"Eventually The World Will Be One Giant Walmart Customer's FUPA"

Most people that know me already understand my hatred towards Sam Walton's white trash-food-providing company. However, as I was driving home from work today, I had a revelation. It all started when I watched a documentary on how Walmart ruins small towns' economies by making most grocery and specialty stores lose their business. I can't remember the name of it, but if you are unfortunately a Comcast customer like I am, it is available right now on demand. When a Walmart Supercenter is placed in a small town's economy, most of the businesses within the community (with MUCH smaller budgets and buying power) simply cannot compete with Walmart's system of purchasing cheap supplies in bulk. Customers inevitably begin using Walmart for the sake of saving a little cash and the chance to get all of the things you need in one stop, rather than making multiple errands. However, my theory goes one step farther.

As local businesses lose loyal customers and eventually close, it definitely creates a shortage of jobs in the community. And obviously while the town's economy plummits, families are forced to cut corners in order to survive. Sadly, they end up going to Walmart to save money. So not only does Walmart swipe the town's economy out from under its feet, they also benefit even more when these poor members of society are forced to shamefully walk thru its doors in order to save 20 cents on a bag of potato chips or a dollar on dog food. Sadly, if this Walmart Phenomenon doesn't halt (which it won't) America will eventually become a giant nation of slaves, run by Sam Walton.

I know times are tough, but PLEASE, spend the extra 12 cents on that Digiorno's Pizza (And it's not delivery!) or the 2 dollars on a fishing pole and attempt to support your local grocery stores and businesses. Our nation's "White Trash-Level" depends on it.

March Madness: Saturday March 21, 2009

Just to set the stage.

So it is the first day's coverage of the second round of the greatest sports tournament ever and I can't smudge this glorious happy-asshole smirk off my unshaven, unbathed face. My fiance has decided to spend the day at the gym with her mother and afterwards are planning on going out to eat and to look at "wedding crap".

This house's ass is mine.
So where does that put me?

Well, I'm laying upstairs in my office, doors closed, in the recliner 3 feet from the television, right next to the open window pouring in the first warm breeze of Spiring, resting my ice cold beer on the window sill, while taking occasional looks across the fence next door to watch the creepy old lady mess with her garden and attempt to keep her massive wedgie from literally splitting her butt into two pieces.

Basically, here is a completely useless, non-breaking news, synsposis of how today's activites settled in with the good doctor.

1:48 p.m.
Tyreke Evans is a bad mother something. Lost in the shuffle of D. Rose going to the NBA was a very special player. He almost reminds me of a point guard-oriented Eric Gordon, because of his amazing ability to always get to the basket.

2:03 p.m.
Holy Shit. I swear to god that my mom's boyfriend looks exactly like Arizona's head coach, Russ Pennel. The only difference is that Russ probably doesn't insist on wearing Hawaiin tropical shirts that are two sizes too big all the time.

2:08 p.m.
Villanova just went up 51-32 with 17 minutes left. I was skeptical penciling them in my Final Four, but they are making me feel better and better each trip down the court. Watching the Wildcats play today is alot like watching Cops at 2 in the morning. You can't help but feel that much better about yourself as the show goes on.

2:13 p.m.
That E-Trade commercial with the white and black babies makes me giggle.

2:18 p.m.
So does that damn midget on the Burger King commercials for those miniature burger things. I would actually pay money to hang out with that little guy, but only if he wore that farmer gear everywhere we went. That and he had to say his line about how "he should know, because he's a farmer" line once an hour.

2:29 p.m.
Whhhhooooo. If it was illegal to trap hot and steamy farts in your recliner, I'd be on "Cops".

2:33 p.m. That girl in the Burger Kind miniature burger commercial sounds like she is getting off when that dude unwraps the little burgers. I wish that trick really worked. Suddenly I'd have a use for those Burger King gift certificates my Grandma is always stuffing in my stocking at Christmas. I am not sure who the hell gave her the idea that I love Whoppers so much.

2:40 p.m.
Dude. If that bitch next door bends over one more damn time she's seriously gonna hurt herself.

2:48 p.m. To make this day officially the best day ever, I will be taking a break (i'm sure you are just crushed) to take a trip to the grocery store. I'm going to pick out the biggest, juiciest New York strip I can find. But get this. I already moved the grill on the back deck within reach of the back door of the sun room. This way, I can literally watch the games in the sun room, while reaching my arm out the sliding door and flipping over my steak.

