So, The White Sox Suck

But at least the beers at Comiskey are $7.75, amirite?

Sigh.

I knew this year was going to be bad.  Typically, when I head into a season, I can find something to be optimistic about.  Maybe it's a younger player from whom I want to see progress or a few old stand-bys we can all shower in adulation...but this years team?  It's Paul Konerko or bust.

For whatever reason when I did a Google image search for "Paul Konerko", the 12th picture that came up was this totally rad picture of Tadahito Iguchi.  I miss me some Tadahito Iguchi.

It would seem that I am not the only fan that has taken notice of this awful, awful White Sox team.  Last Monday, Brad and I made an intrepid trip down to the South Side to take in an Orioles vs White Sox game on half-price Monday.  The crowd was comically awful and I guessed the paid attendance to be about 16,000 and change, Brad guessed 14,000 or so and the truth turned out to be so bad, the Sox didn't even do that "Guess the Attendance" thing they do in 7th inning on the Jumbotron.  The paid attendance (again!  On Half Priced Monday!  Our lower-level tickets up the first base line were only $20!) was 13,732.

Brad and I are only two games into our 14 game package so the only thing that is going to keep me going to park at this point are the Kosher dogs (priced at--sigh--$5.25 a pop) and the smell of the grilled onions which I don't even eat.  But it's a nicer smell than Brad or me. 

To be fair, maybe I'm a tad pessimistic.  Maybe all of the Sox players who sucked last year will rebound.  Maybe the kids will take a nice step forward.  Maybe we'll go on a tear in June and Brad and I will have something to cheer about after all.

Or maybe we'll keep hitting Bret Morel--he of the .146 On Base Percentage--in the 2 hole and the Sox will have more stellar games like yesterday where we had 3 batters with 3 strike outs making Adam Dunn and his 2 whiffs seem like the super-star we're paying him to be.  Man, there's just no way this team doesn't lead the universe in strike-outs.

We will, of course, lead the league in adjusted STTTDWHLISAAPCTSL*.

Sigh. 

*Slow Turn Towards The Dugout With Head Lowered In Shame After Another Pathetic Called Third Strike Looking

Blow up the Sox

Warning:  Only readers with a passion for the White Sox or baseball in general will give a flip about this post.  

Brad and I renewed our "Ozzie Plan" today; 14 trips down to Comiskey Park for the 2012 season.  Wo-hoo!  Now, I can't imagine the Sox will continue to call the package the "Ozzie Plan" seeing how its namesake, Ozzie Guillen, has been shown the door and now manages the Miami Marlins.  What matters is that Brad and I will be able to smell the grilled hotdogs and onions 14 times in the 2012 season, while we watch an underwhelming Sox effort on days John Danks doesn't pitch.

It will be interesting, however, to see what kind of team we'll be seeing on those trips.  You see, last year, the Sox badly, badly underachieved.  The 2011 Sox had the 5th highest payroll in the major leagues and finished with the 18th "best" record...or 13th worst record if you're a glass half-empty guy.  They started out the season poorly, made a run in the middle of the season that got me believing again and then knocked the legs out from under their fan base with a 0-42 September record (citation needed).  It was a bad season highlighted by our free agent acquisition, 6'6" 285 pound Adam Dunn who was supposed to smash 50 home runs on the South Side but instead got out-homered by all 185 pounds of Opie here:

Basically, we payed Mr. Dunn $12,000,000 to secure the lowest batting average in major league history by a guy with 500 or more plate appearances (.159) while striking out 177 times...against only 66 hits.  12 million dollars! 

Now, I don't think Adam Dunn is that bad.  The dude did hit 38 home runs in 2010.  I personally feel that he started out on a terrible streak and just couldn't shake out of it.  You don't go from a 38 home run campaign to the worst batting average in major league history in just one season, even if he did switch to the tougher league.  This has to be mental, more than anything else.  Hopefully, an off season of floating in swimming pools and sleeping on top of a pile of money with many beautiful ladies will help wipe his memory of his utterly terrible year. 

