Goddamn it. Well, at least you got the year right this time.
I am happy to see your return, even though it fucks up totally this long, elegiac poem I had been composing, based mostly on The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, commemorating your death, which is the only reason I could figure why you stayed away so long. I had you getting crushed on a slick freeway by a jackknifing tractor-trailer rig. It was to make up the bulk of my initial Series Preview for this year, due out in a few weeks.
But not anymore. Now I have to come up with something else. But I am glad you're back, really. Seriously.
Dare I eat a peach? I think it was Redding who had me think about ol' J. Alfred.
The reason behind my hiatus isn't anything as bitchin' as a jack-knifed tractor trailer rig. The Astros, at one time, were a passion of mine. Over time, I realized I was becoming more of a hater than a passionate fan, that is I hated that cock chugging douchebag Tony LaRussa more than I loved Scrap Iron, or Cooper, or any of the Astros. That I would be as happy if Poo Holes tested positive for PEDs than I would if Bagwell was elected to the HOF. That watching the Cubs circle the drain again was as fun as watching the Astros go .500.
Over time, I simply quit giving a shit about the Astros. They were not a joy to watch...station to station, crappy defense, running out Chris Sampson and Brian Moehler and other losers every 5th day. I pretty much disagreed with every decision McNeck made. We haven't had a competent front office in about 10 years. We were counting on veteran presence and leadership from guys who can't hit .250 and slug .400. Fuck a lot of "good clubhouse guys". How about "good in the batter's box" guys?
So I said "fuck it". Seriously. I announced out loud "fuck it" and turned my back on the team. I'd rather play with my kids, or do a line of coke, or shave 4 inches off my pecker with a power sander than actually give a shit about the Astros.
At the time, I didn't want to be a casual fan, because casual fans suck slimey donkey dicks. Fan is short for fanatic. Go hard or go home. Don't want to be one of the pickle-dicks showing up at MMPUS for the $8 beers, hoping to move close enough behind the backstop where I can text/call my buddies saying "lookee me, I'm on tv".
Basically everything that was great about the ol' BFT, crazy ass motherfuckers who bled orange whoop ass, was what identified with. That died sometime during the 2006 season, and I limped along for awhile, but it was gone. Maybe it was bagwell's retirement. Maybe it was being sick of clemens. Maybe it was the refusal to fire Milo. Who the fuck knows.
But I'm back, for now at least. Won't last long, but for now the fire is burning strong in my belly, like a Sheriff Blaylock bender washed down with room temperature Lone Star Dry.
Plus now I can go to MMPUS and yell at Big Mac to pop his back zits.
