Thursday, June 14, 2012

Sixteen and four since the juju intervention; we are molten hot, but it is too early to start growing our playoff beards

Last night, everybody knew we would win. The Yankees did. The Braves did. Even the weather did. We are in our Super Juju Zone, muthafakka. We are colossuses of juju, lions of the secret path. Right now, we could go to Vegas, bet the house and come home with Celine Dion. But who wants that? Yeah, the sex would probably be great – the things that little strumpet can do with her mighty voice – but after a week, she’d just sit around the house, watch Dr. Phil and not flush the toilet – (she’s Canadian, you know) – so what’s the point? What I’m trying to say here is not that Celine Dion is a female version of Wayne Newton – God, that image will haunt me all day – but I’m saying we must not get cocky.

Cocky. I love using that word. Cock-eeee. Just typing it makes me feel bigtime cocky. Hulk smash. Because when the Yankees are in first with the best record in the American League, you can’t help but walk down the street feeling like Bucky the star cockatoo, knowing that every hot young chick in Syracuse wants a piece of your first-place juju. They can smell the pennant on you. They want a ring. Dammit, you’re the Yankee fan, the high-roller kingpin who is donating 50 wins to Mitt Romney, and it’s like giving a pop bottle deposit to a carload of dirty faced Campfire Girls. Big Wally first place cock of the walk! Life is good! Mrs Peel, we're needed! I'm squeezing the Charmin. Gah. That’s how I feel!

But keep shaving, folks. Keep holding your juju, regardless of how badly you need to go. We turned around the season with the International Juju Intervention, but it’s Juneteenth. Nobody wins the pennant on Juneteenth. Soon, we’ll  subtract by addition: We’ll send Cody Eppley to the Traveling Wilkes Barres for the return of David Robertson. Obviously, Eppley has been fine, felony-grade juju. Same for Dewayne Wise (who has stolen five bases for us.) As soon as Brett Gardner returns, he’s in Batavia. Another juju charm lost.

We’re four months away from the baseball equivalent of having a female Wayne Newton sitting naked on our couch, eating chocolates and watching Dr. Phil, with our sternum length playoff beards ice-berging her Titanic.

God, first place is wonderful! The chores? The stores! Fresh air? Time Square! You are my wife, GOODBYE CITY LIFE, Green Acres we are therrrrrrrrrrre.

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