But it wasn't all Adam Dunn's fault.  3 other regulars struggled to hit above the Mendoza Line, Ozzie's temper, contract situation and feud with Kenny Williams was a constant distraction, our pitching was mediocre at best and we had zero help from the minor leagues early on.

It is that last point that causes me to think it's time to blow up the team.

Next year, we are slated to again have a payroll in the upper-third of the league, only it's becoming abundantly clear that we are going to lose our most consistent pitcher to free agency this off-season.  In addition, we've already been informed that our payroll is maxed-out; fans shouldn't hold their breath for any game-changing free agents.

The long-term problem?  Our minor league system is completely barren.  I'm not sure if it is Kenny Williams' lack of creativity when it comes to the draft or Jerry Reinsdorf's constant draft-time penny pinching--or both--but the Sox, for whatever reason, refuse to invest in the draft.  As such, the truly talented kids fall to teams that are willing to spend money on signing bonuses and we draft "signable" kids over and over and over and over again.

While the new collective bargaining agreement will help the Sox going forward, the immediate damage has been done.  As a result of their penny-pinching(and Kenny Williams penchant for trading minor league talent for Major League players), the Sox have been left with what Baseball America calls the 4th worst minor league system in Major League Baseball.   Keith Law, the ESPN amateur scout and catty humorist, thinks the Sox are the 3rd worst.  Ouch. 

While it is always possible that the cheaper teams can find a hidden gem here and there, most teams that are willing to spend on the draft continue to churn out major league players that are 100% homegrown.  The Boston Red Sox excel at this, god damn it.  Even with larger signing bonuses, this is the single cheapest way to get high-end talent into an organization.

The Sox are in a tough spot.  They will have a fairly high payroll next year but do not have any realistic chance to win a World Series unless we have some serious rebound seasons from our highly paid "talent".  Combine that with the likely-loss of our beloved lefty Mark Buehrle...

Don't you just want to hug him?

...and that leads me to believe we won't be hoisting the Commissioner's Trophy next October. 

So what's team to do?  I think it's time to dismantle the Sox.  Trade any guy that has value to any taker and try to restock our minor league coffers.  Kenny Williams has said that he will only take back major league ready players but he's fooling himself; once we start trading our guys, we should not stop.  He wants to trade his guys but remain competitive.  In other words, he wants to have his cake and eat it too.

My plan is different:  get rid of everyone.  Gavin Floyd, John Danks, Phil Humber, Matt Thorton, Sergio Santos, Jessie Crain, A.J. (if he'll accept a trade), Carlos Quentin, everybody.  See if you can get 30 cents on the dollar for Dunn and Alex Rios...and if we can't get rid of these guys--and let's be honest here, we probably can't--just let them play out their contracts and by the time they are done, the new acquisitions will likely be ready.  Let the kids play.  Pitch Chris Sale and Zach Stewart.  Turn Dayan Viciedo loose in right and see if he doesn't embarrass himself.  Let Tyler Flowers catch all season.

Let's see what the kids can do while we simultaneously add some talent in the minor leagues. 

Today Brad and I spent $400 on Sox tickets for the 2012 season.  I would much rather watch a team that I can see some hope in the future than a team that I want to bury as dead from the very start.

Schadenfreude

Yesterday afternoon, I called my amazing wife on my cellphone telephone and asked if I could have my best man, Brad, over to watch a plethora of baseball games on her almost-as-equally amazing HD TV.  For those not with their ear to the ground on the world of sports, there were four Major League baseball games on last night--all at the same time--that directly impacted the playoffs.  This was extra-cool because it was the last day of the regular season.  Just like my fantasy baseball season the week before, it all came down to the 162nd game.  The Boston Red Sox were tied with the Tampa Bay Rays for the American League Wild Card spot.  Tampa was hosting the Yankees and a bunch of ass-bag Boston fans had invaded Camden Yards in Baltimore.

Also, the St. Louis Cardinals and the Atlanta Braves were in an identical situation over in the National League; they were tied with each other after 161 games and playing in separate cities.  This was going to be epic.

I ordered cheap pizzas and Brad and I settled in to watch what turned out to be 5 full hours of baseball.  It was awesome.

