Dear God, You're a Yankee Fan, Right?

Dear God,

You're a Yankee fan, aren't you? I mean 27 world series championships? It sure seems that way. Also, I noticed that when the bombers knocked out two homers in a row on Wednesday, the sky turned the most beautiful color (that was a nice touch).

I ask because I'm really praying for a win tonight. See (and of course you already know this), I'm on my way to Philadelphia where the fans are so abnoxious they probably make the Samaritans seem like lovely dinner guests (sorry... I know we're all your creatures, but I really don't know what went wrong with those guys). And God, if the Yanks win, I'll have a far better chance of tolerating the verbal diarrhea spewing out of their mouths this weekend (sorry again... I probably shouldn't say diarrhea mid-prayer).

Oh hey, God? I have another question. I get the ant eater, the blowfish, even the alpaca, but where the heck (notice how I didn't say "hell" there?) did the Phanatic come from? Lemme tell ya, if that's not demonic symbolism, I don't know what is. See, the Yanks don't have a "mascot"... That title is all yours (I'll even put in a word with Hal if you'd like to make it a little more official).

So God, I come to you tonight asking for a win. In return, I promise to spearhead an effort to teach the American people those words that no one knows in the beginning of "God Bless America." Why does the school system have to cheat you of your song, God? I sure was never taught those words growing up (my roommate even thought they were fake). Think about it ;)

I guess I'll leave you to enjoy the game now. You must have some kick-ass flat screens up there. Let's go Yankees!

Amen.

Savory Jackson Avery

Dear Readers,

I'm not going to lie to you... I'm drunk, pretty drunk. At least not drunk to the point where I'm mispelling words but I cannot attest for the latter half of my post. I'm bolting (yet again) but I've met a lovely man who shares my love for Project Runway and Hello Kitty so at least my ride to Philadelphia won't be so bad. However, when I told him I'm behind on my PR because I've been too busy catching up on my Greys he slapped my face and called me Barbara.

Luckily I had the intuition to immediately soften the blow with a picture of Jackson Avery (thank you, Bolt Bus, for your streaming internet). I took a page from my friend Ali's book and told him that Avery's eyes pierce my soul. For a hot second he thought I was trying to get him to join a cult but then he got a glimpse of Avery's bam bams and completely understood my hot flash.

Which brings me to my point: I'd like to open up a genetic factory where I can inter-breed humans to make specimens equal to or surpassing Avery ( $10 bucks says he was grown on a people farm). What does this mean in the long run? I dunno... Looking for a blue-eyed black man? I'm your girl. A Blasian? Again, give me a ring. An Italian/Irish/German bride? Sorry... We can't mimmic perfection here (but I'm still your girl ;) ).

So now I'm realizing the unfortunate affects of my own genetics. I fear that my GERD is offending my new friend. I keep trying to flirt my way back in the game, but just like Dr. Hot-for-Hunt won't stand for it, I don't think my new friend will either (granted my new friend is gay enough to share with me the street music to his Buddy Holly audition--but HEY). In the mean time, I'll keep trying to blow my Pinot Grigiburbs into the vent. Until then, tah tah.