Yanks undefeated since I started drinking

Summer vacation. College reunion. I got 'til the weekend. No Warbletron measurements 'til then. Requires too much forehead. Also, laptop too loud. Whole body hurts. Feeling chubby. Pulled the belt. Going with the elastic waistline. Ate a brick of cheese last night before crashing. Smoked Swiss on Ritz crackers. Very good. Keeps the tummy coated. Keeps the spirits high. Drink like clockwork, a finely honed machine, putting distance between us and Boston. Yes, we've finally found what works.

Not sure how the chair got broken. More kindle for the burn barrel. Last I remember, was singing along to The Felice Brothers, trying to flush the Bruney outing from collective human memory. Did it work? Did what work? Who's Bruney? I donno. I'm out here, 24-7, for Bruney and his friends, and what happens? He nearly kills me with gopher balls. I hope the boys understand what I'm doing. Every beverage keens relentlessly toward the toilet bowl of my soul. My only friends are Mariano, Jeet and the little smiling pink froggie at the bottom of each bottle, Mr. Dimplewart, who guides my path. Tell the team I won't quit. Tell CC I've got his back, though he might need a towel.

Six and oh, baby. Six wins, no losses. Joe and the boys must be talking about me. They're counting on me. What does gout look like? Does your foot turn green? Might be grass stain. Hell, I'm not afraid of gout; it's like playing with a dirty uniform. You think Paul O'Neill would take himself out of the lineup to have his stomach pumped during a six and oh winning streak? Hell. Nobody's prouder about walking around in puddles of vomit, just knowing we're in first. College reunion my ass. This is sacrifice, baby. This is the pennant race. We're going to Disneyworld, by way of rehab.

How is Jesus doing at Trenton?