Kudos to the Royals are in order

as they've secured their second straight winning month, marking the first time since 2003 that they've accomplished such a feat. It's really hard to believe that guys like Mark Teahen and David DeJesus have been out of the picture insofar as on-the-field impact is concerned. If you'd told me at the beginning of the season that these two wouldn't be leading the charge at this point in the season and that the team would be playing its best ball since they made a run at the division five seasons ago, I'd have punched you in the balls. Hard. I'd have had to have apologized if I'd done that, too. I guess we're all better off for no such statements having been made. Here's to hoping they lead the team down the stretch (I'm gonna need Teahen to step up in a big way if I have any hopes of making a serious run for a fantasy title). Bottoms up, fellas.

And before I go to bed...

Good work, Royals. You showed tonight that you have more heart than the Yankees. They may be more talented and better compensated, but you didn't let them shut you out on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday. But when those nancy-boys from the big city get down in your hood, they don't even have the heart to put one measly run on the board? I call that weak. Y'all got pride, Royals. Y'all got pride.

I had a dream

Shortly following a viewing of the 1972 film The Mechanic, starring one Charles Bronson as a methodical hit man, I went to bed. While I slumbered, I had perhaps the best dream of my life...

In this dream, I was in a horseshoe-shaped, multi-level, semi-abandoned building. Within the confines of this building were thugs, street toughs, and ruffians who were under orders to finish me, obviously from some criminal mastermind of great import. Now, I had nothing but my cunning and my brutish strength to protect myself against these hoods, but they were armed with clubs and bats and pipes and whatnot. No knives. No guns. But they still had an advantage.

Obviously, I was able to disarm these men with my many skills in combat, after which I had no choice but to bludgeon them to death, so as to not face one more than once.

Then I caught wind of a friend coming to the rescue. The odd part here was that this friend is an old friend of mine who I've more or less lost touch with because he's got a family now, and I'm mostly a motivationally-challenged malcontent who would much rather do nothing than fail at something I care about. I will be seeing this friend in a month for the first time in about three years, at which point I will have to thank him, because I totally helped me kick some big time thug ass in what was the best dream of my life, until I got a call from a friend wanting me to wake up and go to the gym 'cause it was noon or some such shit. Now this was the friend who I was watching The Mechanic with the night before, so when I told him the next day what had happened, he apologized for bringing to an abrupt end such a badass dream, so all is good.

The moral of this story, of course, is that in both dreams and real life men's men bludgeon muthafuckas to death when they have to, be it for self-preservation or coming to the rescue of a pal.

President of the Internet, next stop President of the World

I'd just like to thank everyone for making me President of the Internet. Your votes and well wishes on the campaign trail were much appreciated. My old lady thanks you all as well. We both thank the Hendersons of Osawatomie, KS, for the seemingly endless supply of kolaches you plied us with, and the MacLeans of Post Falls, ID, for that great smoked pork shoulder you invited us to sup on.

As for my opponent, Phil, if you come near my residence or my kinfolk again, I will not hesitate to finish you. I'm dead serious. Don't test me. You don't want to know what I'm capable of little man.