Ode To Carlos Ruiz or If It Weren't for Those New Stalker Laws
This morning I was greeted by a hair ball, a pet puke, and an offensive odor. Speaking of offensive, I should blog. I’ll start by singing the accolades of my favorite major league catcher. Wait, my husband says it’s too early in the day for me to sing. Actually, he says there’s never a reason for it. I’ll stick with typing and bad poetry. Carlos Ruiz is my half-pint hero. He may be small but he’s really six foot six inches of heart packed into two enormous thighs. I’ve sometimes used that same excuse myself. Like I say, “Does this ass make my pants look big?” Now, hindsight might be 20/20—and often makes experts out of liars, but I’ve posted a few blogs vying for the attention someone else deserves that prove I’ve loved Chooch from afar (only because of those new stalker laws). Last May, I even penned some cheesy poetry on his behalf and because my blogs aren’t worth reading the first time, let alone worthy of review, I’ll copy and paste it here (for your convenience): ...