Well...now it's a two game series

Thank merciful Jebus that I don't have to writhe in agony much longer.

Let me drop this visual metaphor on you:

The dude on the left represents me trying to watch the game and write Research methods notes in a library, while simultaneously watching the Twins fall behind, come back, screw up some great opportunities, come back, nearly blow it, and then win. Quoth the dude on the left: "it gets me every time."

The guy on the right represents all the peoples of Bowling Green, Ohio who couldn't care two shakes of a lamb's whiskers what happens.

The night was equally tense yet tantalizing, getting updates from a fellow student who had never flown her Twins flag till last night, but is going to the game tonight and is therefore one of my new favorite people ever. Then walking home with my parents and then Stinky giving me play-by-play as we kept it close (no matter what SportsCenter says about Justin Verlander's dominance--a one run win, is keeping it close).

Double headers are a pain, I'm impressed we kept them both close, and ecstatic that we won one, but that leaves two games to pretty much decide whether a) we are tied going into the last weekend, b) we are still two games back going into the last weekend, c) we are eliminated from contention and begin a mental preparation for four more months of Brett Favre saturation...le sigh.

I can dream, I can imagine great things, and a level playing field, but this is a good team we're playing, and we're playing in their house. I'm not giving up on the Twins, and even if we lose, I'll proudly watch the close of the dome, but if the worst case scenario happens, I'll be glad to shake the hands of Tigers fans and say: "In the name of all that is good and decent and midwestern, please beat the Yankees."

(And now that I've mentally adjusted myself, just watch as I go all spazzy again tonight)

P.s. ESPN is giving us and our Bedimpled Badass some love win or lose and apparently the Pohlads and Bill Smith managed to woo someone fairly awesome*.

*Note: Awesomeness of this guy is contingent on him actually being sixteen and not 30 years old with scurvy.


A foretaste of the feast to come

So...I went to the game last night, unfortunately the Twins did not make it out on to the field.

Instead I was treated to rainy skies, cold wind and distant, distant seats. All of this made me ask myself: "Why aren't we building a retractable roof again?" (And do I really need to pay 16 bucks to sit in the Skyline section?)

There were some nice moments: desperately trying to convince Shanshan, a Chinese Masters student, that baseball actually is fun, when you can watch it being played, having my colleague Leslie (a die-hard Angels fan) promise to root for the Twins--just to be ornery, sharing sunflower seeds with Conor--my colleague/Tigers fan. AND, there were also two totally kickass moments.

1) As the Tigers honored their 1984 World Champions, little old Sparky Anderson, great manager/adorable old man took the mike, and like a hip-hop god proudly proclaimed: "THIS CITY WILL BE BACK AGAIN!!!!" [Roar] "And this young fella, [points to Jim Leyland] is bringing it back!!!" [Roar] "He's a great guy, and in the other dugout, what a guy, folks I've got to tell you, you won't find two better men walking onto a baseball field than Ron and Jim!!" [Awkward applause]...apparently Tigers fans don't like Gardy, but apparently their beloved Sparky Anderson thinks he's a badass--Sparky Anderson is correct, and therefore, my new favorite little old man of all time!

2) I sat at the end of our row, closest to rival fans, which, in this case, was a familial horde and one little boy--the little boy kept looking at me as if I was contagious, scared little eyes, clutching his stuffed tiger in fear. As I moved aside for him to put on his coat, I was kind, and then asked him a question in my best: "Kindly-Teacher" voice.

"How much can I clap for my team if we do something good? Can I clap 5 times? 3 times? Just once? This is your home stadium, so I'll let you tell me."

"NEVER!" shouted the mother and aunts or neighbors or crazy ladies around us "NEVER CHEER! NEVER SAY ANYTHING!!" The Kid, I swear, said: "you can clap as many times as you want, they are your team..." What a cool kid, eh? Somebody taught him manners and sharing and politeness...these kids today are pretty darn cool as far as I'm concerned.

