We're not bloggers. We're lazy douchebags.

Even though the two aren't mutually exclusive.  No, we're just busy.  I don't work in an office, thus the down parts of my day can't be filled with the paragon in profundity that are the Roscoe Galt rants about nothing and everything.  Instead, my posting is reserved, er, confined to the wee hours of the morning or the end of a day of which I've spent God knows how many hours wrangling cats.  Suddenly, bitching about Derek Fischer's foul feels trite, as it would to blast one ESPN.com primary photo after another of KG screaming or chest-thumping.  So to you, lone, solitary, singular, basement-dwelling MHR frequenter (?), I hope to...we, hope to again offer reason to be frequented, providing the kind of clear-headed, above-the-fray analysis and opinion consistent with someone who has been to the future, returned, and now blogs with the clarity and perception only 20-20 hindsight can afford.  Confused at all?    

On that note, what the fuck is up with the Giants losing the first two games of the Pads series after sweeping Arizona?  I mean, what the fucking fuck?  Suddenly, after looking promising, Pat Misch looks like a two-armed pickle throwing sauerkraut at a wall made of a mixture of pig and duck shit.  Dammit.