The Florida Marlins Are a Storied Franchise

The Florida Marlins have won all their games so far.  The Injuns of Cleveburgh have won none of them.  Oh–oh–oh, the Marlins are for real! 

Nahhh.  Florida baseball is a joke.  I said when I moved down here that the Marlins and Devil Rays should be merged, pending the construction of a dues-ex-mechanical hybrid stadium in Orlando. 

I moved down here for a change of scene.  Act III of a 30-year play. 

This whole scene is wrong, but right.  Hold a gun to the epiglottis of the finest judge in the county, and he’ll reach the same decision as the rest of those judges whose mouths you’ve held guns to: mistrial. 

Criminally insane?  No. 

Functionally delusional?  Yes. 

Most people like the sauce.  Yeah, this is a bit of an existential crisis.  “A bit” meaning that I’m with it, but I’m getting a lot of static from local points. 

My pseudo rock-and-roll weekend warrior lifestyle wears on those who work weekends.  Balls and chains are worn to their nubs if they should be relegated to working retail. 

Why does the caged iguana nest?  Funked if I know. 

Why did Lima Time pump his loins?  That’s why they paid him. 

Why did I move to Florida?  Here is why: I’m sitting here half-cocked at midnight in low ice conditions, hearing “Across the Universe”, and dictating my thoughts on why I need another Coors.

One problem in this world has been solved. 

I stopped bringing my 18” hunting knife to the pool.  The thing that turned me off to the whole idea of flipping burgers with a blade that would make even Charles Darwin sweat is when I saw the kids at 3 pm on a Saturday. 

3 am is OK for barbiquical knife play, but the 3 pm prepubescent screams and the self-imposed bloodletting can be left for those far foreseen times when the robots fillate each other instead of expecting and ingracious humans. Plus, the Gentiles don’t understand a good bottom-eye round steak [aka (by me), the poor man’s ribeye]. 

I miss the hunting knife.  It leaves me with but a few things: my wits, my fists, and my charm.  One and a half things, being a half-wit with no discernible charm. 

Enough of the introspection. 

Former Fish Brad Penny is fat, but I think he can regain his old form.  Fat dudes can pitch forever.  For f’s sake, Wells has been pitching since they first stress-tested the Blue Jays’ trademark blue.  True story—I have his rookie card. 

The fat pitchers are coming back.  Fat Bart Colon is girding up his loins for another season. I think Bob Wickman was warming up in my softball league, and who knows when Rich “El Guapo” Garces will be called up from the buffet? 

The Marlins have a good thing going, but I think they’re overpaying.  Cabrera slimmed down and joined a better beer league softball team.  Handy Hanley is getting too good, and the Fish don’t pay him enough Coronas.  Enough latent racism. 

To be fair, I have watched no Marlins games.  I’ve watched 8+ games already and a portion of a dozen others (This MLB Extra Innings promo rules). 

If the Marlins want to prove to the baseball fans of Florida that they are the real deal, they need to stop:

1. Winning championships and following them with fire sales. 

2. Wearing horrid light-teal uniforms. The Rays don’t look like they’ll be playing the Portland Sea Dogs any time soon. Do the Marlins? 

3. Get starting pitchers whose names I can pronounce in English, so I sound "smaht" in baseball "diskushins." 

Dude, my fantasy roster is the balls.  Let me tell you the whole squad…

(Tune your mind out…) I got Crazy Carl the Craw and Ichiro in the out…(play a good song in your mind…) and my bullpen is nasty. I got Joe Nat…(I suggest some Sum 41.  They’re very poppy, but they rip it hard…). Inge was my sleeper pick…(Zappa maybe? Joe’s Garage is cool…) and to close it out, Timmy Knucklefield as my last starter. 

That was just my AL league—in my other draft (Free Bird for the rest of this d-bag’s fantasy man-crush ramblings…)...

Webb is tossing that bowling ball for me. (If this fantasy geek keeps going, Pet Sounds is a good album if you’re drunk/high enough…)