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Why?
Why?
Why?
Why does Grady "My Brain Is" Little get to spend any part of his existence as a baseball "manager"? Why isn't he a groundskeeper? Why isn't he cleaning urinals at Fenway? Why isn't he working at a toll booth?

And yet, as I say these things, I realize that I'm insulting those people. Who ever it is that cleans the urinals at Fenway probably just ran across some hard times somewhere, and doesn't have to be the raving simpleton that My Brain Is Little is.

I just can't fathom this. The game isn't even over yet, but I've witnessed something that makes Buckner's error the equivalent of spitting on the field. My Brain Is Little has actually GIVEN AWAY our World Series.

And still, the game won't end. The Knife of Idiocy is sticking in the gut of my dreams, and just turning around and around. Kill me. End the game already. Please. PLEASE! Stop tempting me with the possibility of a victo . . . I can't even type it.

It's hard to rationalize being a sports fan right now. There are so many more important things in the world, and I've got my emotional state tied to the wishes of My Brain Is Little. And he's not a relative of mine, I don't know him in any way, and yet I let his decisions affect me personally, ruin my day, tear at my soul.

Is there a rule that says you can't fire your manager during a game? What then, is Theo waiting for? If I'm Theo, I get My Brain Is Little out of there even if I have to do it with a bat in my hands.

That's it for now.

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