Anyone who knows me, knows how I feel about the good people of Boston.  Wait, did I say "good"?  I meant "racist" and "arrogant" and "dickish".  I don't even care if that's not a word.  People from Boston are dicks. This clearly makes them dickish.

Last night turned out to be the single most exciting, enthralling and shocking night of baseball I have ever had the pleasure to witness in my life.  I needed that.  My beloved White Sox were, in a word, "shitty" this season.  If I couldn't take joy in my White Sox, I needed some MLB excitement somewhere, right?

As an added bonus, I really, really hate the Red Sox.  It is funny, however, that back in 2004 I was absolutely pulling for them against the Yankees.  Historically, the Red Sox have been like the Cubs: always the bridesmaid.  Before 2004, they hadn't won a World Series in 86 years.  Two generations of "Sawx" fans had grown up never knowing the rush of a World Series title.  At the time, the White Sox hadn't won themselves in 87 years so I could absolutely identify with these fellow Irish Cat'lics from the East coast.  When they took down the Yanks that year, I celebrated with them.  That beleaguered city deserved that title.

But then a funny thing happened: their other teams also started getting good.  Pretty boy Tom Brady and the New England Patriots already had a couple of rings on their fingers by that point but then they won it all again in 2004.  Then the Celtics won a title.  Then the Red Sox won again.  Then the Bruins won a title, if we're to count hockey as a sport. 

Suddenly, this depressed fan base started getting cocky.  Fans started invading other teams ball parks with their obnoxious accents and self-entitled attitude.  They started to expect to win and when their teams didn't, it was always because of a ref, or a bad bounce, or because of an injury.

Or this

When the Red Sox signed the best outfielder on the market this past off season, Carl Crawford, for $135 million dollars AND traded for the best first baseman on the market, Adrian Gonzalez (who subsequently signed a $148 million dollar contract himself), Sawx fans were already reserving spots on some piss-covered Boston street for the World Series Championship parade.  These entitled bastards were already talking shit...not about if they were going to win the World Series but about how many wins they would collect along the way.  It was maddening.

Fortunately, sports has a funny way of making the world a better place.  The Red Sox started the season 2-12 and ended the season with a 7-20 record in September.  Sure, in between, they were the best team in baseball but at the start of game 162, they were merely tied for the Wild Card lead. 

Last night, the Red Sox lost on a walk-off hit in Baltimore.  Four minutes later--before many of the Red Sox players even had the chance to retreat to the visitor's clubhouse in defeat--Evan Longoria of the Tampa Bay Rays hit a walk-off home run of his own to lift the Rays to victory.  The Rays were going to Texas for the playoffs.  The Red Sox?  Let's not feel too bad for them; they likely went home to groupies and millions of dollars and (I'm assuming) drug problems.  But they weren't going to the Playoffs. 

Loveable Lisa Simpson once defined the concept of "Schadenfreude" as "shameful joy". While that may not be the literal translation according to many German people with anger problems, it would certainly fit how I feel about last night's Red Sox loss.  That is to say, if I were to feel any amount of shame at all in my joy.

Seriously.  Screw those guys.  I guess a $160 million payroll just doesn't buy what it used to. 

All it really bought was karma. 

Bwaaaaaaaaahahahahaha!

Krishni Returns Today

And let my liver be the 1st to say, "Thank you!"

Nah, just kidding.  While I did get a bit messed up on one or two nights, it was actually a pretty relaxing 10 days for me.  There were several nights where I was tucked neatly into bed before 10pm.  I really only pushed myself to the limit the day of my court hearing and even then, I was passed out by such a reasonable hour that I woke up fresh as a drunken daisy the next morning. 

