Sometimes as I sit here pondering the Tigers’ three game sweep at the hands of the lowly Royals I wonder why, even here in the land of the internet, it has to be like this with the venom and the animosity. I ask myself, is it wrong to detest a team and yet admire a player on that same team? And then I realize that I can’t get angry with my friend. No, I know where it all comes from: Demon Rum.
But I hold none of this against my collaborator and conspirator, Mr. Lung. He finds himself flush in the prime of his life with everything going for him: the Cardinals are winning, he has a beautiful woman on his arm and Chicago is always sunny and 85. And even if only one out of those three is true, it’s still nothing to scoff at. In fact, I’m pretty sure neither one of us even hit .333 in Little League.
No, it turns out that the loose lips that my colleague flaps about so wantonly are a symptom of something much more disturbing than even distilled spirits. In reality, Jeff is slowly losing ground to the dreaded scourge of senility.
It’s not all bad. Sometimes it’s quite hilarious. I just hope that the next time this dementia slips my good friend’s tenuous grasp on reality it will come out in a more constructive manner. Perhaps a bawdy limerick or an ode to Mr. Pujols. We can always hope afterall.