I should write a damn book. I mean, you go into any bookstore in the U-S-of-A and you find a wall, a fookin' WALL of books about how to cope. How to deal with meanies, how to be a meanie, how to get well, how to be sick, how to die, how to live, how to eat, love, screw, believe, un-believe, win friends, lose friends, make money, get over money, reach your potential, have a child, be a child, get old, blah-blah-fookin' BLAH.
I'm a Giants fan. If no-rings-since-Moses hasn't taught me how to cope, then I should just let Phillipine jihadists kidnap me so I can have a comparable hardship to learn from. Jose Oquendo? The FloMars? Scott Spezio? Can it get any worse?
Yes, it can. Case in point: Barry Zito. And the guy who hired him, Brian Sabean. To pile doom upon doom, Ol' Sabes zito-ed Aaron Rowand to play CF because he'd pre-zito-ed Dave Roberts to play CF also and that didn't work nearly as well as the actual Zito-ing. Uh, I mean, uh, that, like, we got a lot of guys. And they are old and cost a lot. So, I have to cope.
Here's my coping strategy: anyone NOT named Sandoval, Lewis, Frandsen, Ishikawa, Schierholtz, Guzman, Velez, Bowker, Burriss, Grizzlie, Defender, GreenJacket, or Buster Posey will henceforth be referred to by uniform number. As in "number 33 then batted after Fred Lewis' spectacular awe-inspiring triple and a run was scored."
Now THAT'S cutting edge blogging. I oughta write a fookin' book. Right after number 10 takes some hacks away from Nate.