Sunday, September 14, 2008

free fallin'

Everybody close your eyes and imagine you just jumped out of an airplane. You're plummeting towards earth, the wind stripping the flesh from your exposed face, and suddenly you realize that you aren't wearing a parachute.

The Cardinals will awaken from this terrifying nightmare tomorrow, but in the meantime, there's a lot of drinking going on tonight. At least there is at my house.

In other thoughts...

Boy, Ron Villone can get after it, eh? Rick speculated that the two (Ron and Mintkayvitch--not the correct spelling, but I don't care enough right now to look it up) headed to the tunnel to "discuss" the matter further, and for the sake of argument, let's say he's right. In other words, I don't want to argue, so he's right. Villone and the aforementioned Pirate snuck off where no one could see and "discussed" what took place on the field. Here's how I imagine that "discussion" went...

Minty: You suck!

Villone: You suck!

M: (slapping Ron's shoulder and grabbing at his shirt) Shut up!

V: (pushing Doug and throwing his hands up in front of his face to block another slap) You shut up!

M: (grabbing Ron's hair and trying to elbow him in the ribs) Ouch!

V: (slapping at Doug's hands) Don't hit me! Hey!

Security guard: (stepping in between Ron and Doug) Hey you two, break it up!

V: (reaching toward Doug while simultaneously hiding behind the guard) You heard him, stop it!

M: (tripping and falling backwards onto his rear end, then scooting away and scrambling to his feet) I'll get you next time, you jerk! You better never come back here!

V: (being pushed the other direction by the guard and gesturing emphatically with his hands for Doug to "bring it") Bring it, stupid!

(As you can see, the recent drought in good news has me a little off-center. Please ignore my ramblings if they make no sense.)

Miles is a bit feistier than his calm demeanor would imply. He's also very short, and I rarely think of short guys as instigators. But that may just be my own personal stereotype.

Thompson pitched like a Friday-afternoon-softball "thrower" but he hit and stole bases like a champ. Go Brad. Last night I was ranting at the tv about Piñeiro (because you can't really get mad at Wainwright) and I suggested to my voodoo doll of Tony that he try starting Brad in place of Piñeiro and tie Joel up in the locker room and let the guys take turns giving him noogies or wedgies or something (kind of like a girl-less version of what the fictional Indians did in Major League to inspire the team to win). Suddenly today that plan has less merit.

I absolutely cannot get over this swan-dive the Brewers are in. I saw somewhere that Ned Yost may be looking for a job if his team doesn't make it to the playoffs. What a shame that would be. I'll be looking for Milwaukee fans to burn this man in effigy.