So it was a washout, so it was disappointing, so I must now try and sneakily watch whilst typing up 5 chapters of Research methods notes...at least we learned that Detroit has some totally awesome people, and will make us Midwesterns proud whoever wins.

I just still want it to be us.


Deep Breaths...

First, a bit of a news flash--I, Scruffy, will be in attendance tonight in Detroit Rock City despite having a 6 page paper due tomorrow. Perhaps my judgement is off a skosh, you say? Perhaps...but such is the effect of a series to decide our season.

In an effort to maintain sanity prior to this big series, we here at Peanuts from Heaven encourage everyone to remember the secret of life: KEEP BREATHING! Seriously, if you don't breathe for an extended period of time, your chances of living diminish severely.

To help you all, here's a pre-series haiku for you:

However it goes,
Awesomeness needs no reward
The journey is all.

You may now return to freaking out.


You can always

Just in time for October we have a wealth of specials on sale at Denard's Super-Duper Season-Ending September-Sprint-Shootout Sales-a-Thon!!

C'mon in and sample our bargain bin of substitute first basemen! All the power of your regular first basemen but with an extra layer of rustcoat to protect against end of the season breakdown. They're made in the USA, and have the branding on the butt to prove it! Best of all the cost just the same as cute, cuddly, teddy bear of a right fielder!

Retro is Nowtro with Brian "You Make Me Feel Like" Duensing Yellow Cardigans and platform shoes with aquariums in the bottom! Just in time for Halloween your kids can look like the Twins' #5 starter...heck, does your kid have a paper route? He could probably BE our #5 starter! For only $13.95!

BUT WAIT, There's more!! In honor of our founder's Super-Sweet-Special-Six-Sruns batted in: we're offering, not one, not two, not three but SIX WHOLE PEANUTS FROM HEAVEN!! (Warning, do not ingest peanuts from heaven, as they are peanuts with fuzzy angel wings hot glued on...serious choking hazard for Children under the age of 4, and frat boys under the influence of 4 beers.)

Stop on in today, because while the season might last until October, these deals won't!


This just in...

Supraction is back sucka-dawgs! Or sucka-siberian Tigers as the case may be...

Cuddy homers, Delmon homers, Delmon even finds a way to get a triple (Triple Delmon, tsk, tsk, what would Jason Kubel say?) And we're only 2 games back.

Please, please, please media, keep ignoring us--supraction works best when you least expect it.



A matter of taste

I understand that Stinky has taken some guff for comments we made about the inappropriate behavior of announcers Ken Harrelson and Steve Stone. Since these inappropriate behaviors have not abated, I will now take my opportunity to chime in.

I will not blaspheme their parentage or personalities, I'm sure that both are very kind gentlemen who tousle the hair of small children, appreciate sad puppy dog eyes and help little old ladies load groceries into cars. But they are now officially my least favorite announcers (outside of Fox).

I'm not saying this out of personal rancor or animosity (as I do with the nattering nabob, nincompoops like Joe Buck and Tim McCarver), I'm saying this based purely on the two announcer's utter lack for decorum or variable behavior. I understand that if you follow a team for every game over the course of a season (or twelve) that you will have a strong personal allegiance to that squad HOWEVER, this does not give you license to behave like an utter knob when another team comes to town.

The Us. V.s. Them Mentality, the nitpicking, the whining, the complaining--these are signs of a small minded desire to belittle, badger and bully another squad. This is Yankee announcer behavior, this is Mets announcer behavior, this is not solid Midwesterner behavior. I'm stuck here in Ohio, watching and listening a variety of other broadcasts and nowhere have I encountered this personal vitriol. The Kansas City Royals announcers are down right chummy. The Blue Jays announcers relatively nonplussed but occasionally complimentary, Rangers announcers--like the Rangers themselves--totally nondescript.

