Through this Friday, all available back issues of Wholphin are half off—10 bucks apiece for countless warm evenings of rare films, featuring Miranda July, Paul Rudd, Donald Trump, and a monkey-faced eel. - - - - |
- - - - [Be sure to read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, and Part 5.] - - - - Dear Mrs., The season has now ended as we were beaten soundly by the Kiwanis Pancakers 12-2. Was there a trip to the state playoffs and, in turn, a trip to Fond Du Lac's supeior Italian food commissary Dewey's Pizza? No. Was I sad? Yes. And your son, J-Dawg, seemed distracted. We had a 2-0 lead going into the bottom of the third and he gave up ten runs, and the umps called it off. Why didn't I put in a relief pitcher? Well, I thought it would be a good challenge for him. End of story. By the way, these questions I'm asking? It is because I've posed them to myself so many times, both in my imagination and in a post-game interview setting I create for myself. When the games are over, and I'm standing behind the backstop, and it appears as if I am talking to myself and then listening attentively to someone who is not there and then responding, I am in actuality engaged in one of my post-game interviews. Does it work? I believe so, sure. You probably are thinking, "Forget all this talk about baseball. Why didn't Coach come to the pump?" Answer: First of all, please call me "Sean" from here on in. Second of all, I couldn't make it to pump number six. Now you are probably thinking, "Why, Sean, couldn't you make it to pump number six." Answer: Well, some number of months ago I made an error that I shall now let you and only you in on. The error I made is commonly referred to as window-peeping by most law enforcement officials. Now, I beg to differ with the law's opinion of me, and always have and always will, but nevertheless there's this behavior modification class I take from 1 p.m. to 2 p.m. and that prevented me from keeping our "appointment." The window-peeping was not really my fault. I have an ex, you know. She is an ex that often is low on cash for rent, but somehow spends it on freshening her perm. To verify that her perm had been freshened, I made it a habit to stand outside her bathroom window, because that's where most of her time is spent, in the bathroom. Like Narcissius the Egotissius who couldn't quit looking in the river of vanity, my ex cannot stay out of the bathroom. Long story short: who gets arrested? Me. Does that seem fair? Answer: no, it does not, Sean. In spite of my scheduling difficulties I will try to make it to pump six this week at 2:08 p.m. May I be forward with you? Is it because you think I'm cute? That seems interesting to me, but to be honest, I wouldn't like to be the stick that breaks the back of the camel that is the J-Dawg family. I have seen how divorce negatively impacts the careers of pitchers of your son's caliber more times than I would care to admit. Okay, then. If you don't get this note it is because it blew off of the windshield at the library where I am seeing your vehicle (ET5-773, a green Mazda). If you are a stranger reading this, then don't worry. It is about sports and a note to say that the Mrs. lost her glasses and she should call me. Thanks, Coach Sean P.S. That class I take keeps this stuff off of my record.
OTHER McSWEENEY'S STORIES:
A Fire Without Water By Mac Miller Recipes for the Dryer By Jill Stoddard Some Unhelpful Daily Meditations By Ranee Zaporski Four Shots By Kevin Sampsell Deep Throat: Not the Usual Suspects By Tim Carvell |
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