Friday, October 17, 2003
I am still basking in the afterglow of the Greatest Ball Game Ever Played.
Since the skin-of-the-teeth, soul-crushing-everything-northeast-of-Greenwich-Connecticut Yankees victory over the Red Sox, the world has certainly changed for the better. I barely have the time to surface for breath in the middle of a pile of high quality, "we're just trying to make it in Hollywood, but this is certainly not a permanent career choice" exotic dancers who were willing to celebrate a New York win, gratis, to note improvements wrought since Aaron Boone's home run landed in the left field stands at Yankee Stadium:
Several niggling forms of cancer were miraculously cured, and herpes sufferers were granted permanent relief from symptomatic outbreaks while retaining the ability to whitewater raft and kayak.
ESPN baseball guru Peter Gammons' jowels were tightened and hair darkened, releasing him from a Dorian Gray relationship with the twenty dollar bill portrait of Andrew Jackson.
China's fledgling space program, inspired by the pluck of Yankees closer Mariano Rivera, has already colonized the moon, declaring every day Chinese New Year and installing California Governor Elect Arnold Schwarzenegger as its Emperor.
North Korea has disbanded its nuclear weapons program and devoted all of its scientific resources to building a robotic, tiger-proof exoskeleton for hero Vegas entertainer Roy Horn.
Pedro Martinez, bound, gagged, and set adrift on an ice floe in Boston Harbor with Rue McClanahan in the midst of a hot flash, finally learned something about humility and respect for his elders. (I believe this involves being grabbed by his ears in a poetic inversion of his Game 3 dance with Don Zimmer.)
If you don't mind, I must now return to my celebration. I'm told that some of my companions plan to drink champagne from certain areas of my anatomy that would appear to be quite ill-suited to that task.