An Open and Public Admission

...of my hatred of baseball. (listening to: the blood pump in my ears, hot and angry like a volcano seething for the blood of a virgin sacrifice)

To Whom it May Concern,

Let it be said, right here and now, that I am not one who uses the term hatred liberally. In fact, as Daisy will tell you, I often jump on people who use it coloquially. Hatred is a very strong term, to be used only when referring to rapists, Nazis and mayonnaise on hamburgers. But right now, this term most definitely applies.

You see, my blog-reading friends, my tuesday custom is watching House, MD. Anyone who's been here before knows this. However, after tonight's episode, I was treated to a wonderful revolution by the folks at FOX. House will return to television on November 1st. No more House... for four weeks. And WHY? So that we can endure... THE BASEBALL POSTSEASON.

Now, I know that Basketball's post-season is longer. Hell, everyone knows that if the post season for hoops goes as long as it theoretically could, the two teams in the NBA Finals might have to send their sweat-wipers to the draft, since they'd air on the same night. But, please. Please, MLBPA, don't take away my House.

Have we not suffered enough? Have we not seen the horrible, demonic Yankees enough that they must now invade my most sacred time of the week simply to flaunt their enormous paychecks? They must run and swing in their crisp pinstripes, showing off how much money they make? How much money the devil gave them when the triumverate of Joe Torre, George Steinbrenner and Richard Nixon (Steinbrenner gave him money to stay quiet. It's true.) all summoned Beezelbub in the Yankees locker room in 1972.

When will it end, ye Gods? Look down on us and have mercy! Ye, who sit above and pull the strings, look down on your suffering children and pity us! Ye have shown grace before. You have given us Football, and knowing that we shall only watch it on weekends, have ensured that no distracting goodness on network TV shall interrupt. But dark was the day that you plotted to send us House on FOX; knowing full well that Rupert Murdoch, in his lust for gold dubloons had also purchased (spit) Postseason baseball. You sent us signs, oh Ye of the Heavens, and we did not see. You sent prophets to say that when the devil came to make our lives miserable, he would be foreshadowed by a voice. A voice that would speak lies and tell us only things that would serve His evil purpose. You told us this, and yet we saw FOX News and did not understand. Please, pity us! Send us back the bitter and misanthropic doctor who, for one blessed hour in a week, makes us feel as if we are not the only ones who suffer.

Today, my heart hangs heavy. Today I have learned that, like Penelope, it shall be a very long time before I see my loved (Hugh Laurie is my non-sexual mancrush) one again. But when we pass around the dark side of the moon that is the baseball postseason, the light on the horizon shall be in the form of a doctor who cares not for us, but for that which plagues us. And it shall be Good.