The Return of The Closet, or When It Rains It Pours
Today, the universe says, hey, we've gotten tired of not fucking over Red Sox Nation.
Result: Curt McGirt reinjures the infamous ankle, 'cep this time it's a bone bruise. (In the "We Are So Plunking Lou Piniella In The Damn Dugout The Next Time He and His Punks Comes to Fenway" Department: It apparently happened in last weekend's Devil Rays game. Yes I realize they did not actually go inside his ankle and bruise the bone. I wish to blame them anyway; facts get in the way.)
I? Feel wholly justified in panicking now.
So Bronson?Matty? Wake? Wade, when you come back?
Meet Rodney Harrison.
You will be living in my coat closet till further notice. You may come out to eat, shower, and pitch your starts.
I am taking no chances. I may not be able to control on-field injuries, but I will take no chances.
No buts. Rodney will tell you, I am not a woman to fuck with. You four will stay intact, by god.
One good piece of news: The Buckethead, The Doofus, or Kevin when I am feeling affectionate, is now the father of two.
Everyone batten down the hatches. You thought he was goofy before? Now he has kids. (Named Kashton and Kylie. But I swore a vow to myself not to mock any names, as long as they were healthy. We'll see how long that lasts now.)
Congrats Kevin and Jeana.
And maybe we can get some New Baby Mojo for the Texas roadtrip.