Pitchers and catchers have reported for spring training. Which means that reporters, coaches, doctors, trainers and other major league baseball staff members and associates are traversing the country in an effort to make it to Arizona or Florida where they can begin the all-important task of watching a few guys play catch. And you wonder why I'm still a US citizen.
I opened my newspaper to the sports page this morning and saw that a NASCAR story was the biggest headline. I promptly threw that section away.
And it's not like I have anything against NASCAR or auto racing of any kind. I'm generally a huge fan of anything involving vehicles going really fast while slutty women who hate bras cheer them on? and I love wrecks. But well, the thing is, no racing event should ever be the most popular story in sports unless someone died while doing it and nothing really important happened in baseball that day. I have no basis for this feeling other than a mild dislike for chewing tobacco and a hatred for Busch Light. So maybe it's me. But whatever. We can't help what we feel.
Two emails I received in response to my piece on investing which will probably become a regular thing.
From some guy who calls himself Crunk Captured: 
You don't need to be writing on none of that stock shit man. Don't nobody like that shit. It all for old people. Stick with the bitches and the bitch slapping. It's what you do.
From some guy who calls himself Alan:
The Investor's Coroner was by far and away the funniest thing I have ever read on the stock market. You should keep it up. The industry is far too serious and its slaves (as I consider myself) far too boring. Perhaps this will help.
I gather these two reviews are a little umm, mixed… to slay the beast.
I am now saying, “to slay the beast” instead of “to say the least” every chance I get. And you want to know what? No one notices. I also say “be right black” instead of “be right back” and (as many of you know), I always say “Marcus Welby” instead of “might as well be.” This is how I entertain myself in a given week. And you thought your life stood up and shat roses onto gold covered Lilly pads? you weirdo.
Lila recently got herself a mini-Macaw. Her name is Sam. She screeches really loud to the point where I want to strangle her with dental floss. Naturally, she really likes me. Because life, as I believe I may have mentioned once or twice, doesn't give a shit about what you think, what you like or what time of the day you want a bird to screech at full volume. Life's a punk bitch like that.
And finally, because logic and fluidity are trying to find a way to make fuel injection systems palatable for a primarily college audience, I leave you with the following, which I saw on the T-shirt of a really elderly woman:
“What did you learn today?”