Yesterday was a beautiful day here in the Chi. By the time I had cracked through my fifth 16-ouncer of Old Style, the high temperature had surpassed the 80 degree mark, I had already paid my respects to my late Grandpa Larry Hocker (U.S. Army) and all seemed well in the world.
Being the conservator of energy that I am, I stopped myself from turning on the air conditioner, even though it was quite balmy in my Southside apartment. In fact, I went to bed with the windows open, forcing myself to think about North Korea instead of the myriad troubles that boggled my mind.
And then… I was out. Cold.
And then… I was up. Cold.
Really friggin’ cold.
With goosepimples up and down my skin, I jumped out of bed and ran around the house shutting windows, all the time fighting a mighty wind that threatened me with a forty degree bite.
And today? 47 degrees was the average high. So much for global warming… how about global friggin’ freezing? The cold has been such a deterrent that I didn’t even bat an eye after the Astros jumped out to a 4 – 0 lead against the Cardinals in the first inning tonight.
I didn’t break one single appliance when Jonathan Broxton gave up the go-ahead run to the Cubs late in a low-scoring game.
And I didn’t threaten to kill anyone when Hawk & D.J. started talking about their ballplayin’ days (AGAIN) during the Sox/Tribe broadcast.
I think the cold has gotten to me. I think I should consider moving to a warmer climate. I think I might already be dead — existing solely as a ghost, haunting the drunken lives of Cub fans worldwide.
Okay. So I’m not dead, but until we see some May-like weather, consider me hibernating. Of course, that doesn’t mean that I’m all of the sudden not making sense. The Tigers are still terrible, the Yankees are done and Cub fans are still getting ahead of themselves. These statements would be true no matter how cold it is.
And though I know how difficult it may be, please don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.