Now supposedly, watching your first child being born is the greatest thing ever, but I now think I have a good idea of what they're talking about. Besides, watching your favorite orphice expand to the size of a grapefruit just doesn't seem that great to me.

6:10 p.m.
Sorry for the delay, but I have felt pregnant for the last two hours. After taking my dogs to the lake to let them swim, I picked up that ridiculously large piece of meat I referred to earlier. Anyways, now things are in full gear. Not only did I go to Comcast and pick up a long enough cable cord to stretch all the way out to my back deck, I have gone a step further and drug my big screen out onto the deck and have created a tent by stapling bed sheets and tying them around posts on the deck. Basically, I am watching these evening games inside a magical tent of bed sheets and Michelob Light. Daylight savings time is good, but if it wasn't for the sun still being high in the sky, I wouldn't have had to go to such extremes in order to watch the television outside without the glare. But then again, I also wouldn't have been sitting in my magical basketball tent.

6:33 p.m.
Purdue is completely dispanting Washington. I'm no Boilermaker fan, but I can't help from pull for the last team left from our fine state.

6:40 p.m.
Who would've guessed. Michigan is only down one at halftime to Oklahoma. Well, besides the annoying "bracket guy" at the bar that has "called" all of the upsets and any game that he is currently watching. Seriously, is there anything worse than "bracket guy"? Now I even think it is acceptable to bring your bracket sheet (ONE only though) to a bar to check your sheet periodically, but if you have two different colored highlighters and leave the sheet out on the bar in front of you, a tool prevention program might be necessary. However, that is coming from a guy that totes his laptop computer with him to the bar to check fantasy sports stats.

7:01 p.m.

I love the commercial for Axe deodorant where the guy has water literally shooting out of his armpits. chuckle. chuckle. chuckle.

7:09 p.m.
My Saint Bernard is currently rolling around in the mulch. She looks so excited and happy. If only I could have that much fun rolling around in mulch. Then again though, I've never tried it. Maybe after another six pack I'll give it a shot.

7:15 p.m.
Washington is playing smellier than the dingleberry I pulled out of my dog's fur this morning.

7:33 p.m.
I am hearing sirens in the near distance. Maybe I should check in on my neighbor. Perhaps her "super wedgie" has finally injured her rectum.

7:42 p.m.
I wonder if Washington's Issah Thomas is a big queer as well.

7:46 p.m.
I am not going to be able to handle seeing many more of the 79, 89, and 99 cent nacho deals without giving into the temptation. However, think about it. Why the hell would you pay 79 cents for a 3 layer nacho when you can get a 7 layer nacho for only 20 cents more. Everyone knows that more is ALWAYS better. Well, except for adolescent acne, crack, and the amount of C-Section scars at a certain podunk strip club in Covington, Kentucky.

8:01 p.m.
That will conclude today's blogging session. The sun is beginning to set, so soon I will be taking down my magical tent of basketball and filling my stomach with ice cold beer and a plethora of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, with the occasional bowl of Fruity Pebbles mixed in.

March 19, 2009 "Right There In The Damn Sand"

I got to leave work for a little while today, which is always nice. I had to take a trip to Menards to pick up some replacement supplies for our MRI machine. As I was pulling into the parking lot, I was thinking to myself about perception. It might be kind of out there. And NO, I am not currently tripping on acid. However, have you ever thought about everything that you know about this world is what you have viewed through your own two eyes? I was thinking about how different my life would seem if I was able to watch it from a different angle time to time. Jesus. Just imagine what it would be like to be blind. I actually have a theory about how blind people know when to stop wiping their butts after taking a poop, but that is a whole other story. I analyze people so much, that I definitely lose focus of what other people must think of me. Part of it is that I just truly don't give a pig's twat what people think and the other part is that I have such a disastrous case of ADHD that I have enough other things on my mind that I find it difficult to focus in on the world around me.

Take today's trip to Menards, for instance. First, as I was pulling out onto 96th street, I was trying to text a friend with an obscene message about Johan Santana and pulled out in front of a guy. The man driving the Mercedes, wearing the 3 piece suit, with a bluetooth hanging out his ear instantly began screaming at me with his head out the window. I simply smiled and waved. When I pulled up next to him at the next stop light, I rolled down my window. He called me a "jerkoff" and asked me "what the fuck are you doing!?" I generally like to give "road -ragers" a reaction that they cannot understand. I don't give them anything that is technically rude, nor do I do anything that is likely to provoke them any further. Basically, I just do something really weird that they are not expecting. So, in this case of the angry C.E.O, I tried out a new one.

