Trot woke up from his nap about the same time the Red Sox lost to the White Sox today; this picture perfectly captures my mood.
Grumpy, pantsless, and ready to kick someone in the gibleys at the slightest provocation.
I just figured a 2 year old in that condition was a little more palatable than an out of shape 38 year old with rage issues.
Losing 6-5 is nothing to hang your head about, but I'm up to my eyeballs with moral victories. We're smack dab in the middle of a pennant race and in one corner we've got Lester, Beckett, Matsuzaka that we can count on. On the other side? 42 year old Wake and his messed up shoulder (I never would have guessed that throwing 60 mph could be harmful, but apparently it is), Bartolo "Weight is just a number" Colon and his bad back, and Buchholz's million dollar arm and .25 cent head.
Staked to a 3-0 lead in the first inning, he battled his way through approximately 2 innings before that was erased. The guy threw a FREAKING NO HITTER last year, yet he can't somehow manage to get past 5 innings today? Look, I love the kid. He's obviously got filthy stuff, but if he can't get it done now, we need to send him down to Pawtucket and find someone who can, ASAP.
This isn't April; it's August the 11th, the race to the pennant is on, and Joe Maddon, his stupid retro glasses and the Tampa Bay Rays don't look like they are gonna fade anytime soon, much to my astonished surprise. Back in May I figured they were just having the run of a lifetime and come August they'd be in our rear view mirror. And we'd be worrying about the MFY's like we always did.
Only August is now HERE, the Yankees are 8.5 games back with no pitching, an idiot for a manager, and clinging to the playoffs on the hope that HGHiambi's porn stache and magic thong are gonna get them to the promised land.
Reality is? The road to the AL East is either going through Boston or Tampa Bay; and if the Sox don't wake up and get it together, we're all gonna be watching Raymond ride that moronic three wheeler on FOX come October. Loading the bases with 1 out and getting NOTHING for it today only added 30 points to my blood pressure.
If I'd been alone, I would have thrown a shoe through the television, spent my allotted curse words for the month in about 2 minutes, and grabbed my sledge hammer and went Led Zepplin on the neighbors Volvo. Instead, I sat down, pulled up the ottoman, and read the angriest, fastest version of "Cat in the Hat" to Rakes you could possibly imagine. I'm pretty sure he went to bed wondering what that dumb cat had done to piss me off so much.
For the proverbial cherry on the sundae known as my day today, I've had to listen to Joe Morgan call the Sunday night game on ESPN for the past 3 hours.
It's a good thing I don't own a handgun.
To paraphrase Clark Griswold:
Somebody pass me the Tylenol.