Man, I loved 1998.
While I was probably the only Saved by the Bell fan still doing the sprain, I wasn’t the only one watching Sammy Sosa.
Fingers forehead, fingers chest, fingers chest, fingers lips. Blow kiss.
Man, that was cool.
I still mimic Sosa when I make a good grocery purchase. Shredded lettuce for $0.49, circle the story with a mini American flag.
That’s what I do. I celebrate the little things in life.
Clothes folded. Time for champagne.
Nails clipped. Fireworks.
You don’t even want to know what I do when the lawn gets mowed.
But that’s not to say my mind doesn’t wax nostalgia occasionally. Yep, the wonders of the 1998 baseball season are only rivaled by the years of Kevin Arnold’s adolescence.
‘Member Winnie Cooper?
Alice does, too. Especially when school ends until autumn.
Leaves fall, minds wander. 1998 is no longer.
That’s my latest poem. Don’t look for it on Amazon. It’s too good.
Sammy Sosa was too good. Especially in June of 1998, when he hit his 18th homer of the month on June 24.
That’s 18 homers in 24 days. FOX hasn’t even given us a pace like that, and they’ve aired The Simpsons since before Al Gore invented the internet.
Thanks, Al, by the way. The internet is pretty handy.
Ever grateful handy was coined before footy? I am.
Think about it.
Wow, the rail on these stairs is very footy.
That’s a confusing sentence. It might lead a young one to believe that the rail was made for feet. And that might lead to an attempt to walk down the stairs on a head.
And that, like a jobless republican, probably wouldn’t work. Wouldn’t stop complaining about other illogical methods for navigating stairs, but wouldn’t try to alleviate the problem either.
Sorry, paycheck writers, that’s your party. Cry if you want to.
Just don’t expect Charlie Brown to pick up the right laundry detergent. You’ll tell him to bring Cheer, he’ll grab Tide.
Then he’ll miss the football. Get back up, Chuck. Try it again.
One of these times you’ll kick that son of a gun.
Ever laugh at that phrase? I have. I have because guns can’t have sons. They lack reproductive organs.
They’re like tables. Only they can shoot stuff. Ever try shooting a table?
It has no trigger.
And I doubt your hand is large enough to grip it. You’ll never shoot a table.
Neither will I.
I also won’t eat Pop Tarts. They lack flavor. They also lack personality.
Toaster Strudels are full of charm. They’re creative and clever. Colorful, insightful.
Pop Tarts are dull. They just pop out of the toaster, stare at you and say nothing.
And that makes me sad.
I don’t like being sad. I prefer being happy.
So, with Pop Tarts erased from my mind, I’ll end this post. And I’ll end it in a state of happiness.
The kind of happiness that can’t be duplicated.
The kind of happiness that comes from a Toaster Strudel.