I decided to start singing the National Anthem to him.

Seriously, I turned to him and sang at least 1/3 of our National Anthem before he pulled away with a horridly confused look on his face. He seriously looked like a dolphin with Downs Syndrome.

I wonder if out of all the 5 billion plus people in this world if I was the only one that sang the National Anthem to somebody after they bitched at you with extreme road rage today? Holy Shit. Can you imagine how wigged out you would be if this happened to you on two separate occasions with two different people in the same day?

Once I finally made it into Menards I began speaking to Will in the Lighting section about what fluorescent bulb would fit in the MRI machine scanner. I happen to love listening to strangers talk to me. I think it goes back to the whole idea of wondering what the hell other people's views are on their vision of the world. We might have started talking about light bulbs, but within 7 minutes I was trying to find a break in one of his sentences so I could make up an excuse in order to leave the conversation. He honestly talked to me about his family's recent trip to Daytona Beach and how it was amazing that they could just drive their truck down the beach and park. "Right there in the damn sand", Will told me. I acted like I had a phone call, but as I was walking away, my phone actually did start ringing. I'm not sure if Will noticed, but I'll bet you he is telling another customer right now about driving his truck down the beach.

Lastly, take the bitch off "Around the Horn". It is bullshit how many times they let her win just because ESPN is a bunch of corporate pussies afraid of getting shit from women's groups about discrimination in the media.

Oh yeh. One more thing. How many damn times can they show the new President's NCAA tournament bracket?

"A Random Boring Day": St' Patrick's Day Edition (CAUTION: THERE IS NO USEFUL INFORMATION)

Not much going on today, but here is a recap of today’s events.

I started the day by going into the company’s kitchen and whipping up some sausage, egg, and cheese bagel sandwiches. I usually do this once a week, because I work with almost all women, and everybody knows that women are generally more pleasant when they aren’t hungry. It is a great idea on my part. I get to cook breakfast and enjoy it as well, while the rest of the week, the ladies aren’t on my back as much, because they think I worked so hard on the breakfast sandwiches.

I hopped online around 9:00 and scanned the web for some good articles to print out and stuff in the back pocket for future bathroom reading material. I can’t wait to check this article out about the pictures of Gay-Rod in Details Magazine. He seems to be making out with a mirror in one of the pictures.

Around 10 o’clock, a direct result of the mass movement from the digestion of the egg sandwich, I headed to the bathroom for an important “business” meeting. Strange today. It was literally the perfect dump. No Dairy Queen soft-serve. No 7-11 Slushy. No rock solid pine cones. It seriously was two symmetrically and texturally perfect logs. It was so clean and perfect that I truly didn’t even need to wipe, but I went ahead and at least did a “courtesy wipe”. The pictures of Alex Rodriguez were ridiculous. I just don’t think he’ll ever get it. I actually used to have a small amount of sympathy for the guy (I know. I'm ashamed), since he was ridiculed for nearly everything he did. However, after seeing these homo pics, I have no more sympathy. He just does this bullshit to himself. I mean think about it. He rocked frosted tipped highlights in his hair deep into 2008.

I hear some mysterious bass music coming from somewhere outside and I step outside to check it out. Apparently the Irish pub and restaurant across the street is already firing up the band and serving cold beverages for St. Patrick’s Day. Mmmmmm…..an ice cold Guinness sure sounds fine.

Speaking of St. Patrick’s Day. What a fucking stupid holiday. Sure it is fun to have another excuse to get plastered, but other than the excitement of seeing green poop in the toilet the next morning from digesting obscene amounts of green food coloring, the rest of the day is quite pathetic. I actually got pinched for not wearing green today at work within 15 minutes of arriving. I’m 26 years old, still find farts and wedgies amusing, and even I am too mature to be pinching grown adults for not wearing some stupid color. Lets’s face it; green is just a dumb color. Nobody ever says their favorite color is green and if they do they are lying. To top it off, every damn commercial on AM sports radio for the past week has some creepy guy doing his best Irish/Leprechaun impersonation, yelling at me to come to their bar or restaurant for their St. Patty’s Day. Shit I mean St. PATRICK’S Day events. Personal Enemy numero uno is when people call it St. Patty’s Day. Not only do they sound gay saying it, but “patty” is just an awful word. Period.

