It's always good to know than when the well is drier than my bank account, there's always an eerily familiar pain I can count on to save me from a wretched, post-less state.
Merci for pointing that out, Mr. Eight-and-oh-with-the-one-point-six-ERA.
Talented pitcher, toiling for a fumbling squad, gets traded across leagues to a doe-eyed, hopeful gang of beloved -- I know that's pushing it where the Brewers are concerned -- underachievers and proceeds to tear it up like kleenex at a snot party in leading his new teammates to a long-overdue playoff spot.
Where they promptly rip out the beating heart of their fans, show it to them in the rapidly decaying seconds of life that crystallizes such horror into the last thing they'll ever breathe, and toss it on the ground, stomping on it, muscle fibres that once pumped precious joy throughout their veins now frayed, empty strands shredded by the polished steel of sharpened cleats, twitching in dark, coagulating pools of blood, mocking.
Sorry, boss. But don't worry, the unholy beast that is karma is striking my soul as we speak, for verily it is the height of folly to assume that a Cleveland sporting team could go through a preseason without getting smacked in the skull.
I hope DA is all right because I'm not sure I could take a quarterback controversy and, given the intelligence of the average sports fan, any lingering effects from the ringing of the bells would turn that slow burn into a full-blown conflagration.
Brady Quinn is the savior!
No, he's the messiah, you dumbass!
Them's fightin' words!
I blame the pants.