Baseball Has Been Very Very Ambivalent To Me [Oct 17, 2003]

Happy Friday, everybody. Christopher Monks here for one last day of blog-sitting duty. Next week the funny and warm and better than average dresser, Jesse Popp will take over. Have no fear: you'll be in very good hands. He'll treat you like the lady you are.

I had lots of stuff I wanted to write about today, as there seems to be wealth of news out there to comment on, like this and this and that (read the third paragraph) and that. Oh, and this, too. But my attention has been overwhelmed by one event, and even though it's a bit off topic for this site, I can't avoid writing about it:

My poor, poor Red Sox.

So close. So very, very close. If a year ever felt like "this is the year!" it was this one. They had a dominating offense, a hurling ace, and a bullpen that after a long slump was finally coming around. Game 7 against the Yankees was to be the game to end all games. Sox vs. Pinstripes. Pedro vs. Roger. Good vs. Evil. The curse would finally be vanquished, and in the very belly of the demon from where it spawned.

As it turned out it was the game to end all games. For the Red Sox.

Here comes the part where I take a moment to cry.

...

Okay, that helped. I feel better now. Nothing like getting a good cry out of your system. A good manly cry. I'm all about manly cries. I'm all man all the time, of course, but especially when I'm crying. Well, I can't just sit here mired in the ugly juices of another season turned sour. I have to snap myself out of it. There are plenty of things to look forward to to help take my mind off of my fallen heroes, like The Next Joe Millionaire, the Presidential Election, and pork chop sandwiches.

So while I wait for those things to happen, I figured I should try to get the happy ball rolling by doing something I do best: writing erotic poetry. It always cheers me up. Last time I guest-blogged for Neal, I wrote a series of erotic poems based on President Bush's State of the Union address. And today I will add to my erotic poem canon, as I give you "poèmes érotiques" dedicated to my beloved Boston Red Sox.

Sex Song for Trot Nixon
Trot, Trot, Trot
Here comes Trot in his sexy cleats
Trot, Trot, Trot
Thank god I have a fetish for feet
Trot, Trot, Trot
Oh, if only I was gay!

Nomar Jerks: The OCD Love Dance
Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, Nomar
Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, Nomar
You tick
and twitch
and twist
and turn
and snatch
and pull
and nod
and shake
and
jerk
Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, Nomar
Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, Nomar

Hot Latin Love: Or How I Imagine David Ortiz Naked
Yes, we have no banana
You lie, big man
Liar, liar, pants on fire
For you are bountiful with fruit
I want to nibble your cherries
Scoop up your melon
And peel your
banana
Fruit salad rocks!

And a bonus erotic poem for Cubs fans...

Steve Bartman Likes Balls
Steve likes to grab balls
He is a ball grabber
Watch him grab balls
Grabbing big balls
Small balls
Medium-sized balls
He doesn't care whose balls they are
If it's a ball, he'll grab it
Ball grabber Steve!
Don't kill him

Thank you. If my work has inspired you to write your own erotic poem based on the baseball playoffs, by all means send it to me. If it's tastefully erotic I'll post it on the Letters page. Be nice; I don't need any Red Sox bashing. I've bashed them enough myself these last few hours.

It's been lots of fun filling in for Neal this week. His tour is near its triumphant completion, but check the schedule to see if he's coming to a place near you. It's worth the trip out to see him. And from the looks of you, you could use a trip out. Please feel free to visit my own site, Utter Wonder, any time. I'll be back there on Monday. Have a great weekend.