Beer 23

23.

Getting to the end of the line here. I busted out of my tournament when my Q Q ran into A A. It happens. I should not have been shocked by the crap ass play I was witnessing yet I still was. I guess it is one of those cases where if you don't get a taste, you get upset. When you have a chance to get your tongue on the sweetness, it turns bitter and your run into aces or kings. That is poker for you.

Well, there is always the Full Tilt tourney tomorrow.

Right now I am blasting the 80s metal. A little Guns n Roses. Some Y&T. Night Ranger. Van Halen. Even Metal Shop (holy shit! take a look at those tits!).

My Olympic comeptitor is off trying to run into the stadium before me. G' ahead. Don't matter. I got the gold coming to me already.

When I hear the number 23, I think of one athlete in particular. No, not a big name superstar. He was a Brewer. A key part of the 1982 ALC Championship team. Yes, the catcher, Ted "Chug Chug" Simmons. One of the slowest players in the league. Yet he would steal bases. Me and the Wig would laugh our asses off when he stole a base. We always figured the opposing catcher's jaw would drop when he saw Chug Chug taking second. Not that he couldn't throw him out, he was just in a state of shock to see it happening.

Here's to you Ted! Cheers! Thanks for the memories.