As you may or may not recall, I had a few goals for my bachelorhood week.  Let's see how I did:

Walking a mile.  Total.
I may have walked more than a mile.  There is no way of knowing but I will say that I probably dropped more on cabs than I'm used to spending.  I'll count this as a win for me and a loss for exercise. 
Pizza.  Lots of it.
You know, Brad and I got a pizza the 2nd night Krishni was gone and I never ordered it again.  Granted, it was a mondo Art of Pizza pizza* and I ate off of it for the next few days but still.  Dominos surprisingly didn't get a dime of my money and I am pretty sure I can throw an empty beer can from my couch and hit the store. 
Movies.  Bad ones.
My short list:  Jennifer's Body (loved it), Predators (probably not good if you're sober), Cool Runnings (ditto), Futurama's Bender's Big Score and Bender's Game, Grown Ups (laughed harder than I ever thought I would at this movie.  I still think Kevin James sucks, though), The Hot Chick (yeah.  This one was not good) and Waterworld.  Because it never gets old. 
Drinking.  Heavily.
Had a fantastic boys night out on Friday night and the last drink I ordered was a "bourbon and orange juice".  Let's just say the conversation and camaraderie was better than that last drink. 
Porn.  Lots of it.
This was my next day.  All day.   
Sportscenter.  On a constant loop.
I was tremendously annoyed that PTI wasn't on all week.  Damn it. 
Baseball.  Picture-in-picture with Sportscenter. 
The friggin' Sox.  Just when I left them for dead they run off a 6 game win streak just to get my slim hopes pumped up before they punch my optimistic ass right in the head.  College football, why won't you get here faster?!
Tacos.  Lots of them. 
I ate the hell out of some tacos when Mel came over to watch the season finale of Supernatural (you know, the one that aired, like, 4 months ago?  Thank you DVR).  And my wife will be happy to know, all tacos came with actual vegetables in addition to copious amounts of fat, sodium and cholesterol. 
Mario.  In all incarnations.
I did, in fact, beat Mario Wii again while she was gone.  I guess what I'm saying is I did accomplish something. 
Pants.  Not gonna wear 'em.
Wait!  Clearly I accomplished two things!

So, it was a pretty good week but I'm glad that it ends tonight upon my gorgeous wife's triumphant return.  Fortunately, my bachelorhood isn't totally dead...she's returning just in time for football season!  Notre Dame kicks off on Saturday!  Woot woot!  Get your green on, babe!

I am truly living the dream**.

*if you are not familiar with the Art of Pizza, it is this FANTASTIC stuffed-pizza joint on Ashland Ave here in the city.  Folks, I've eaten a lot of pizza in my day.  Far more than you.  And I have never in my life eaten better pizza than the Art of Pizza.  Trust me.  Order today. 

**I am allowed to watch the game on Saturday, right Krishni?  Right?  Krishni?  I love you!

He he he!

Krishni can tell you this:  I giggle a lot.  Maybe it's my obsession with Disney World but I try to keep a little whimsy in my life.  Krishni and I had a good guffaw when I watched Enchanted for the 1st time; I pointed out to her that that she was clearly the Patrick Dempsey character in the movie and I was clearly the Amy Adams character.

That's me on the left

To be fair:  of the two of us, I am far, far more likely to tell a cancer joke; but I do have a much more whimsical view of the world than she does.  And if that means that I get so excited about certain activities that I showcase a mile-wide smile and giggle uncontrollably, so be it. 

There are 5 scheduled days in each calendar year that require giggling:

1)  Opening Day
2)  Thanksgiving
3)  My fantasy baseball draft (I'm cool)
4)  My Brithday
5)  The NBA Draft

Opening day needs no explanation:  Brad and I start drinking beer at dawn, we eat fatty foods and watch baseball in the cold.  Te-hee!

Thanksgiving is hands-down the best-est of all holidays.  Thanksgiving is all about stuffing a turkey, stuffing me and hanging with the family by the fire.  What could be better?

My fantasy baseball draft involves pizza, wine and poor decisions around the 23rd round.  Krishni enjoys this day on a much different level than I do...she still thinks it's cute.  However, this day, sometime far in the future, will also be known as "The day Mike's wife finally realizes what a loser Mike is and packs a bag and slips out forever without her husband noticing because he's staring at his computer screen and deciding whether its a good idea to draft a closer in the 12th round or wait until the 18th.  While giggling."

It will be a very sad day. 

My birthday kicks ass because I've never had a problem planning my own birthday party.  Why not plan a day celebrating me where my friends buy me drinks?  The better question is:  why don't all of you do this?

Which brings me to the NBA Draft. 

