The wife and I took protein wisdom offspring to his first baseball game this afternoon — an extra-innings affair the Rockies blew in the 9th, then lost in the 10th. Still, a beautiful, mostly-relaxing day at Coors — and on the plus side, the boy is still too young to understand the slew of expletives I shouted at Rockies’ closer Shawn Chacon after he gave up the tying two-run homerun

“…his throbbing love muscle — hot, blood-filled — slipped across the pearly white curve of her thigh, meat spread across a platter of fine china, an engorged offering, the food of Eros served warm and firm for her delectation.” update: This post is not intended to question Ms. Krantz’s patriotism (long may it throb).

“…his throbbing love muscle — hot, blood-filled — slipped across the pearly white curve of her thigh, meat spread across a platter of fine china, an engorged offering, the food of Eros served warm and firm for her delectation.” update: This post is not intended to question Ms. Krantz’s patriotism (long may it throb).

London Bridge is falling down, Falling down, falling down, London Bridge is falling down, Mary Jo Kopechne. **** Thanks to all who’ve contributed rhymes. They belong to me now, of course. Just so you know.

The Weather Underground (2002) Directed by Sam Green and Bill Siegel. Features Bill Ayers, Kathleen Cleaver, Todd Gitlin, Mark Rudd. Narrated by Lily Taylor. Five words or less review: Man, are hippy radicals somehairymotherfuckers.

Were I a shrill partisan Democrat haunted by four-year old visions of chaddy dimplings, I’d see an Al Gore joke here. But I’m not. So, y’know, yay electoral college!

Chance: “Uncle Sam don’t give a shit about your problems. You want bread? Then go fuck a baker.”