Random Self Indulgent Ramblings That Ignore My Desire to Run Over Ryan Franklin With a Combine

You’ll excuse me if I gloss over last night’s 9^th inning debacle, but I haven’t quite finished processing it yet. No amount of hypnotherapy can undo the damage that game did to my fragile and damaged psyche. You see that dog’s face? I think he speaks for all of us, no? ANYWAY, speaking of head cases, has anyone  checked in on Carlos Zambrano lately? (See how I so deftly switched topics there? Mental breakdown AVOIDED!) I haven’t heard much about his anger management therapy, but I have a hard time believing it’s really helping. I actually saw Ryan Dempster in a Starbucks by Wrigley a couple of weeks ago and had half a mind to ask him if they’re going to pad the dugout in anticipation of Zambrano’s return. However, it was early in the morning and I really wasn’t in the mood to have a latte dumped on my dress pants. Besides, I think we all know that Carlos will be heavily supervised after this and not allowed out of his strait jacket except for practice, meals and maybe 90 minutes of television per day. (Maybe Hooks can send him copies of the Bachelorette on DVD? That seems like something Carlos would enjoy, what with him being such a hopeless romantic and all. Who will Ali choose? AND WILL HE PROPOSE???)

In any case, Big Z resumes practice this week, so he’ll likely be back to terrorizing water coolers everywhere right after the All Star break. As a three time All Star himself, one has to wonder how he feels about his situation as that annual, yet useless celebration approaches. We are less than a week away, people!!! THIS REQUIRES MULTIPLE EXCLAMATION POINTS!!! For those of you that don’t know me, (which I assume is almost everyone that reads this blog except my dad,) I have a hard time getting excited for this yearly event. I know that a lot of people will disagree with me, but I find little entertainment in watching an exhibition match with no major implications. In fact, I spend most of the time feeling conflicted over any Cardinals being on the team, lest they pull a hammy while half assedly circling the bases in what will likely end up another AL victory. I understand the pomp and circumstance, the tradition and what have you, but I don’t like meaningful baseball being truncated so abruptly in the middle of the season so that the MLB execs may indulge in a circus of self congratulation and ass grabbing. You, gentleman, are harshing my buzz. (Or would be, I suppose, if the Cardinals didn’t currently want to make me pour battery acid into my eyeballs.) Last year, I think I caught about two and half innings of the game itself and approximately 20 minutes of the homerun derby. My favorite part of the whole affair? Watching Nelly play outfield in the celebrity softball game. (Don’t judge me! COUNTRY GRAMMAR IS THE SOUNDTRACK OF A GENERATION!) I feel like I should feel guilty for this, yet I really, really don’t. It all seems arbitrary and unnecessary, so I have a very difficult time actually CARING about the outcome. Home field advantage, blah, blah, blah, can this just be over so we can go back to being invested in and excited about stuff that actually matters? Like how much money Albert Pujols must spend in shaving cream every year? That goatee is METICULOUS.

Anyway, in more important (to me!) news, I recently found out that I’m going to have a niece. This is only relevant here because my family recently took a trip to a Babies R Us (admittedly my first time), in which we pretty well wiped out their Cardinals inventory. Between my dad, my brother-in-law, my very, very patient sister, my bemused mom and me, this poor child does not stand a chance. She’s going to be swearing at Skip Schumaker and Aaron Miles THROUGH THE WOMB by the end of this pregnancy. Guaranteed. For good measure, my dad did a couple of victory laps through the store and hid as much of the Cubs merchandise in the back of the racks as he could. He’s a visionary, that one. It’s impressive, really.

Okay, I think I’ve held off long enough. It’s time to stop blabbering on like an Alzheimer’s patient and finish watching the game in progress. Under the heavy influence of alcohol, of course.