Just had this crazy-bad dream in which my baseball team, the relentlessly underwhelming Pittsburgh Pirates, traded the face of their franchise, Andrew McCutchen, to the San Francisco Giants.
That was awful enough. Then the Giants turned around and traded Cutch to the bleeping bleep-bleep Yankees, for God's sake, insufferable scourge of all things decent and American.
So now Mr. Pirate, whose bobblehead graces a shelf in my office at Manchester University, would soon be wearing those bleeping bleep-bleep pinstripes.
"Oh, my God, I think I'm going to pu--" I said.
Thankfully I woke up before I could finish that sentence. Or the act.
Wait ... What?
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