Feesh Flounder in Feely Feezle, Need to Evolve Lunglike Structures to Crawl Home from Road Trips

It’s fair to say that I’ve enjoyed three hour waits in my dentist’s lobby with nothing to read but old golfing magazines more than yesterday’s Feesh-Feelies debacle. I confess that I find it puzzling how people want to play golf at all, befuddling that some want to sit home and watch it on television, but utterly dumbfounding that some ackcherley want to read about it. Reading articles about golf  makes watching even designatedhitterball feel like seeing Alien for the first time on really smooth mescaline. In any case, it’s the beginning of Tormentos season in Macondo,  and yesterday afternoon the sturm und drang was in its glory, rending the heavens and intermittently blacking out my satellite signal. Each momentary resumption of clear transmission revealed a slightly worse situation than obtained before the last stepped leader hit one of the local  transformers. The frogs and toads loved it, though. Bully for them.

Afterwards, the Feesh headed to the aerodrome  after scoring a measley two runs in the first inning and then hanging an out to lunch sign in the batter’s box,  dropping two of three to the Feelies and slagging home more like a bunch of mudskippers than billfeesh. Here’s Jar Jar Baseball and his fabled hitting instructor (the one on the right, with the larger head) singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” after chugging a therapeutic keg between them while waiting in the rain at the airport yesterday evening for the rickshaws Scrooge McLoria ordered (after slashing the limousine budget) to return them to the parking lot at Macondo Banana Massacre Field:

The Iron Giant really suffered the most during this misbegotten series, going zzzzzippp-beep! for ten with nine strikeouts. I can confirm here that it was the Giant’s performance which ackcherley inspired Pierre Menard to write the famous windmill scene in Don Quixote. Jar Jar Baseball was philosophical about the big guy’s struggles, noting “He’s only one of eight [sic] guys we send to the plate” (or as my Bubbeh might have noted had she been born and raised in, say, Arkansas instead of Chodorower, “Lord, that boy can cipher!”).  When he got back to the dugout after striking out for the third time, the Giant went bugger-my-mandrill nuts in the dugout, smashing his bat, cursing, ranting, and otherwise behaving like a Bernie Sanders supporter at the Nevada Democratic convention:

Marcell the Damned, who had his 16-game hitting schmear effaced yesterday, bounced right back with an RBI double in the first, but let’s face it, whenever he does well, it only pisses Scrooge McLoria orf a little more – which, of course, makes it twice as much fun to watch. If you can’t have victory, at least you can have schadenfreude (which keeps Freude’s head from getting sunburned).

Despite a yeomanly effort by Tom Koehler (7 IP, 7H, 2ER, 5BB, 4K), who battled like Ahab’s Fedallah despite his intermittent location problems, his third inning was undone by a Justin Bour boot of a quotidian leadorf grounder from David Lough, which lowered the third inning gillnets in which the Feesh ensnared themselves. The Rainbow Warriors now stand at 21-19, mired deeper in fourth, buffered by the recently decapitated Barves with their Jack Skellington pumpkinheaded interim manager as the recently struggling Mutts won a little bit last night to pull away, ensnared again in those densifying gossamer reality waves emitted by the strange attractor:

 

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