Cubs vs Sox: Who Gives a Flying Fuck?

So, the internet's buzzing about Cubs vs. Sox. Right.

Good for them.

I was buzzing this morning too.

From three too many IPAs last night.

The kind that make your head feel like a bowling ball trying to escape a shot put.

And then the kids decided 5 AM was party time.

So yeah, sports.

Who's winning?

Who cares?

I’m trying to win the battle against the ringing in my ears.

And the vague shame of whatever I said to my wife after that third beer.

Probably something profound.

Like, "You know, this couch is really getting lumpy."

Baseball. Slowest game on Earth.

Perfect for a hangover, I guess.

Sit there.

Don't move.

Try not to vomit.

Sounds like my average Sunday morning.

I used to care about this shit.

When I was a kid.

Before mortgages.

Before kids.

Before realizing that nobody pays you to watch a goddamn game.

They pay you to show up.

And pretend you’re not dying inside.

For eight hours.

Or ten.

Then you come home.

And you’re supposed to care about some millionaire hitting a ball.

While my own back is screaming from lifting drywall all day.

Or sitting in front of a screen until my eyes burn.

I'm not cheering for a team.

I'm cheering for the next cold beer.

Or an hour of silence.

Just one hour.

Is that too much to ask?

Apparently.

Because the kids are fighting over a LEGO.

And the dog just puked on the rug.

And my phone is still telling me about the Cubs and the Sox.

Fuck all of it.

Seriously.

Baseball is fine.

Whatever.

But if you want to talk about a real battle.

Let's talk about getting a toddler to eat anything that isn't beige.

Or trying to assemble flat-pack furniture when you're half-blind from dehydration.

Now that's a game.

A losing game.

Every time.

Pass the Tylenol.

And the Jameson.

In that order. Or reverse. Doesn't matter anymore.