One of our clients today was the dog of one of the Simons Brothers. I guess I would assume that a super-millionaire’s dog would be some elegant, perfectly groomed poodle or something. Not this one. He was the coolest Yellow Lab I’ve ever met. He had to of been at least 10 years old, a full goatee of grey and white, and probably the most laid back and pleasant attitude a canine could have. The funny thing is that he reminded me of one of my high school buddies' dogs, "Hoosier". Hoosier is the epitome of living life to the fullest. Ironic how the buddy I know is fucking awesome and the inventor of the"doing what you want, not what they want you to do" plan, while the other owner is a super-rich man that also happens to own the Pacers. If dogs are truly a lot like their owners, then the Simon Brothers must actually be some pretty cool dudes.

We had to take a leg off of a dog today that had osteosarcoma, or bone cancer. It is pretty sad watching a dog wake up from anesthesia, having no idea why he suddenly is missing his back right leg. However, it always amazes me how much better dogs are than their human counterparts at handling adversity. Any human that lost a leg would mope around and pout, feeling sorry for themselves for a long while. Not dogs. Literally, within hours of waking up, they are already trying to learn to use only three legs and their tails are still wagging with contentment. A few months later and they are back to pooping in the flower garden and chasing squirrels around the yard. If only people were built this way.

Not to get too sentimental, but other than children younger than 4, dogs are probably the closest thing in the world to an absolute “purely good” creature. No matter how wonderful and honest a person is, everybody from time to time makes a sinful mistake or does something against their conscience. Not dogs. All they want is for their owners to be happy. They don't know lying. They don't know resentment. And they certainly don't understand how to be anything other than loyal. They don’t care if you just lost your job, won the lottery, got dumped by your girlfriend, starred in a blockbuster movie, or got sent home early from work for sharting in your pants. To them, no matter what, all they care is that you come home. Well, that is about as emotional as this blog will ever get, so let’s quickly move on.

Sometime late in the day, I was for some reason thinking back to my elementary school days. It was something that I saw on my fantasy basketball message board that got me on the issue at hand. Yeh, I know, fantasy basketball. You can imagine what a hard-core group of nerds the league is composed of. There are a couple of dudes in the league that are twin brothers. I don’t know if it is just me, but I find twins that hang out together kind of gay. I don’t know, it is probably because I grew up without a brother, but all I can picture is the two brothers high-fiving and saying, “Good one, Bro!” Anyways, while one of them is a perfect combination of sarcasm and depression, while the other is a testosterone-fueled meathead that is completely white, but insists on posing in pictures, while flashing the N.E.R.D rap group symbol. I didn't even know their was such a thing until someone pointed out to me what he was doing. At least it is better than throwing u0p a "westside" sign. One of them has probably never found amusement or enjoyment in anything and refers to everything as dumb, while the other one’s idea of a good time is getting in a bar fight. Anyways, although it is a FANTASY basketball league, it is quite humorous how serious they take everything. I mean, I am a fantasy sports addict that does everything in my power to win, but I'm probably not going to be picking up players off the waiver wire and questioning other league members‘ allotted amount of weekly lineup moves when I am 43 games out of 1st place with a week to go in the season. I used to get into it with the two of them in message board battles, but have since retired and now I find more enjoyment ignoring them while they continually try to bring me down. Between analyzing my life, trying to make jokes about my soon-to-be wife, and attempting to be witty, insightful sports fans, I am not sure what else they have time for. I guess that is probably why their team always suck sweaty Oprah twat in every league in every sport. They also seem so concerned about having everyone else think they were the one that discovered the unknown, young prospect that they forget to actually form a competitive squad. Best part is, if one of the turds is reading this right now it is completely pathetic and hypocritical, since they both have proclaimed how much they hate this blog. Actually, after rambling on about the Twin Tool Phenomenon, I completely forgot how I was going to compare these two Internet hooligans to my elementary school days. But I did think back to my Head Cafeteria Lady in elementary school and how she had a giant wart on her forehead that looked exactly like the sausage pieces on our school pizza. Every time we would have sausage pizza for lunch, I double-checked each bite to make sure that it wasn’t a cafeteria worker’s dislodged wart.