Why then, White Sox, must you have two men who choose to remain utterly oblivious to Jason Kubel's name and existence (one of the most potent forces on an offense that's beaten them 2/3rds of the year), totally bumfuzzled by Carlos Gomez's defense (did it ever strike you that he might be good?), or completely incompetent at the pronunciation of Jose Mijares' name (Seriously? Me-har-ess, Mientkiewitcz I can understand, Mijares? That's a walk in the park!). {To be fair though, they love Delmon Young, no idea why, they just LOVE Delmon Young.}

To make matters worse I just had to listen to five minutes worth of whining over a bad strike call in the 9th inning. I understand that its frustrating to have a bad call go against you that late in a game, I certainly appreciated Dick and Bert sticking up for our side on that craptasm of poor Umpirery in Oakland. But to cover one bad pitch like it was responsible for the down fall of civilization (it ran the count to 1-2, and AJ swung at an even worse pitch for strike three--how was that Joe's fault?)--that's just dumb.

Finally, I want to say this--in three games I figured out Hawk Harrelson's mannerisms and calls, his home run chant: "Stretch! [Pause] You can put it on the board!", his strike out call: "he gone", and his game ending call: "Once this (comes down/gets to first) the game will be over." I can see the claim that such familiarity is charming, nearly comforting to regular fans of the White Sox--but I almost have to wonder, can't you be a trifle inventive? He seemed to wait for an excuse to say these catch phrases rather than weigh in with anything interesting. For every: "Touch 'em all," John Gordon utters he also spews forth intriguing stats and reminisces about by gone fishing buddies. Heck, Vin Sculley practically invented half the baseball lexicon and he still makes stuff up--he paints a picture, makes you feel like a part of the game--in three games I got the sense that Hawk Harrelson preferred to be the center of the show.

So just to sum up, I understand if these guys are your cup of tea, I understand if you love them with all your heart and mind and soul--but these announcers are anathema to making baseball universally accessible. There' s none of Vin Sculley's charm or Ernie Harwell's passion or Bert Blyleven's child-like glee, it's selfish, self-centered, egotistical, pomposity.

Fittingly--we've punished this poor announcing with a sweep in Chicago, so Pbbbt on you Chicago announcers. Pbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbt!

Hold on to your proverbial horses

This is not to promote lax grips on literal horses mind you, this is just to remind us one and all that as awesome as we are currently playing we still have a long uphill climb to reenter the post-season, if we do it at all.

Much must be done, balls must be thrown, hit and caught--or not caught (when we hit them {teeehee, point and laugh at Carlos Quentin}). We must leave Chicago, venture to the surprisingly dangerous Kansas City (just ask the Tigers about them), and then head on into Detroit for what seems to be the most important thing in the history of important things (knocking invention of fire down to number two).

The optimist in me says we can cruise over everyone, the cautious optimist in me says that we can win enough to get the job done, the pessimist in me says: "DEATH! EVERYTHING IS DEATH!!!!" Which is why, perhaps realism is a good attitude: "It will be hard, we will do our best, and the chips will fall where they may."

Winning is great, but--in the spirit of low expectations: we here at PFH, Inc. fervently anticipate that all that was once good will turn foul...we will not only lose, but Bud Selig will decide to strip us from other the wins until we have a worse record than the Milwaukee Brewers. Additionally, steak will now taste like ashes, wine will taste like warm, flat Fresca, and the sun will now be called: Yankee Stadium Solaris.

If one or any of these things does not happen, I'll be very happy--but remember, please keep your horses on a leash--it will keep your dogs in line.


Hey A$$holes

Dear Steve Stone and Ken Harrelson,

I am in no mood for your shenanigans.

I am up to my ears in business school midterms. I've started talking to my textbooks and dreaming about Barriers to Mobility and the Statement of Cash Flows. In addition, my neighbors have for some reason decided to play Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" super loud at 10pm on a Monday. No idea why.

It isn't pretty.

In my weak mental state, I am even less inclined to tolerate your complete and utter idiocy. I would like to hereby list my grievances against you:

1) You called the Metrodome "The Twinkie Dome." Ooooh. I'm so hurt. I think I'll go cry in a corner now. Jackass.

