Los Calcetines Rojos!

The Red Sox won again tonight after the same beast of a man who won the game last night hit in the winning run in the fourteenth inning tonight. I'm starting to rethink my thoughts on god, and now I'm starting to believe that he must exist. I thoroughly enjoy the misery of others and there is nothing on this planet that exists quite like the misery of Red Sox fans. I already mentioned where this was going, and it's looking more and more like it's what's going to happen. The Red Sox will take this series seven games and lose it in some sort of dramatic fashion that can never be topped--until next year when they're even more awesome at losing when it's most important. I can't wait until one of the Red Sox players loses the game by raping the opposing team's pitcher in the middle of the game. Not too many people know that that results in an automatic forfeit; at least it does in Little League Girls Softball games, and you're the umpire.

I was listening to the game on the radio on my way home from school tonight. Oooh, first, let me talk about the goddamn people in my screening tonight. We had to watch some ridiculous-ass film which is always bad enough, but there was some couple who brought a fucking baby with them to the screening. They brought the baby with them to the screening last week as well, and they should have learned then that babies fucking hate the dark or noise or other people or chairs or something because they make so much goddamn noise the whole time. But, again, they decided to punish the other forty people in the screening because they didn't want to use protection. For literally about forty-five minutes the baby was blabbing about whatever babies decide is important enough to yell out loud in a theater-setting. I think that whatever the baby was saying translated to "I'm a fucking baby! Why did you bring me to a theater where I'm supposed to be quiet for an hour and a half? I fucking hate you and, Mom, your vagina is really weird." I swear to my newly-found god, if they bring that baby to the screening again, I'm throwing it off the third floor of the building we're in.

Anyway, I was listening to the Red Sox game on the way home. Because it's on AM, the quality of it is all shitty like the radio's trying to tell me a secret and it's got a lisp. But, because I live in the glorious, wonderful Inland Empire, I can't just have one AM station on a channel at a time. The closer I got to my house, some goddamn Mexican horn music started to make its way into the Red Sox game. Well, at least that's what I assume was happening, unless, by some strange sequence of events, a Mariachi band marched out onto the field during the fourteenth inning. Not a lot of games go into fourteen innings, maybe it's like the second seven-inning stretch, but, to embrace our Mexican friends, we play shitty horn music and serve enchiladas. I really don't know much about baseball. So I stopped by Jack in the Box to get my daily filling of vitamins and minerals, and I'm holding on to what I can hear of the game. But, as I pull under the Jack in the awning, it starts to get more Mexican and less basebally. This is when the shit's going down, too. There were two men on and Ortiz was at the plate. So, I'm turning my radio up so I can hear the game, but that means that tuba player number cuatro is getting louder as well. I pull up to the window to receive my spicy chicken sandwich and I'm blasting horn music. I know the people inside were looking at me wondering where my cowboy hat and I (heart) Edward James Olmos bumper sticker were. There's really no end to that story. So I'll just stop typing it.

Interesting thought of the day:
A fun game to play is to try to put one or more of your pubic hairs in a place that they really shouldn't be. Some places to try this out are: Museums, Dentist's Office, Grandma's dentures, a child's backpack, or my autographed Ralph Macchio karate gi.