The rest of the day, like the beginning of it, was not very eventful. The highlight of the evening was when I was turning into Marsh’s parking lot to grab some groceries. Some rich, trophy wife type, in a red convertible was slowly backing up from her parking spot. However, there was a 20-something chick in a late 1990-something Honda Accord behind her, blocked in by another car. The dumb trophy wife, most likely suppressed on wine and Xanax, backed into the Accord and slightly dented the front right hand corner of the car. But here is the strange part. As soon as the cars connected, the girl in the Accord immediately got out of her car, screamed at the top of her lungs and then began balling her freaking eyes out. Seriously. She was crying as if she had just lost her child in a horrible house fire. Maybe she was having a really bad day already, but I was completely baffled.

Well, it is now time to throw a couple steaks on the grill, ice down some delicious Guinness pints and soak up the early sun on this awesome Irish holiday.

P.S. No, I will not be grilling any hamburger PATTIES or PATTY melts on St. PATTY’s Day.

"Super Big Tool: The White Gangsta Phenomenon"

There's more than corn in Indiana. Especially bad ass, hard core white suburban gangstas driving around in pimped out Honda Civics.

"Larry Coker: Head Coach at UTSA?....Holy Shit."

University of Texas San Antonio.

I didn't even know this was a real school.

Hell, when I heard the word "UTSA" I tried to figure out what minor professional or Canadian football league the letters stood for.

Larry Coker, the same Larry Coker that guided the Miami Hurricanes to a bowl game in each of his 6 seasons with the Miami Hurricanes. The same Larry Coker that led Miami to an undefeated season and a national championship in 2001 and the championship game in 2002 will now be the field general for the University of Texas San Antonio Roadrunners.

I bet his wife is cheating on him too.

"The Mom Holiday Sweater Phenomenon"

Women are absolutely wonderful. Their walk is graceful, their bosoms pressed together passes as art, and the bounce of their hair on their shoulders as they grind up and down the stripper pole is a thing of beauty. However, these incredible, sexy creatures eventually turn into older, less lustful entities somewhere in their early 40's. Now I'm perfectly fine with this, because male stomachs begin to look pregnant, my bald spot will make me look Jewish, and my ear hairs will require daily grooming. But their is one aspect of women getting older that I simply cannot understand.

For the love of God, why the fuck do moms insist on wearing a festive sweater for every damn season. Everybody knows the "mom sweater" I speak of. A plain, solid colored sweatshirt with a ridiculous character or festive scene embroidered on the front. It is also usually accompanied by a matching turtleneck. In fact, CNN.com reported last year that 74.6 percent of all 40 year old plus mothers took part in this ridiculous practice of wearing stupid shirts.

Now obviously, as women age, their bodies might require a little less provocativeness when it comes to clothing. Hell, my 40-something wardrobe will mostly consist of suits and velvet jumpsuits. However, these "mom sweaters" are unnecessary. All I ask of my future wife is that I never catch her wearing a black sweatshirt with a big orange pumpkin embroidered on the front with the words "Happy Halloween" below it.

That would be appropriate terms for divorce.

"Dr. H Interviews Alex Rodriguez"

Apparently Alex Rodriguez was hiding ALOT more about his life than just steroid use........

"Dr. H: The Beginning"

Doctor H. (born October 31, 1981) is one of the most feared gangsta rappers in the entire world. Known for his harsh, jaw-dropping lyrics and super tight beats, Dr. H is quickly moving up the charts and into the baddest of streets across America. Originally a laundry mat attendant, the good doctor was discovered by Vibe Magazine's Russell Simmons. Simmons was drying his favorite pair of sweatpants and heard Dr. H rapping about "socks and titties". Soon, Dr. H was recording top hits with everybody from Nelly and 3-6 Mafia to Dr. Dre and Eminem.

Below are some of the best Dr. H hits of all time.

"Damn it Feels Good to Have Peyton"



"Dear Peyton" (Take a Big Dump On the Bears)


"Turbo Tax Me" (Baby Baby Remix)



"Jaggin' It"



"Just Like a Fart"

"7 Questions with a Ball Player"

Every few days, I will be providing critical information to an assortment of random baseball players. I don't know about the rest of you, but I like to know about my players before drafting them. For instance, I will never draft Jonathan Paplebon, because his favorite movie is Footloose.

