I would like to take this opportunity to congratulate the Giants on winning the 2010 “Fall Classic” (TM), otherwise known to the rest of the world as the “World Cup,” 4-1 in front of a thrilled national audience of approximately fifteen people from outside the San Francisco area (almost thirty if you count their various pets). It was truly a hard-fought battle that involved many impressive feats of strength and struggle that I’m sure would have been amazing had I actually watched any of it. I considered tuning in last night for the finale, but then a new DVD of NCIS came from Netflix, and no mere mortal can overcome the allure of the Gibbs.
I would also like to extend sincere and heartfelt gratitude toward the Giants for choosing to wait and win their first championship since the fifties until well after Barry Bonds was forced into retirement via national popular vote and/or grand jury indictment. I can only hope his vast collection of bobble-head memorabilia will give him comfort on those lonely, cold winter nights when he has nothing but an array of international super-models, millions of dollars and dozens of MVP trophies to keep him company. It must be quite a challenge to live with such shame. I wonder how he can cope.
I do feel a little bad for Texas, mostly because of their star outfielder Josh Hamilton, who overcame a serious and life-threatening addiction to Grand Theft Auto before making his first post-season appearance this fall. You may remember him as that guy who hit 217 home runs in the 2008 Home Run Derby before passing out from exhaustion and not waking up until almost August. I was hoping that he would win a trophy this year, considering all the trials he has endured over the years, but I can take solace in knowing that he is still far richer than I will ever be, even if I sell both of my kidneys on the black market.
I will offer genuine praise for one player, however, and that is Tim Lincecum. He is a man that is so awesome, so talented, so special that you are almost able to overlook just how tiny he is compared to everyone else in the league. He looks how I imagine a fifteen-year-old kid would look if he tried on a uniform made specifically for Dwayne Johnson and tried to pitch. The only difference is, this fifteen-year-old is the product of some bizarre and illegal government-run genetics experiment, the result of which has caused him to be able to see ultraviolet light and throw 137 MPH, even after eating Italian. I have high-hopes for this man’s future, and can only hope that he becomes so spectacular that he becomes unaffordable to the Giants and signs with the Red Sox.
Until next season, I hope that all seven baseball fans in San Francisco enjoy this special day and remember that real cities celebrate championships by setting fire to random vehicles and committing acts of violence. I have yet to see flames on the news, so it’s time to get to it! I hear the Prius smells lovely when burned with mesquite.
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