Moderate spring fever

Alas, the professional baseball season is to begin. Tomorrow the Twins will play a game in which the outcome is insignificant, but the game's existence is imperative. For this game provides hope, a faint light dancing in the distance against the darkness of this hell-damned winter that enshrouds us. Let this game be a warning to the demonic creatures and NBA players that are running roughshod on our frigid streets with an insatiable hunger for childflesh. Like the banks of defiled snow, they too will melt under the purifying sun of spring.

Our front office, for fear of being disemboweled at the cold hands of winter's soulless hell-beasts, took to hiding for most of the winter. Only Stephen Hawking could prove that a Twins front office still existed. Then something miraculous happened. The sound of pitchers and catchers reporting rang loud and true from the green grass of Hammond stadium, and jolted the Twins front office out of their winter holes and they signed a right-handed, power-hitting, third baseman, Joe Crede.

He is only a year removed from being a foe with the other ne’er-do-wells on the south side of Chicago, but this is spring. Spring does not look back at past transgressions. Spring embodies new life and new beginnings.

May this hope of baseball carry us through this next cold month. For soon it will be spring and we'll squeal with delight as we twirl about beneath the shadowless rainbows of the baseball season! It will soon be time for kitten cuddling and tickle fights with your coworkers (I'd clear those with HR first).

And then spring bleeds into summer. And there will be backyard barbecues and three hamburger patties per bun. There will be awkward tan lines and baseball and baseball players with awkward tan lines. It will be a time of enchanted narwhal riding followed by enchanted narwhal feasting.

So prepare your tank tops and trim your chest hair, for the baseball season and hope for happier days is upon us.