There are a lot of really good writers on the internet. A whole lot. They write all these columns and pieces and posts with all these words in them and they’re all just full of wordsmithing and honesty and humor and everything else that’s amazing and good in this world. Shit that makes you want to be a better writer and wish you were doing more to make your brain smart in service towards that aspiration. Excellent writing on the internet is both equally inspiring and paralyzing. Today I read a bunch of stuff that I really enjoyed, but reading said stuff also convinced me to just call it a day, blog post wise, and instead lazily post links and excerpts to those pieces rather than hold myself accountable to any sort of self-imposed writing schedule. We’ll let the experts have this one today. Reading is easier than writing.
Do not blame Greg Luzinski for being a killing machine: For he is but a hostage to his factory settings. The pits of his eyes are pellucid only at the moment of the kill. Stare into them — moments before he makes a deadly cudgel out of one of your de-socketed limbs — and you see nothing more than the clicks, clangs, grinds and clatters of an industrial sense of mission. It follows, then, that Greg Luzinski is a killing machine.
Not every sport was equally viable for one player. Basketball worked well enough, though football was a near disaster. (On a given play, I would hike the ball to myself, drop back, throw the ball into the air, run under it, make the catch, and then proceed to tackle myself.) I talked my parents into letting me dig one golf hole in the middle of our yard, and then set up a course by arranging eight tees around it in each compass direction. My parents even bought and set up a tetherball pole in the driveway in what I can only imagine was a cruel and well-executed joke.
Hehehehehehe, Felix Fermin does not even want to complete the act of putting on this cap, because he smells what you just ate for lunch through the filter of your entrails. Once Felix Fermin rips open your outer flesh, he will also rip open your entrails to get at your lunch; he will eat the undigested mush as an appetizer — before he eats your entrails. He likes that.
These aren’t baseball related but I also read them today and had a great time doing so. It’s not like their inclusion is going to make this post any less half-assed than it already is.