2) You picked the South to win the Civil War. I wish I'd made that up, but sadly it is a direct quote. This either means that a) you support slavery, b) you're really damn old, or c) you're so completely stupid that you don't realize the Civil War ended a LONG-ASS TIME AGO. Or all of the above.

3) You can't pronounce Kubel or Cuddyer.
Really? I mean....REALLY??? We're only in the same division as you. We've only played you about eight thousand times this season alone. Oh but wait - maybe if we pretend our opponents are irrelevant by mispronouncing their names, they'll realize how inconsequential they are and stop playing well. And then go cry in a corner (see (1)).

4) You called us "The Bad Guys." Are you kidding me? The ONLY team deserving of that title are they who shall not be named (Yankpires). And...really? The Twins??? I mean just look at this guy:

And this guy:

And, well.... :

We make people's hearts melt from too much cuteness. We are not the bad guys.

5) "Nobody has beaten us," you say. "We have beaten ourselves."
As much as I admire your internal locus of control, as you restrain yourself from blaming others for your failure, I have a feeling that your real intent is to insult every other team in the division.

So, Jim Harrelson and Steve Stone, what profound lessons of life can you glean from this small spewing of my sad, jumbled mind?

You went all grade-school playground on our asses. You made fun of our metrodome. You stumbled over "Um..Kubbble and Cuddwagzistein?" like you don't even know who these guys are, in an attempt to destroy our self esteem. You called us meanies. AND WE'RE STILL WINNING.

neener neener neener.

and now back to the high road.

Peace out.


Forgive the delay

in our commentary on this, so momentous a series, but we are, as the French say: "le tired".

As Stinky preps ceaselessly for her Business School Mid-terms (or Bizness Skool MizzleTizzles, as the kids are calling them these days) and my eyes continue to blur after several hours on the long Ohio/Indiana Turnpikes, we can take solace in these immutable facts.

1) Supraction is alive and well just ask Don Kelly as he got whacked upside the head by Orlando Cabrera's first supractalicious double of his Twins' career.

2) Michael Cuddyer continues to cement his place in our peanutty hearts as a man, not for his season...but for all time.

3) Hey! If we pitch well, and hit well good things might just happen to us after all.

4) Even though we are three games back we still have a shot--whether or not we want to have a shot (if having a shot means another trip to face the EVIL Yankees in New York...perhaps we want to pass on that, then again, perhaps we could give added confidence to Delmon and Gogo and Denard and Kubel and all out little woebegone pitchers by showing that with hard work and diligence you can achieve great things...we are undecided, the way the Twins have played all season, I kind of think that they are undecided too....*shrug*)

5) Bizness Skool MizzleTizzles and driving on Turnpikes are not the best way to spend a day.

6) Regardless of Bizness Skool MizzleTizzles and Turnpikes, the Twins will always be there, to give a laugh and a sigh and a cheery view of tomorrow.

YIPEEE!!! (Let's just kick back and enjoy the rest of the season...OH, and be sure to send good vibes Stinky's way)


Before the battle...

I know that we're about to play 3 against the team we're chasing (and that victory will mean new hope, while defeat will mean planning for 2010) and much as I would like to spew invective and cranky whatnots, I am not now, nor will I ever (hopefully) be a cable news pundit.

So instead, how about the best of the best from the voice of the Tigers, and something we can all agree on.

"A Game for All America", by Ernie Harwell (1955)

Baseball is President Eisenhower tossing out the first ball of the season; and a pudgy schoolboy playing catch with his dad on a Mississippi farm. Its the big league pitcher who sins in night clubs. And the Hollywood singer who pitches to the Giants in spring training.

A tall, thin old man waving a scorecard from his dugout -- that's baseball. So is the big, fat guy with a bulbous nose running out one of his 714 home runs with mincing steps.

It's America, this baseball. A re-issued newsreel of boyhood dreams. Dreams lost somewhere between boy and man. It's the Bronx cheer and the Baltimore farewell. The left-field screen in Boston, the right-field dump at Nashville's Sulphur Dell, the open stands in San Francisco, the dusty, wind-swept diamond at Albuquerque. And a rock home plate and a chicken wire backstop -- anywhere.

