Walk of Shame
You all know what I’m talking about: the morning after a long night out, you wake up in a strange bed with someone whose name you didn’t quite catch. Quietly, as not to wake said stranger, you put on the same sweaty, rank clothes you wore the night before. Your back hurts and your leg is numb. The taste in your mouth is probably what the inside of an ashtray inside a toilet inside a Taco Bell might taste like and your hair is sticking up on one side and you have strange cuts on your face that weren’t there before and there is a loud thumping in your head and now you have to find the front door and make a discrete exit only to face a bright, loud sunlight that makes hiding absolutely impossible.
That’s what I’ve felt like all day (sans the stranger and her strange bed; see this link as to why those two are not in this real life catastrophe) as the White Sox got swept by the Cubs in part one of the Windy City (or Crosstown) Classic.
I’d like to extend a special thanks to all of those US Americans who wrote me emails, called me and texted me over the weekend just to make my life miserable, to pour ketchup in my canker sores, to ridicule me and chide me for my pain. I must especially thank you, Laura, for providing me with the proper instructions for killing myself. Had I not had a Tombstone pizza in the oven, I probably would’ve followed them.
Seriously though, I really appreciate the sentimental salutations — mean and cruel as they were — that I received from everyone.
Now I hope you all die.
That’s not true. I don’t hope you die. I mean, yes, you will die — someday — but I won’t have anything to do with it. That I promise. Don’t feel bad. I will die too. It will probably be on the #8/Halsted or #62/Archer bus. If you don’t hear from me for a while, check the Metro section of the Tribune for ‘tragic bus accidents caused by irresponsible paparazzi chasing a self-promoting, egotistical MLBlogger’.
Back to the series, the best part of this weekend was that I wasn’t in Chicago for the melee. No. I was on a farm in the middle of nowhere hanging out with good friends, which included about 20 Romanian nationals intent on getting me to play soccer, eat loads of garlic and listen to Madonna. Apparently (and this is straight from the Romanians’ mouths) these are the three Romanian national pastimes — in that order — and there is no deviating from them (*note: drinking is an integral part of each pastime. In fact, drinking is an integral part of everything Romanian). So, I did what I do best: I fit in.
I ate a ton of garlic (you can probably still smell it through the interweb).
I listened to a lot of Madonna (Hard Candy is awesome… and so is the new album).
But like all good things, Romaniafest had to end and once back in the Chi, there was no hiding from the shame and despair we Southsiders were made to endure. That being said, I am thankful that I missed seeing the series in person. Apparently, the usual suspects (Cub fans) were up to no good and I can only imagine what type of trouble would’ve found me. As you all know, I’m a sucker for basebrawls.
The Buddha taught: “Life is suffering.” Without knowing agony, pain and destruction firsthand, how can one ever really know what happiness feels like? The same goes for the flipside, which explains why Cub fans born after 1908 (almost all of them now) don’t really know what real misery is; they’ve never felt happiness.
Sucks to be them.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.