicago has the National League Cubs and the American League White Sox.

Florida has the National League Marlins and the American League Rays. Or maybe it's the other way around. Who cares? There shouldn't be major league baseball in Florida anyway. Oh dear, my inner 80-year-old baseball purist just came out. Let me walk him back to his room...


In my day, catchers didn't have all this fancy protection.
If they took a bouncer to the nads once in a while,
 it was their own fault for not getting under it grumble grumble...

 Where was I? Oh, yes, balance. California has four teams - two from the AL, two from the NL. Plus the Padres. Oops, I think he got out again...

The point is, Comissioner Selig, who never saw a good thing he couldn't eff up, is disrupting the delicate and traditional balance of baseball, not to mention baseball fans. Who are pretty easily unbalanced as it is.


Uh...I have no words.

If you're not a baseball fan and you haven't already bailed on this post, hang on, because I'm about to go full-on baseball geek. I can't talk about German Expressionism and global economics all the time, you know.

 (whispers) I'm not that smart.

Baseball is poetic. It's symmetrical. There's a yin and yang to the subtle relationship between the two leagues. It's more than just the Designated Hitter rule - that simple change in play introduces a philosophical and strategic schism to the entire sport. The existence of a non-fielding batter in the American League puts the emphasis on offense - here is a player whose entire game mission is to make contact with the ball. With no need to structure the batting order around the weakest hitter (the pitcher) or a player who is a defensive asset but less effective at the plate, the manager can stack his lineup for maximum offensive power.

Meanwhile, in the National League, the offense and defense are inextricably linked by the need to send pitchers to the plate. A pitching change alters the batting lineup, while a decision to employ a pinch hitter or runner removes a pitcher from the game. The result is a much more nuanced, defensively-oriented strategy to the game. Fewer runs, more pitching changes - some say, more pure baseball.

The difference also produces different kinds of fans. Baseball fans tend to be created by geography: Everybody has a hometown team. (Unless you live in Iowa or something, in which case your accident of birth means you and I have nothing to talk about.) That team is going to belong to either the American or National League, and you likely are going to be either an American or National League person, depending on which team you're rooting for.

But geography is relative when it comes to sports. In no way could I be described as a Houston Astros fan - in fact, neither could many people in Houston, which is part of the reason the team is being sold and revamped - but if I had a philosophical disconnect with the DH rule, I could still be a fan of Texas baseball. Two teams, two leagues, everybody is happy. The universe is at peace.

Totally awesome picture by Heidi Younger.
Seriously, check out her website.

But now there is a disturbance in the Force. The Houston Astros, the yin to the Texas Rangers' yang, is realigning to the American League. I can't believe the universe won't tilt dangerously on its cosmic axis as a result of this unwise move.


The universe has an axis, right?
(Picture borrowed from the very cool Windows to the Universe website.)

 You can't have two American League teams in a single state and no National League team to balance things out. That's not what baseball do, as my good friend Ron Washington would say. You can't take away the prospect of an all-Texas World Series. OK, that's a razor-thin prospect, but now it's not even a possibility. And that's just wrong.

Besides, if you're a fan of one league, there's a mystery, an aura, to the opposing league. It colors your entire perception of a city. I look upon Houston, and besides the fact that it seems like really a horrible place to live (just my opinion, Houstonians, I'm sure it's the garden spot of the world), it's a National League city. Cincinnati is a National League city. Oakland is an American League city. I'm still not over the fact that my beloved Milwaukee Brewers jumped leagues a few years ago - how could such a thing happen to my hometown? I mean, I love my Beloved Spouse, but when I married him I didn't become Italian. And I'm not going to become a National League person just because Bud Selig says it's so.

(And yes, I'm aware that the Milwaukee Braves were a National League team, and the arrival of the Brewers as an AL team was just as big a shakeup in 1969 as their flip to the NL was in 1997. But we're talking about me here.)

Living in a city with a major league baseball team is almost as important to me as living in a city with great music, museums, and movie theatres that show Metropolis. Having that team be in the American League is also critical. That doesn't make me a one-dimensional jock who is defined by the fortunes of grown men playing a game. It makes other people that. But we're talking about me here. And I need the philosophical framework of baseball to support my well-being. That means having an interleague rival on the other side of the state.

I am aware of and accept your opinion.


I'm not ready to talk about baseball. *Really, Rangers, really? REALLY?* But I am done ranting about the Houston Astros and their pending move to the American League. I'll try to be a good neighbor when it happens. I'll bring them a candy bar. I can't do any more than that.


I shall also meditate upon it.

 If a Cardinal hits an easy fly to right field and no one catches it, does it blow the World Series?

*Godammit, Rangers. How could you?*