leadoff double

horacio evidently wants to show his grit by getting out of this jam

I was saving it for a special occasion.

Now there’s going to be an “avilance” of complaints.

and horam quickly gets into the ERA race for team-high

what is the point of horacio ramirez on the roster?

not thrilling me right now. This is Perlozzo-bad.

not going to do at all

just look at the years before last year, and also don’t look at anything besides wins.

If we get out of this we’re pretty lucky.

crap, i left when we were 5-0! what the heck happened???

here

uh ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

He got a strikeout. Perhaps the world is not ending.

closer of the future needs work for when Soria makes starts

the world is right again.

We should really be enjoying this possible victory. Banny craftiness + Guillen hotness, and yet (and I’m one of the people most guilty of this) we’re focusing on another “Leadership Moment” from Guillen, TPJ being referred to as a Prospect, and HO-RAM.

So, YAY ROYALS…

(Horacio Freaking Ramirez?)

now everyone who said something bad about having him in and saving the bullpen must leave for a time of 2 game threads….I will hand out further punishments at a later time.

to preserve the save opportunity!

joey almost slapped that one down the line.
oh wait, thats gload.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
that just made my day!!!

10/100

hath cometh

i would rather not hit a home run…

I want a fantasy save

aaaah

to say GLOAD WILL EXPLODE

go yard here and im gonna go get shitfaced if he does.

Ross Gload homered?

Luis Vizcaino must be awful.

joey almost used his speed to get the infielders to collide

if it’s steroids, i hope they keep up the regimen.

a little extra grit on that cut

that was the homer

get the fuck off my plane!

And now I’m going to go burn some dead animal flesh.

to get rondell white into uniform

i’m just saying….....

Happened.

Poem: The Cremation of Sam McGee

by Robert W. Service

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that "he’d sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet ‘taint being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains."

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

—Word Info image © ALL rights reserved.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;

Then I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked;" . . . then the door I opened wide.

—Word Info image © ALL rights reserved.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.