proctology is all around us

The Braves just finished losing a game against the Phillies in spectacular fashion, having their side struck out in the top of the tenth on nine pitches to a generic AAA reliever (how rare is that?), then bringing in the Proctologist to pipe one down the middle for a walk-off homer to the catatonic Raul Ibanez. Good.

Watching the Braves play gets me despondent and calls to mind several things I’m not proud of (or, as the vernacular-shunning, grammar NaziĀ Chip Caray would say, “things about which I’m not proud”). First of all, I should have stood up for myself against the bipolar housewife who was discourteously bold enough to ask me to move my car over a spot so she could park at the end of the row, thereby insinuating that her generic creme Lexus was understandably more valuable than anything I could fathom.

Baffled, I moved my car for her.

Then there was the incident at the thrift store, with the ideal-but-just-slightly-overpriced end table. I should have bartered for it, or at least haggled, or at least feigned disinterest.

I bought it at full price.

We can’t always make the right call, as Fredi Gonzalez knows. But we can learn from our mistakes, man up, and designate Scott Proctor for assignment so these kinds of things never happen again. Or, wait. Well, something like that – there’s an expansive life lesson in there somewhere.

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