74-61, 75-61, 75-62

Yeah, fuck you too, Jay-Z.

Man, these day games are killing me. I know, I know, day games are a glorious thing but shit, man, they make it a tad bit tougher to keep up with the keep ups. (Yes, I just invented that phrase which makes me the equal of Shakespeare, Cervantes and the dude who first wrote the story of Gilgamesh . . . or was it Gargamel? There were Smurfs in the story of Gilgamesh, right? Anyway, yeah, I am totally all those dudes' equal if not their superior. I am a man of deep humility, after all, and so I will stop at equal.) Anyway, I'm happy with the Doug Fister trade so far. He has been a splendiforice (See? Fuck you, Shakespeare.) addition to the staff and makes me feel a little bit better about the playoffs. Yes, I am assuming a playoff berth now, a presumption which will likely end in your laughter and my tears, but fuck it, I am an optimist and I've had enough of your barbarous slings and arrows. I'm sorry, you didn't deserve that. You've been nothing but kind, voice in Neil's head, and it's wrong of me to attack you now on the eve of a division championship. Well, what the hell, we split with the Royals which has me making a wanking motion that you can't see (Or can you???) but the rest of the AL Central is, well, the rest of the AL Central. As long as that fact is irrefutably true, the Tigers should be fine. Annnnnnd . . . there's your jinx. Oh well. Vaya con dios, friendos. Vaya con dios.