For those not in the know, every year most of the best college basketball players leave school and enter into the NBA draft.  Each June, these players are selected by each NBA franchise in an order roughly determined by the previous years record; typically, the worst teams get the higher picks (meaning 1, 2, 3, etc) and best teams get the lower picks (28, 29, 30, etc).  There are two rounds worth of players picked over the span of about 5 hours. 

The draft is tonight. 

Honestly, I'm not sure what draws me to the NBA Draft.  On the "Mike Jacklich Personal Sports Hierarchy", the Bulls come in 4th behind the Sox (1), Notre Dame Football (2) and The Benet Academy Boys Varsity Basketball Team (3). 

While I love baseball and college football more than I love NBA basketball, I've always, always love the NBA offseason more than any other league's offseason.  Last years was epic:  the free-agent frenzy that centered around LeBron that directly and indirectly affected about half the league when it came to off-season moves and contender statuses will never, ever be topped.  It was so much fun to follow.

This year, we have equal drama:  a potential lock-out and the cancellation of a chunk of the regular season.  Truth be told, I love lock-outs.  I think they are absurd.  Millionaires arguing with billionares over a bigger slice of the pie...it's fun on the oddest of levels.

Back in college, there was a lockout that I followed closely.  It was pretty funny.  The owners quickly learned that most players actually lived paycheck-to-paycheck just like many of us do.  The only difference, of course, is that while I'm trying to decide how to best payoff my two credit card balances that don't total more than $2,000, NBA players were dealing with an entourage, house payments on 3 different properties, 6 car payments, servants, chefs, wives, girlfriends, 1 to 10 kids, family members begging for money, gambling debts, lawsuits, VIP rooms, strip clubs and hookers.  It was a lifestyle that was killing the players.

At some point in the middle of the lockout, the players floated the idea of having a "charity" game for some of the guys that needed cash or for players that were "only" making the league minimum which, at the time, was about $270,000...Patrick Ewing, the Hall of Fame center for the Knicks, was famously quoted as saying--in a tremendously poor attempt to gain public sympathy--"Sure NBA players make a lot of money, but we spend a lot too."  Boo-freakin'-hoo, Pat. 

The Draft tonight is just the 1st part of what I like to call the NBA's silly season.  Why do I love the draft?  Well, it's a bit different this year:  we have a pretty weak draft as far as the quality of the players being drafted.  Because of that and since there is no real consensus on who is going to go where, there should be a ton a trades and GMs across the NBA are going to be trying to unload salary before the lockout.  Chaos is always fun. 

Also, back in college we played what was, in retrospect, a horribly racist drinking game during the broadcast.  Rules included "Drink for players with cornrows" and "Drink 5 if the player hugs a Mom but there is no Dad present" and "Drink 5 when a white guy gets drafted in the top 20, finish your beer if he's picked 1st overall."  It got worse than that, too.  But hey, Bonzer T's Homeskillet is PG-13, remember?

So, tonight I'm going to sit down with some booze, my home-made NBA Draft t-shirt, some fatty foods and a ridiculous smile on my face while I watch the NBA landscape change.

There will be giggling.

Stupid Hospitals

I had a bad weekend, but not nearly as bad as a few people I know and love.

You see, both of my parents went to the hospital this weekend.  Different hospitals.  For 3 night stays.  Ugh.

It all started with my Mother turning orange.  For those not in the know, my Mother was diagnosed with 4th stage colon cancer back in October of 2005.  Wednesday, October 26th to be exact.  Why do I remember that date?  Because when all of my other friends were celebrating the Chicago White Sox closing out the Houston Astros in the 2005 World Series--probably with beer, champagne and hookers--I was shell-shocked with my family over this devastating development.  

That's just like my Mom...always looking to overshadow the 2005 World Series Champion Chicago White Sox with her cancer.

Anyhoo...where was I?  Ah, yes.  My Mom turned orange.  Like this:

 Seriously. 

It would appear that a growing tumor that her doctors have been keeping an eye on eventually pushed up into her liver and caused her liver to, as her doctors (probably) put it, "go all batshit wonky".  The words "draining" and "bile" were, in fact, thrown around far too frequently for my comfort.  She had surgery on Saturday and they put a stint into her liver causing it to function like it is supposed to. 

