Upon Fantasy Baseball and Salad Dressing, with Regret and Melancholy

 I ask of you:  can one be any more pathetic in choices as I?

Oh, how the idea of Peppercorn Ranch manifested such a magical whimsy in my mouth!  Hickory Bacon and Tomato:  the limits of my feverish desire...boundless!  I see you, Cucumber and Dill- teasing with your implicit promise of Mediterranean delight!  You'll never escape me, Roasted Garlic Parmesan!  I would circumnavigate all worlds near and infinitely far in follow of you!

I gather them- a buffet all to myself; orgasmic salad delight is but a stone's throw away!

Like an accident happening, my temporal senses slow- I taste them all; awaiting the moment whereupon hands clasp overhead in celebration of genius.

Nary a sound I make- disappointed as I am.  Awful!  Sickening!  Pitiful!  Turd-like!  These selections proved hideous:  my brilliance annihilated.  Shame cloaked me as a lone tear traversed my cheek.  Quickly as was my wont, I collected my group of failures and set them to be cast off down to the pits of hell from which they had sprung and shall now return!  My attempts at pleasuring my otherwise dull world with flavors so bold; so delicious; now all for not.

I sat down- the lights were dim, the lights were dim. 

Four times was the fail...


And as to my miscarriage?  What is my penance? 

It is this golden sombrero:  so shiny in its laughingly ironic, mocking existence.  I will never again wear such a soul-heavy headdress.

Just as I vow to never have Jesus Montero on my team again.

Fuck that guy. 

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