There's a man in Mobile who remembers a triple he saw Honus Wagner hit in Pittsburgh 46 years ago. That's baseball. So is the scout reporting that a 16-year-old sandlot pitcher in Cheyenne is the new "Walter Johnson."

It's a wizened little man shouting insults from the safety of his bleacher seat. And a big, smiling first baseman playfully tousling the hair of a youngster outside the players' gate.

Baseball is a spirited race of man against man, reflex against reflex. A game of inches. Every skill is measured. Every heroic, every failing is, seen and cheered -- or booed. And then becomes a statistic. In baseball, democracy shines its clearest. Here the only race that matters is the race to the bag. The creed is the rule book. Color is something to distinguish one team's uniform from another.

Baseball is Sir Alexander Fleming, discoverer of penicillin, asking his Brooklyn hosts to explain Dodger signals. It's player Moe Berg speaking seven languages and working crossword puzzles in Sanskrit. It's a scramble in the box seats for a foul -- and a $125 suit ruined. A man barking into a hot microphone about a cool beer, that's baseball. So is the sportswriter telling a .383 hitter how to stride, and a 20-victory pitcher trying to write his impressions of the World Series.

Baseball is a ballet without music. Drama without words. A carnival without kewpie dolls.

A housewife in California couldn't tell you the color of her husband's eyes, but she knows that Yogi Berra is hitting .337, has brown eyes and used to love to eat bananas with mustard. That's baseball. So is the bright sanctity of Cooperstown's Hall of Fame. And the former big leaguer who is playing out the string in a Class B loop.

Baseball is continuity. Pitch to pitch. Inning to inning. Game to game. Series to series. Season to season. It's rain, rain, rain splattering on a puddled tarpaulin as thousands sit in damp disappointment. And the click of typewriters and telegraph keys in the press box -- like so many awakened crickets. Baseball is a cocky batboy. The old-timer whose batting average increases every time he tells it. A lady celebrating a home team rally by mauling her husband with a rolled-up scorecard.

Baseball is the cool, clear eyes of Rogers Hornsby, the flashing spikes of Ty Cobb, an overaged pixie named Rabbit Maranville, and Jackie Robinson testifying before a Congressional hearing.

Baseball? It's just a game -- as simple as a ball and a bat. Yet, as complex as the American spirit it symbolizes. It's a sport, business -- and sometimes even religion.

Baseball is Tradition in flannel knickerbockers. And Chagrin in being picked off base. It is Dignity in the blue serge of an umpire running the game by rule of thumb. It is Humor, holding its sides when an errant puppy eludes two groundskeepers and the fastest outfielder. And Pathos, dragging itself off the field after being knocked from the box.

Nicknames are baseball. Names like Zeke and Pie and Kiki and Home Run and Cracker and Dizzy and Dazzy.

Baseball is a sweaty, steaming dressing room where hopes and feelings are as naked as the men themselves. It's a dugout with spike-scarred flooring. And shadows across an empty ballpark. It's the endless list of names in box scores, abbreviated almost beyond recognition.

The holdout is baseball, too. He wants 55 grand or he won't turn a muscle. But, it's also the youngster who hitch-hikes from South Dakota to Florida just for a tryout.

Arguments, Casey at the Bat, old cigarette cards, photographs, Take Me Out to the Ball Game -- all of them are baseball.

Baseball is a rookie -- his experience no bigger than the lump in his throat -- trying to begin fulfillment of a dream. It's a veteran, too -- a tired old man of 35, hoping his aching muscles can drag him through another sweltering August and September.

For nine innings, baseball is the story of David and Goliath, of Samson, Cinderella, Paul Bunyan, Homer's Iliad and the Count of Monte Cristo.

Willie Mays making a brilliant World Series catch. And then going home to Harlem to play stick-ball in the street with his teen-age pals -- that's baseball.

