I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Sunday, October 27, 2002
Baseball. Blah. Blah. Blah.
I did try to hear the fireworks from my house, though.
Wouldn't it be alot more fun if they played with canned hams or ripe fruit instead of a baseball?
Or if the infield and outfield players carried Uzi's instead of mitts?
Or if a team lost, then their bat boys got sold into slavery?
Or maybe the losing team's pets got killed?
Or if they played the game while riding on the back of Rhinos?
Or had to have a pet monkey chained to their leg?
Or if a team lost, they'd get taken over by a huge, money-hungry corporation?
And yes, I was a crappy baseball player...
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