Wrapped Up Like A Douche

The Curse of the Pedrino
Aaaaarrgh. Buh. Uhhhhnn. And here's the understatement of the year.

There is, however, something poetic about the way that the team and its fans recieved their smiting; He who lives by the Pedro, shall die by the Pedro. The World Series was going to be fun to watch if the Cubs and/or Sox made it; now it'll feel like a slow, dreadful wait for the inevitable nausea of watching the same smug celebrants talking about how this year was especially meaningful, what with all the hardship and such. (Wait, what year is this again?) However, due to the fact that as recently as 2001, the Diamondbacks (another expansion team with sparse fans and repellant uniforms) proved that "America's Team" is indeed fallible, I will begrudgingly take up the aqua and black banner (hurts my eyes just imagining it) and root, root, root for the non-home team.

Go Marlins. Beat those big-ticket bastards at any cost. I don't care if you have to re-animate the frozen head of Ted Williams and attach it to a robotic exoskeleton. I don't care if you discover that Osama Bin Laden has a 98 m.p.h. fastball and you name him team captain. I don't care if your entire starting lineup is bitten by radioactive spiders and develops the proportional strength and agility of said spiders. Forget creative solutions—you want steroids? I'll buy them for you.

Just... beat... those... @#%$&... Yankees!

Chocobaby Chat Chorner
Me: ... In 9th grade, I used to sit every night before bed in my darkened room, listening to Def Leppard on my headphones, playing Yar's Revenge and visualizing winning mountain bike races. Those were the awkward years.

Her: Just those?

WULAD Word of the Day
Shit•faced•er adj. Even more shitfaced than before; progressively shitfaced: "Then we went to another bar, and everybody proceeded to get even shitfaceder." (Belle, 2003.)