Marc
Springfield OH
Damn right it's better than y'alls'.
I'm in a Fairfield Inn.
I'm watching Roger Clemens get tattooed during the 1st inning. 3 - zip so far. I have a smile on my face. Clemens bugs me, for some reason. I don't like it when people make a big deal about retiring only to come out of retirement the next season. I don't mind people playing until they're old and withered and worthless, but un-retiring bothers me. How often do postal workers or factory workers come out of retirement intentionally? Sure, you'll occasionally hear of the sad-sap-story, where some poor working schmo' had to go back to work to keep on living. But not on purpose.
Take my grandpa, for example. He's 80. He's never once retired. (Error on Kent. What a douche.) He works full time as a postal clerk, and I've never once heard him talk about not working. He enjoys working. He likes the opportunities it gives him to interact with the public. I'm sure that, once he makes the decision to retire, he'll fucking retire. Know what I'm saying?
I'm ripping my albums onto my computer.
I've gotten through about 35 so far. Tonight's going much slower than last night was. Probably because I didn't start nearly as early. (AL has hit for the cycle in the 1st. First time that's ever happened.) I loaded up three packets of albums into my suitcase on Sunday night before I left early Monday morning. D-Plans' Emergency & I is a great album. I'm glad I'll get the opportunity to drive to it now.
(Soriano hits a three-run blast. Yeah for bonking Clemens! Boo for putting the NL into a 6-run deficit before the 1st is up.) I'm growing a beard.
It's always a bad idea for me to grow a beard. Always. But still I do it. I have patchy spots and bald spots. I have no hair between the hair around the top of my lips - I refuse to call it a "moustache." There is a valley between the middle part of my chin and the front parts of both my cheeks. I have very pinchable cheeks. I'm extraordinarily cute. Or, I should say, I'm extraordinarily cute when I'm not trying to grow a beard.
Why, I ask, does a twenty-five year old man (I'm a man? Really? I certainly don't feel like one.) envy people who are more than six years younger than he is, (Pujols triples. Fuck Pujols. Stupid Cardinals.) simply because they can grow copious amounts of facial hair? I cannot tell you how many times I've asked myself that question.
(Sosa comes through. AL 6 - NL 1. Way to go, Sammy.)
I'll bet Piazza was telling those dudes from the AL what was coming down the pipe.
Piazza. Now there's a man with a sweet beard. Not to big, ala Johnny Damon. Not to puny, ala Lance Berkman. Just beyond scruff. That's what I'm going for. (Piazza strikes out. On purpose? Hmm...)
Alright. I should go now, shouldn't I? This is probably the stupidest post I've ever written. Anyone agree?
Springfield OH
Damn right it's better than y'alls'.
I'm in a Fairfield Inn.
I'm watching Roger Clemens get tattooed during the 1st inning. 3 - zip so far. I have a smile on my face. Clemens bugs me, for some reason. I don't like it when people make a big deal about retiring only to come out of retirement the next season. I don't mind people playing until they're old and withered and worthless, but un-retiring bothers me. How often do postal workers or factory workers come out of retirement intentionally? Sure, you'll occasionally hear of the sad-sap-story, where some poor working schmo' had to go back to work to keep on living. But not on purpose.
Take my grandpa, for example. He's 80. He's never once retired. (Error on Kent. What a douche.) He works full time as a postal clerk, and I've never once heard him talk about not working. He enjoys working. He likes the opportunities it gives him to interact with the public. I'm sure that, once he makes the decision to retire, he'll fucking retire. Know what I'm saying?
I'm ripping my albums onto my computer.
I've gotten through about 35 so far. Tonight's going much slower than last night was. Probably because I didn't start nearly as early. (AL has hit for the cycle in the 1st. First time that's ever happened.) I loaded up three packets of albums into my suitcase on Sunday night before I left early Monday morning. D-Plans' Emergency & I is a great album. I'm glad I'll get the opportunity to drive to it now.
(Soriano hits a three-run blast. Yeah for bonking Clemens! Boo for putting the NL into a 6-run deficit before the 1st is up.) I'm growing a beard.
It's always a bad idea for me to grow a beard. Always. But still I do it. I have patchy spots and bald spots. I have no hair between the hair around the top of my lips - I refuse to call it a "moustache." There is a valley between the middle part of my chin and the front parts of both my cheeks. I have very pinchable cheeks. I'm extraordinarily cute. Or, I should say, I'm extraordinarily cute when I'm not trying to grow a beard.
Why, I ask, does a twenty-five year old man (I'm a man? Really? I certainly don't feel like one.) envy people who are more than six years younger than he is, (Pujols triples. Fuck Pujols. Stupid Cardinals.) simply because they can grow copious amounts of facial hair? I cannot tell you how many times I've asked myself that question.
(Sosa comes through. AL 6 - NL 1. Way to go, Sammy.)
I'll bet Piazza was telling those dudes from the AL what was coming down the pipe.
Piazza. Now there's a man with a sweet beard. Not to big, ala Johnny Damon. Not to puny, ala Lance Berkman. Just beyond scruff. That's what I'm going for. (Piazza strikes out. On purpose? Hmm...)
Alright. I should go now, shouldn't I? This is probably the stupidest post I've ever written. Anyone agree?
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