Which brings me to my Dad.  You're going to need to brace yourself for this story, kiddos.

Before this weekend, by favorite Don Jacklich story went like this: For those of you that have never met my Dad, he's not, um, concerned with his personal appearance.  Here is a pretty good representation of the way he dresses, 75% of the time:

I draw special attention to his work pants that have not been washed since the Carter administration.  Those are not camouflage pants, in case you were curious; that is years of paint, glue, concrete, spackle, gunk, goo, inflammables, snot and oil.  He is not a fashionista.

My Dad has never been one to shower.  Before you think I'm piling it on, he does bathe.  But he exclusively takes baths and never, ever showers.  A few months ago, he couldn't find any soap for his bath; this, of course, is a problem if one wants to wash off 2 days worth of concrete.  What is a man to do without soap?

Never fear, my Dad has always been great at improvising.  Take, for example, the time he attempted to cauterize a wound with Shoe Goo instead of a bandage.

 Seriously. 

Hunting around his house in search for soap, he came across what he felt was the next best thing:  Tide Detergent.  The powdered kind. 

 

Again.  Seriously. 

Powdered Tide!  Powdered Tide that he still uses for his baths to this day, by the way.

I love this guy.

Which brings me back to the new "Best-Don-Jacklich-Story".   My Father loves my Mother terribly.  He is so adorably devoted to his wife, it brings a tear to even the most cynical of eyes (ie: mine).  He dropped my Mother off at Northwestern Medical downtown, kissed her goodbye and made his way to his car.

As he was walking, he felt a tingling in his left arm.  He was carrying a heavy briefcase in his left hand so he swapped the case over to his right.  As he continued to walk to the car, he couldn't help but notice that the tingling continued, escalated to pain and he found himself with a shortness of breath.  This man needed medical attention.

Let's take a break for a poll.  What do you think Don Jacklich did?  Did he:

A)  Turn around and head back to Prentice Womens Hospital to speak to my Mother's doctor?
B)  Walk over to the Northwestern's ER and check himself in?
C)  Get into his car, make his way over to a congested-with-construction I-290, leave Chicago, drive 35 miles back to Lisle, park his car and call 911?

Anyone who selected choice "C" gets a cookie.  To recap:  My Father--very clearly having a heart-attack and with a history of heart trouble--left one of the world's best and most renown hospitals and drove home 35 miles so he could dial 911 to get a ride to another hospital. 

Jesus-hopping-Christ.

He's ok.  Turns out, he needed a stint replaced in his heart from his triple by-pass in 1997.  The day after his surgery he was his normal obnoxious self and two days later he was drinking wine and eating Bubba Burgers with us.  Not sure that is what is supposed to happen to a guy who just had a heart attack but more power to him.

Krishni, who is much smarter than me about such things, said my Mother's condition obviously is the greater long-term concern but my Father was much closer to death this weekend than Sheila.  What a dumbass.  But now that we know he's going to be fine, you can't help shake your head and laugh at a story like that.  

Incidentally, Sheila is ok as well.  She's eating again and we're looking to put some weight back on her.  She was in good spirits and overjoyed that 4/5ths of her children came back in town to visit her.  We all had a terrifying-yet-ultimately-fun weekend together.  And Krishni has been great through it all.  I do love that woman.

For those looking to help "Operation Sheila Weight Gain", she likes pie.  For those looking to help me cope with all of this, I like booze.

Specifically, Ron De Jeremy

It's time for a new poll!

One of the continually entertaining aspects of my gorgeous wife is her insistence on "exactification".  For instance, she might claim that I totally made that word up.  Of course I did, but that is besides the point.

She would have made an excellent lawyer.  She has a near-photographic memory when pinot grigio is not involved, had a wonderful grasp on language only occasionally punctuated with a sentence ending in a preposition and she remembers every damn word I say.  It's a really, really good thing that I am not a liar.

