You might be asking yourself, “Self, where’s Duane been? We ain’t heard from that smart, handsome fucker in a long time.” You’d be right! But here I am, in Whorelando–ha, really Orlando–of all places.
I’ll fill you in on how I got here in a minute. It’s a not really that long of a story.
First stuff first. I see our hotshot Cuban third baseman can’t even get a hit against damn rookie league pitchers just out of high school and junior college. Hector Oliver was 0-for-2 last night in a game down here.
This is what we gave up Alan Wood and Piazza for?! Shitfire. Let’s hope Fidel picks it up soon or we’re gonna be as screwed as …well, screwed. I can’t think of a good something we’ll be as screwed as. As Maryilyn Chambers, how bout that? She was screwed a lot.
Anyway, we got 116 minor league pitchers and nobody can hit the damn ball. I hope Mr. Hart and his nerdy Dick Grayson sidekick find some hitters or we’re gonna have a staff full of Shelby Millers next few years.
Moving on. Why am I in beautiful central Florida? Well, Hal and Brenda went on a second honeymoom to Disney. They towed their camper. I hid in their camper. Brenda discovered me and quickly decided I was not welcome. I managed to get a job as the only Anglo on the Disney grounds crew, and here I am. In case you don’t know, it’s hot as a ditch digger’s ass crack down here in August.
Sorry Gotta go weedeat over by Space Mountain.
Go Braves! (Photo of me and the ex for old times sake)
The Bravos come home to face a lefty with whom I am utterly unfamiliar. Robbie Ray sounds like a dude you went to grade school with. He’s got decent numbers. He’ll face: Peterson, Maybin, Markakis, Gomes, Pierzynski, Garcia, Swisher, Simmons, Julio.
Oh, and the home team signed Edwin Jackson. Guess you have to fill the bullpen with somebody.