And so is the husky voice of a doomed Lou Gehrig saying, "I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth."

Baseball is cigar smoke, hot-roasted peanuts, The Sporting News, winter trades, "Down in Front," and the "Seventh-Inning Stretch." Sore arms, broken bats, a no-hitter, and the strains of the Star-Spangled Banner.

Baseball is a highly paid Brooklyn catcher telling the nation's business leaders: "You have to be a man to be a big leaguer, but you have to have a lot of little boy in you, too."

This is a game for America, this baseball!



So, I don't want to jinx this or anything...but this is precisely what my mother predicted would happen...even after we got word that our big bad Canadian first baseman would be out for the rest of the season.

This raises the question--at what point did knitting ability turn my mom into the Oracle at Delphi...or at least, the Oracle at Lake Harriet?

Okay, deep breath, and Loooooooooooooooowwwww expectations. The Tigers will somehow manage to crash their plane into the Metrodome, thereby winning the division by default. (On the positive side, this will save us from having to endure more Brett Favre shenanigans.


How about that!

I switched it off, I turned my attentions elsewhere, I could not endure another loss to the Cleveland Indians and their bottom of the table ilk.

Then my father, also known as Mister Poopy Pants (or Senor Poopy Pants depending on whether or not my mother is feeling festive), gave me a call.

"ARE YOU WATCHING THIS?!?" he shouted over the tumultous crowd.

"No," I sheepishly admitted, "not after we fell behind by three runs."

"TWO HOMERS AND A WILD PITCH!!!" He shouted, and sure enough a quick check of the Twins website revealed that we were now, shockingly, ahead. My dad proceeded to recap every at bat, and pitch count--and while I could easily see all of these things via the website, it was more fun somehow to hear him giddily reporting all the wonderful things that had happened.

I have a feeling that, sitting next him there at the dome, my mother smiled at her sagacity.

Go Twins! Go Mom and Dad!


You heard it hear first

"Something good will happen tonight"

Thus sayeth the Knitting Queen (my mother) whose prowess with the knitting and purling and what not has been proved again this year--is prescience so far out of the question.

1st game she went to--Kubel's cycle
2nd game she went to--Nathan's blown save
3rd game she went to..........clearly, the cycle should repeat again with something good--this at least is her logic--let us now observe how brilliant my mother is.


Know Thine Enemy '09: The Oakland A's

(Stinky is working on an excellent post, until she puts it up, here's this year's final Enemies blog)

Reasons we should dig the rancid blackened hearts of the Oakland Atheltics out with a rusty ice cream scoop:
  1. Backwards ass lucky punks: The worst losses of the year have always seemed to involve Oakland. How have the A's bested us this year? LUCK. Blind, simple, clueless, DOOODAH LUCK!!!! Random happenstances, complete fluke pitches, blown calls at the plate--they haven't done this to anyone else mind you...just us. To hell with them, no mercy, none! *55 Loathing Points*
  2. Miserly skinflints and Media Darlings: The A's are supposedly going to be made into a movie, because, after all, they win on a small budget! (Only....they don't....because we've kicked their butts in overall record for the last three years and gotten zip credit for it) The A's don't spend much money, they don't necessarily spend much money well, but when they do they get book deals and movies--while we get oblivious looks and mispronounced names on Sports Center. POO ON YOU OAKLAND!! *68 Loathing Points*
  3. Empty: here's an interesting fact. When the A's lose, no one turns up to their games...when we lose we still pack them in. Hmm...which fan base is more loyal, and thus more deserving of reward? {HINT: It stars with an "M" and ends with an "innesota Twins"} *19 Loathing Points*
  4. Steroids: Oh yeah, and when the A's were doing really really well...did that have anything to do with the fact that the leading steroid lab in the country was in their own backyard and used by many of their own players....hmmm...I wonder....*72 Loathing Points*
Reasons we should dig out the rancid blackened hearts of the Oakland A's through anesthetized procedures in a cleanly hospital.
  1. Nobody gives it to you: Say what you will about them, they don't quit, which is kind of admirable for a team that has absolutely no chance of ever winning this year. Good on 'em, but why can't they do that in Detroit and Chicago? *-57 Loathing Points*
  2. The Law: If we did all the horrible terrible no good very bad things that I would like to do to the A's...we would surely be put in jail, where it's hard to win any baseball games at all. *-65 Loathing Points*
Okay, I'm just going to say this--I don't care about the post season any more, I'm not worried about awards or batting title races--I just want to beat the snot out of the A's ONE TIME this year, just ONE TIME and I will call this season a success, 9 to 0, 16 to 1, 22 to -3 whatever.