She also has trouble detecting my levity when I attempt to pass off a 100% ridiculous statement as fact.  "Really?  Benjamin Franklin played the theromin?" she once said in a story I just totally made up.  Because of this, I call her "Literal Sally".  It's one of the more endearing nicknames I've given her, and, likely the only nickname that won't result in my murder if published on Bonzer T's Home Skillet.

The other night, we were laying on our bed watching something on the DVR and the playoffs were about to begin.  I told her as much, she sighed and said, "Ok, you can watch your sports".

Now, Krishni considers herself a bit of a sports widow.  It's no secret that I have some silly passions:  pie, cartoons on Fox, Christmas, Disney World, The Gilmore Girls, porn, etc.  And yes, sports is one of those passions.  For her benefit, I do have a schedule worked out:

April-October:  White Sox Baseball
October to December:  Notre Dame football
January:  The good college football teams
January to June:  The Bulls
One day in the middle of February (TBD):  Krishni

Ok, that's a bit of an exaggeration.  For instance, in the 183 calender days between April and September, the White Sox only have 162 games.  Plus the playoffs.  Sometimes. 

Back to the other night.  As I was leaving our bedroom, she said "Enjoy your boys playing with balls".  Before you think this was a sophomoric, "Mike Jacklich-style" joke, I assure you it was not.  This one was pure Literal Sally.  She was genuinely referring--not to nut-sacks--but to the physical act of grown gentlemen on the worlds stage, locked in athletic battle, in HD, taking a spherical object and thrusting it through a circular object. 

It is only fair that she called my television program "Boys Playing with Balls" as I have nicknamed her favorite shows that are on constantly:  "Bones", I like to call "Pretty People Solve Crimes" and "Grey's Anatomy" I like to refer to as "Pretty People Perform Surgery."  Lately she's been watching "Ally McBeal", or, as I like to call it, "Freakishly Skinny People Having Sex With Each Other And Occasionally Take Some Time To Argue In Court.  And Dancing.  They Like to Dance."

It was really only a matter of time before she named one of my shows.  When she told me to go watch my boys playing with balls, I paused and had a "Literal Sally" moment of my own:  "They only play with one ball.  Wouldn't 'Boys playing with ball' be the more appropriate name?"  "No", she countered, "there are many balls on the court for warm-ups."  This makes sense; if a ball deflates, the whole crowd doesn't just go home...they just get another ball from a rack.  "But wait a minute," I said, "there is only one ball in play at any given time.  As the clock ticks, there is only one ball that matters."  "You're stupid" she said.*

We argued about this probably longer than we should have before I went off to watch the Bulls hang on for a game 5 victory.

So, I put it to you, dear readers of the Home Skillet: which is it?  "Boys with Balls" or "Boys with Ball"?  Take the poll in the upper-right hand corner at let us know your thoughts on the worlds dumbest argument.   

*No she didn't

Wheeeee! Opening Day!

I was going to write a hilarious moment-by-moment account of my Opening Day experience with Brad but the truth is, it would have looked something like this:

8:37 am:  Open 1st beer.  Take shower with said beer in hand.
10:01 am:  Arrive at Brad's.  Brad and I play 'Thunderstruck' by AC/DC for 90 minutes while consuming many beers.
12:15pm:  Arrive at Comiskey Park.  Consume many beers

***scene missing***

5am:  Awake in Brad's bed with no pants on.

I know that somewhere in the middle, I ate a kosher dog, tried the new 'Ball Park DiGiorno' pizza stand, left the game early since we sorely underestimated the weather and were freaking freezing by the 7th inning, went to The Rail on Damen Ave to eat and kill 2 hours (drinking) before the Bulls game, drank 17-20 beers between the two of us before, during and after the Bulls kicked the living shit out of the Celtics, smashed in some more pizza and arrived back at Brads.

For the record, that was 15 hours of drinking for the two of us.  It's been a while since I tied one on like that.  Our bartender at The Rail even bought us a totally superfluous shot of Jameson.  She really, really didn't need to do that.

Oh, and the White Sox won.  So, except for the part where I woke up on Brad's couch, went to his bathroom and instead of returning to the couch, I just crawled into his bed with him, it was a pretty good day.  He might beg to differ.