To the elderly bearded "Stay thirsty, my friend" guy in the Dos Equis commercials airing endlessly every commercial break during major league baseball games this season: Hey, I think your obituary is "beefed up" enough. I'm ready to read it. In the morning paper.
In other embedded thoughts regarding last night's Sox telecast: During the pre-game ceremony for Carlton Fisk (which was, of course, rife with typical sports-TV male soap opera weepiness, including hideous rock ballads, to which I supplied my own impromptu lyrics, including, "I'm not gay, but I'd love to suck your joint" and the less subtle "I want to wake up with your burly he-man pubes stuck between my teeth and the stink of your musk on my sheets" -- I guess you had to be there) did Carlton Fisk's bike have training wheels? Ron Kittle didn't use no training wheels. And Bo Jackson's hips, ankles, elbows, and kneecaps were fashioned by surgical Druids from Welsh bluestone, and he didn't need no training wheels. I guess Pudge left his "Pole" at Fenway. There's a wicked obscure attempt at some Red Sox humah for yah.
I was also trying to come up with a "Lute Fisk" joke but I gave up. I think he is of Swedish extraction, though. I guess we'll take him.
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