Final Loathe-O-Meter Rating: 92 Loathing Points
(+63 Loathing Points from Last Year)
Punishment: Clean up undergraduate vomit in Bowling Green Ohio for an entire weekend.


Desperately Seeking Sanity...

Yes, we have been bad bloggers, or at least, tired ones. But when you have a three-day weekend to bask in the last rays of sunshine before returning to full-time education, do you really want to be trapped in the house where your boys of summer are turning into the old men of "get outta my begonias!!! Why. I. Oughta!!! Quick honey, get my shooin' broom!!!"?

Of course, our escape into the light would have been more likely had we not been inundated with business school reading, and satyr-drama reporting. Our imaginations at an all time low, we can only drum up enough enthusiasm to say these things:

1) Losing a series in Cleveland is like getting a sunburn in Florida or going bankrupt in Las Vegas--that's the purpose of that spot on the globe--unrefutable, undeniable fact.

2) I had almost forgotten that Toronto had a team--we haven't played them since April, can you blame me?

3) I'm happy to report that Stinky went to the Rennaissance Festival yesterday, a source of inspiration if ever there was one. Hopefully she will be wittier than I.

And with that I'm off to try and convince someone that satyr-drama is worth studying...perhaps bribery is the solution...


Dear Brendan Harris

Please stop sucking.

We will take away your hat...we are NOT even kidding.

Peanuts from Heaven, Inc.

P.s. Lets not lose much more, okay guys?



That shouldn't have happened--but it did, and we'll do everything we can to make up for it in the future, but for now, let us never speak of this again.

Supraction's New Side Kick

We here at Peanuts from Heaven have a new best buddy in the Twins Clubhouse. He became our buddy during the July 4th game, but then vanished from view...until last night...

You all know the story--but here are the basics--we needed to win...we always need to win...not because it's a complex or anything, but just because the stinking Tigers don't ever seem to lose. We need to stay close and capitalize on their mistakes--which basically means never making mistakes our selves.

To this end we employ two men who manage to appear unthreatening at first, but then explode in furious blazes of bad-assitude when you least expect it--we call this art: Supraction. Joe Mauer, Justin Morneau, Joe Nathan--all-stars all, but they are not the aforementioned badasses. They've come to be respected, revered, feared. Michael Cuddyer and Delmon Young on the other hand....nope...no fear.

Admittedly, Delmon is better at the non-threatening thing than the bad-assitude thing, but he can do it when he needs to, but Cuddy, ohhh Cuddy, with dimples that deep busting a cap in people's asses does not seem likely--and yet, he does it with the glove and he does it with the bat.

Last night he did it with both...twice. Then came our problem--the fine and subtle art of this thing we call Supraction is lost on our pitchers--they just can't manage to deal with it, and in that spirit Jose Mijares and Matt Guerrier lost our lead. But then, our favorite buddy was back.

Little Known Fact: Both Stinky and I are Aquarians born in 1983--with makes us not only Aquarians but Boars in the Chinese zodiac calendar. Even less known fact: Jose Morales was born a scant four days after stinky, making him another Aquarian Boar--or--as we prefer to be called: "AQUA PIGS!!!"

It's good to have our very own Aqua Pig back in the dugout--because nothings more suprising, or distracting as a amphibian swine. Especially when that amphibian swine is capable of late inning-pinch hit heroics.

Welcome home Jose Morales--we missed you.