The Chicago Cubs: Major League Baseball's Cretin Family

Dearly beloved,

We are gathered here today, in the confines of the Chavez Ravine, to celebrate the birthday of one of the most famous personalities to ever grace the North Side of Chicago, the Windy City, the world famous Chi-Town. We are gathered here today to also celebrate the life of another streak that has left, but has now left these hallowed grounds, never to be forgotten (so long if you choose to).

Let us raise a plate of birria, that aromatic, hearty goat stew, wrapped in corn tortillas and garnished with onion, cilantro, and lime, to the ageless Billy Goat Curse, that wise, wisdom-filler friend that has endured two World Wars, and generations of despaired Chicagoans who wander to Wrigley Field in vain, looking for the year where it will finally pass on.

Let us raise this plate, as well as a Dodger Dog, the gift from simple a farmer known only to his friends as John, to Bill's 100th birthday. For many seasons, he has watched delusions of hope become squandered by many factors, none of which he played a role. He has seen an unassuming man by the name of Steven Bartman become vilified as the Devil Incarnate, crucified like Jesus Christ on the mound of Golgotha.

He has seen many people in Wrigley Stadium suffer from hypertension as a result of their despair, and he has seen corpses litter the bleachers of the so-called Friendly Confines.

He is a good fellow, a sympathetic fellow, and a fellow who-fate, broomsticks and fiery brimstone willing-live on another century, or may walk into the gates of heaven at the dawn of the Age of Aquarius. To you, oh Billy Goat Curse, we salute thee.

Let us also raise a toast to a streak that, while being the bane of frustration for those at the Dodger Stadium grounds for a time, was unable to keep pace with Mr. Billy Goat Curse. My friends, let us hold a moment of silence for the streak of 20 years where the Los Angeles Dodgers were unable to win a postseason series until this very night. Dear 20 Year Streak, you will not be forgotten.

I was only a toddler when you were born. But even though I have outlived you, I will never forget you, and neither will all of us who have witnessed the Chicago Cubs fall in predictably dramatic fashion, three runs to one, on this night of October 4, in the year of the baseball gods that be, the year two thousand and eight.

Rest in peace, 20 Year Streak of Dodger Postseason Futility. And once again, a Happy 100th Birthday to the true mascot of the Cretin Family of Major League Baseball, the Chicaco Cubs...Mr. Billy Goat Curse.

Cheers. And as the Dodger maxim goes, "Wait 'Til Next Year."