Although, I don’t know why I’m bothering to write about this, seeing as how tomorrow it will be likely again. Or Roy Halladay will say the word “Philadelphia” and blogs everywhere will explode.
But, now we know that Chone Figgins is the frontrunner for third base. Ruben Amaro is putting on his bib and eyeing the Angels 3B with that same dangerous hunger Cliff Lee (and to a lesser extent, Ben Francisco) fell victim to.
I’ve decided, since anything I could type here would be reiterating what I told you yesterday, to instead bring you the first of a series of ongoing, inter-apartmental turbulence.
Wednesday, 8:46 am
“What the hell is this shit?!” I cried, standing in the doorway to the bathroom. I rubbed my eyes. “There’s a Yankees towel on the towel rack.”
20 minutes later, when I deduced that Roommate had already left for the day and my complaints had been heard by no one, I came to the conclusion this was an undeniable act of war.
It’s morning. I don’t need this crap. I’m busy with brain-churning inquiries like “For what reason are the construction workers outside screaming?” and “Why is my upstairs neighbor moving around a hope chest full of bricks and wearing high heels?” in the AM hours of the day. The last thing I need is a Yankees logo the size of a world map punching me in the nose.
So, I went into his room and started hurling Phillies hats at his bed.
Which makes no sense, because again, he wasn’t in there.