Anyways, today's guy is Carl Crawford of the Tampa Bay Rays.


1. Carl was recruited to play Quarterback at Nebraska, Oklahoma, Florida, USC, and Tulsa, as well as point guard for UCLA.

2. His "at bat song" is always either M.I.A's "Paper Planes" or "Certified" by Glasses Malone.

3. He was a member of his high school swim team.

4. His favorite color is orange.

5. He is "allergic" to flannel shirts.

6. He is the cousin of Jamal Crawford of the Golden State Warriors.

7. He set the record for the fastest player to record 200 stolen bases before their 25th birthday. His 200th stolen base was when he stole home for the first time.

"One Small Step For Mankind. One Tan Weiner For Me."

Some people I tell a story to are surprised that I would share the information with them, let alone tell the story like I'm bragging about running into Angelina Jolie at a bar on a Xanax drip and banging her in the nearest Subway restroom, while enjoying a Footlong Black Forest Ham on wheat. My answer is always the same. Stories are what makes your life and what is the point of life if you can't make fun of yourself?

Years ago during my fifth year "victory lap" in college, a troubling situation arose in my genital region......NO. It was not an STD. Late one evening while my live-in girlfriend was staying at her parents for the weekend, I grew particularly bored. So I did what most bored men away from their girlfriend would do. I decided to buy a hooker.

Just kidding. I decided to whack off. Now I don't want to give you all too much creepy personal information, but this particular fact is critical to the story. Point Blank. I can't do the deed with out some kind of form of lubrication. So I went to our bathroom and began sorting through my girlfriend's army of lotions. I carefully made sure not to grab one of the colorful bottles, because the last time that had happened my dick glistened with glitter and smelled like ripe apricots all weekend. Finally, I chose a bottle, pulled out a file from the spank bank and got to work. 30 seconds later (I'm pretty good) I was washing my hands with a stupid smirk on my face. I then ate a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and went to bed.

The next morning I arose from bed and headed to the shower. However, as I pulled off my trousers, my face turned white.

"What the fuck?!!!!"

While the rest of my body remained Caucasian, my shaft looked like it was imported straight from India. It was so tan that it looked like it was covered in mud. I rushed towards the museum of lotion in the bathroom and found last night's troublesome ingredient.

"Oh Dear God........ Fucking Self Tanning Lotion."

Apparently if you wash your hands after using it, they will not become stained, but when left on the skin for a long period of time, especially in highly concentrated amounts, the skin will stain. So after rubbing my cock raw with soap, I decided it wasn't so bad. However, I was worried that once my girlfriend went black, she'd never go back.

"Crazy White Rappers With Congenital Growth-Hormone Conditions Are Sweet"

"Whiter Than Santa Claus's Pubes In December"

Nick and T-Dog's brilliant rap during the ending credits of Still Waiting.

"Mike Golic can't be related to my new favorite athlete."

It wasn't until ESPN's recent commercial that I discovered the sexiest table tennis player in the world. However, it took about 5 seconds for me to fall in love. 20 seconds to rewind the ad on my DVR. 20 seconds to rub my balls. Another 20 seconds to rewind on DVR again. And another 20 seconds spent rubbing my balls. Anyways, Biba Golic is a Siberian table tennis player that makes you wish all hot chicks wore table tennis skirts. They're even better than regular tennis skirts. I'd like to catch the occasional match of ping pong. At least it beats women's tennis. And from the looks of things, you also won't have to worry about one of the giant Williams' asses getting in your way.

"Time To Trim Your Toenails. Baseball Season is Almost Here."

While work thinks I'm in Louisville, visiting my ailing grandfather that doesn't exist, I know where I'll be on Opening Day. Sitting on a wobbly bar stool, cold beer in hand, pizza sauce stained onto my chin, with a stupid smirk on my face that can only be rivaled by the first time I saw breasts not owned by my mother. Opening Day is more than just the official start to the baseball season. It stands for the beginning of Spring. It means late night trips to the grocery store in shorts and sandals, the smell of cooking red meat atop hot burning charcoal. It means having your windows down as you belt out the words to "I Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore" and the right to drunkenly purchase an unneccesarry Russell Martin jersey on Ebay at 2 in the morning. This my friends, is baseball season. So sit back, relax, grab yourself a Fantasy Baseball magazine, and make sure the propane tank on your grill is full.

38 days to go.