You can't judge a book by its cover, and you can't judge a song by its cover, unless it's Springsteen covering it, because you can judge a song by who is covering it.
Which reminds me... Gleyber!
The Death Barge claims his hip is fine, just rub some dirt on it and get back out there, only pansies go for tests. If they say so, we believe them, right? They never lie.
I'm drinking this week, nonstop through Sunday, with occasion breaks for bacon grease and hog gristle. A couple Redsock fans are coming. They never read this blog, so I can tell you straight up that I'll pretend we're still in the pennant race, just to fuck with them. I love when their forehead veins turn purple. Also, I've found that it's great fun to ask them how Bobby Dalbec is doing? Ah, Redsock fans... there's nothing like them, when it comes to mindless torture. The Bobby Dalbec reference always gives them a charge. (Just hope they don't bring up Franchy.)
Oops, gotta go. Zap you later. By the way, when this is over, I'm changing my image to X and my walk-up music to James Taylor-Swift.
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2 comments:
I don't know about Gleyber, but my hip is killing me.
My godson moved from Upstate to the greater Boston area and is a golf pro at one of the club that used to exclude Jews, blacks, Italians and Irish.
Apparently now they will let them in if the are professionals .
Anyhow, he got hit with a golfball and now roots for the Suxs. He sends me pics whenever he is in Fenway to rile me up. I told him that I pray for the redemption of his soul.
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