Two chocolate lamb cakes have been eaten today, courtesy of Alliance Michelle. Now we feel kind of sick and oversugared. She is the other Myopic Michelle that we mentioned before. We have two Michelles; the other is Tuff Michelle who has lots of tats and only works Saturday afternoons and is a real lioness about the cash register and has pants tighter than shellac on 78s and generally is someone you don't want to fuck with. She puts peoples' heads through windows for fun at parties. True story.
Friday night, for the second time in less than a year, we watched The Self-Destruction of the Ultimate Warrior, a WWE production, this time with some of Miles' out-of-town visitors. It did not get better the second time around. Wrestlers, wrestling, Vince McMahon, Bobby Heenan, Hulk Hogan, Sgt. Slaughter, etc. are all pretty bogus, esp. when taking themselves seriously. Not that we didn't love it as kids, but. Things change. We still plan on reading the Mankind/Mick Foley book, but that has been pushed back in accordance to the general distaste now felt towards Sports Entertainment. The only People's Champ we are intersted in is Paul Wall. He's no T.I., but we're coming around.
It has now been raining for what seems like forty hours in a row. An ugly, slate grey sideways stream of urine in the chops. Umbrellas snapping and useless, all the cute girlies that were running around in tiny skirts and cute little shoes the last two days making our blood pressure bop around like Whack-A-Mole are hiding away in their lairs.
Fantasy baseball update: 2nd place, 4th place, 8th place.
Real baseball update: Sox won again in rain shortened fashion today, tied for first with the Tigers of Detroit in AL Central Division. Some rough patches but Konerko and Thome are killing it.
On the docket for this week: Pistol Pete Adidas high-tops. A diamond earring. More white pants.
Closing music tonight: Dark Funeral. Bye.