Veterans...So Much More than A Stadium.

Tomorrow is a great day. Tomorrow I celebrate America's great veterans. Those that have put their lives on the line in the name of preserving democracy, all so we here at home can elect a black president and upset them all. And perhaps most importantly, tomorrow I don't have to go to work. So while the rest of you slave for the corporate man, I will be doing what I do best: sleeping. Maybe even with my hands down my pants. Why? Because in case you haven't heard, it's freezing here in Chicago, and I challenge you to locate a warmer place than down my pants. So to you, noble veterans, thank you for this Tuesday off, we in the judiciary appreciate all that you do for our country.


I haven't even touched on my new status as a champion. Let me tell you, I was a bit excited. Three great games in the Bank, a grip of rain, admittedly scary trips to the pisser, almost frozen Bud Light out the wazoo...I even managed to squeeze in offending two surly old people behind me who insisted the entire stadium stay seated. But the real madness ensued on the streets, where cuzzes embraced, black people pretended to like baseball, and luggage stores were looted. If I were going to loot, I'm prety damn certain Robinson Luggage would not be my first choice. Perhaps not my last choice, but definitely not my first. But why inject any notion of logic into such a happy moment? That would only clutter what was otherwise quite possibly the best moment of my life. Either way, I always wanted the Phillies to be my first. Leaving CBP I felt like a 6th grader heading back to the Wissahickon Skating Rink from the CHA fields. What did it all mean? Am I a different person? Will my parents notice that I have what I think may very-well be a boner in my Girbauds? Truly glorious, I tell you, the feeling will not soon be matched. I am a fuckin champion, people. We all are. No one - not even you Andy Reid, try as you may - can undermine that sense of pride.


Back in the real world, I am also undergoing a dramatic change. The long and the short of it: I can see! I have legs! Well I've always had legs, but now I have glasses. And glasses fuckin rule. HD TV has taken on an entirely new meaning. Right now I can actually see all the grey hairs on Kurt Warner's head. Shit, I can practically see the God he so often thanks to the point of nauseam. So if I made fun of you at any point in your life for having glasses, I rescind my shallow ridicule with all sincerity.



Soon enough, I imagine we at the DR will actually pursue what is, indeed, our purpose on this vast planet -- we will actually discuss the Sixers. The early results are not all that positive. Iggy can't get comfortable, E Brand hasn't hit his stride, and I don't think we even have Kevin Ollie anymore. But Young Thad is asserting himself as the next "I don't know how he does it, but the man does it" star in this league (and yes, I just compared our beloved Thad to Psycho T, if only to piss Stand Whitie off). Long like Sam Pinkston, smooth like an 8 year old Chief Naka gliding through the Water Tower lane, and determined like Mary Kay Laterneau to have a baby by that mysteriously mustached 8th grader... Young Thad has all the tools. God willing, together with Sammy, he will lead us to greatness. Dare we be as good as people think we should be by years end? I'm feeling saucy, so why the fuck not?!! At the very least, let's be better than the Mavs.