Goatriders of the Apocalypse

Brrr!

Hmmm, ok, here we go again.

We'll do this gradually, in stages. First, I'll stick my toes in, how bad can it be, and..

BRRRR!!

YeeOWCH!! DEE-yam, it's COLD!! This is going to be harder than I thought. Going to be slow, and hopefully nobody's looking at me. Slide on in, a little at a time, up to the knees really isn't a problem, it usually gets a little tricky once the water hits the back of the knees

Whoooh..hooh..oh

Man, this is really going to smart, it's rushing past my thighs now, my trunks are getting wet, and clinging to me, MAN they're cold, but we're still not too bad, at least until it hits the Boys.

Easy now, we're an inch away from the Boys...easy..

YEEEOWCH!

...and the boys shrink back up inside me. Well, don't blame 'em. This shit is wicked cold.

OK, I'm about at the waistband, and you know what that means? Back on the sand, remember? Wear a shirt, don't wear a shirt? Yeah? Didn't want to get a shirt all wet-n-dirty, but the downside? Showing everyone your big ol' man-tits!

Awww, man, they're all looking at me. Little four year old kids, splashing around in here like it's a Turkish bath. And, THEiR MOMS!! Jeezus, I went to school with most of them. Like Sherry over there, she was, what, one or two grades behind me? Yeah, yeah, they're ALL looking at me, and my man boobs, and my glowing white gut, and they all think I'm a complete and utter PUSS for tiptoeing in here.

Christ, there's only one thing to do, and this is going to smart a bit.

OK, close the eyes, grit the teeth, crouch down and....DIVE! DIVE! DIVE!

BBBBBBWBWBWBWBBB!!! AAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Ahh. OK, I'm in. I'm here, I'm queer, get used to it. Bob is in the hizz-ay.

BTW: don't nobody use that anymore. I was listening to the Illinois state 3A football tournament on the radio the other night, and the local guy calling a touchdown used the word "hizzay". A true, irrevocable sign that "hizzay" has Jumped The Shark.

OK, like I said, I'm Bob, and I love Mark Prior, and I hate Sammy Sosa. When I love things, I love them long time, and when I hate things, like nuns, Sammy Sosa, and other cretins who write checks that their ass can't cash, I hate you real real bad.

Pleased to meet you, won't you guess my name?

It's high time the Cubs won something, boys and girls. The Chicago National League Ballclub has reached a Critical Mass. They haven't had pitching like this since Three Finger Brown, Jack Taylor and Orval Overall. For years now, Jim Hendry has drafted arms, arms, arms with little regard for his everyday lineup. That's FINE, I would've done it the same way, for I also believe that pitchers are born, but hitters are developed. Let someone else develop 'em, and we trade for 'em.

But after 2004's China-Syndrome-type meltdown, it is certain that 2005 is the year of the Apocalypse. In the Book of Revelations, it is said that four horsemen will come to wreak the havoc leading to judgment day. We're going big, or going home. We win THIS year, or Hendry's grand master plan will be blown up, in favor of the SABRweenie approach that led Boston out of its fiery hell.

Let the games begin.

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