Ah, right, all of that cheating. Let’s today perhaps agree on this: home runs will no longer be the dominant statistic for Hall of Fame votes. Otherwise we sit here whining about the injustice or bamboozlement, the confused voters writing long stupid articles about how they’re going to vote. How about since there’s no quantifiable component of what we mean when we say GREAT, how about we just shift our attention to baserunning and fielding and pitching and number of opposite field singles.

Or better let’s just only watch Albert Pujols, who if he’s dirty I’m going to fall onto a sword.

This squirrel fell from the sky onto my neighbor’s fence. I saw it while walking back from buying eggs and at first wondered what kind of sicko was the kind of  sicko to mount a dead squirello to a fence. I felt my head slowly shake on its own accord and I actively  worried for the youth. Then I looked up at the branches overhead and it all became very clear, and I could imagine him falling, her falling, she leapt for a branch and missed, then fell. And it was a hell of a thing to admire for a few minutes until another neighbor got wind and came outside with a plastic bag on his hand. Because if his young daughter saw the squirrel she’d shit her pants or stop believing in God or something worse. He is a good man, my neighbor. One who regularly handles business.