Dustin Parkes

It didn’t happen.

I did not go down to Rogers Centre this evening in hopes of a Blue Jays victory.

I did not watch Kevin Youkilis hit a homerun to deep centre.

I did not watch Dustin Pedroia hit a homerun to deep left centre.

I did not watch Mike Lowell hit a homerun to deep left.

I did not watch Jason Varitek hit a homerun to deep centre.

I did not watch all of this happen before the third inning.

I did not watch all of this before Victor Zambrano threw 57 pitches.

I did not leave after the fourth inning in depressed disgust.

I did not go to a friend’s house and actually sit through Star Trek: Generations.

I did not watch Data and Worf figure out a way to cloak a Klingon Bird of Prey, thus lowering it’s shields and making it vulnerable to a photon torpedo.

I am not writing this and I will not go down to the game tomorrow to hope against hope that the Blue Jays snap this horrible run of losses.

I am not pathetic.

I wish I was dating someone right now so that she could break up with me and that would lessen the pain of winning two games out of the last eleven.

Fact: Continually calling something extreme, doesn’t make it any less gay.

Vernon Wells further improved his chances of winning MVP of my heart when he joked around with hekclers in Cleveland last week.

You can find the bullshit Toronto Sun story here or else check out a mini-interview with one of the hecklers for his side of the story.

Or, you could not bother checking out either and just believe me when I tell you that some guys just like us, only they live in Cleveland and likely aren’t as drunk, smart or sexually frustrated, were heckling Wells jokingly all night.

V-Dub, not without a sense of humour, decided to reward them for their efforts by sending them up a ball deriding their lot in life.

As pictured, the entire text reads something like, “Here is your ball! Can you please tell me what gas station you work at so I can come and yell at you when you’re working. Please sit down, shut up and enjoy the game. From your favorite centerfielder, Vernon Wells.”

In an effort to avoid sounding as hopeless as I’m feeling right now after The Six Days Of Heartache, I’ve decided to introduce a regular feature on Drunk Jays Fans centred on the literary world of baseball.

At this point in the season, we’ve really been focused on telling other fans that we’re drunker than them, so much so in fact, that we’ve neglected on occasion to inform them that we’re smarter than them as well.

No longer.

Baseball is the only sport in the world where you’re allowed to be a bit pretentious in your use of imagery even if you don’t have a voice like justice (or like the guy’s from City Confidential). Its elegant complexity and layers of nuance, make baseball as predisposed to description as a lengthened and throbbing purple-headed warrior.

Having written that, the first book up for review has nothing directly to do with baseball (or purple-headed warriors). However, it has everything to do with being a Drunk Jays Fan. “A Fan’s Notes” by Frederick Exley is the thinking dude’s guide to the thinking dude, and not in the fag way either.

The novel, subtitled “A Fictional Memoir” and categorized as fiction, chronicles Exley’s rampant alcoholism and inability to obtain the recognition that he desires. The narrative examines Exley’s despair at being a spectator in sports as well as in life, while dividing the world into two camps: the suffering poet and the cheerful drone.

The story begins in a bar where Exley (pictured) is watching a televised Giants game and throwing himself into fits of passion until he collapses from alcoholic exhaustion. We’re then given a montage of memories: an upstate New York boyhood dominated by a local-hero dad, doomed attempts to make it in the straight world of Manhattan advertising, romantic humiliations at the hands of some major talent and, finally, dreamlike interludes in sadistic mental hospitals.

Along the way, we’re also introduced to more of Exley’s failures in relationships with women, his constant dissatisfaction with his employment and his obsession with Frank Gifford and the New York Giants. Obviously, it’s easy to relate to.

“A Fan’s Notes” is usually available at bookstores in paperback, but, from my own experience, it’s difficult to find in used book stores. Also available is Jonathan Yardley’s biography, “Misfit: The Strange Life Of Frederick Exley.”

I know you’re all probably waking up right now, hungover, immediately checking Drunk Jays Fans, before you even put in your contacts, squinting to see what level of misery we’ve bestowed on ourselves after last night’s Ohka Crisis.

Well, I’m sorry to disappoint, but I feel fine. After the level of self-destruction exhibited last night in Texas, things can only get better. When Sal Fasano is the only offensive sparkplug to your team, you know you’ve officially bottomed out.

Right now, the sun is shining.

If you’re anything like me, you’re masking the pain by opening all the windows of your house and blaring Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’” on your iTunes repeatedly.

In a little while, you’re going to go to the market, pick up some mint. Go to the Liquor Store and pick up some Kentucky bourbon. Get some powdered sugar and prepare yourself for the first of the fifteen mint juleps you’re going to drink today.

Congratulations, you made the right decision.

Roy Halladay tries to stop the Blue Jays’ Free Fallin’ tonight in Arlington against Vincente Padilla and the Texas Rangers at 8:00 p.m.

Occasionally at Drunk Jays Fans, we like to invite a guest blogger to share some of their thoughts on the 2007 Toronto Blue Jays. Today, we’re very lucky to have Brandon “Mensa” League join us for this special feature.

Normally, our guest writers will send in a story and we’ll post it, but because Brandon, in his own words, “don’t spell no good,” I’ve transcribed a one-sided telephone conversation I had with Mr. League earlier today.

Please note that I took out some of the stuttering, humming and hawing for spatial reasons. Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, I give you Brandon League:

Not playing baseball like, totally sucks. But playing baseball is awesome. I’d rather play baseball.

My arm is sick right now, so I can’t play baseball. Well, I can. I do play some baseball, but not in games. I pitch for some guys who wear track suits and they tell me different ways to throw the ball. Track suits are totally rad.

Last night, JP, my boss, yelled at me over the telephone. He said that I was too stupid to remember how to throw. I told him that maybe he was too stupid to remember how to . . . and then I forgot what he said, so my rad comeback wasn’t so rad.

I also told him that his words were like sticks and stones to my bones. I hung up.

JP said that the bullpen would be fine if I wasn’t such a meathead. That made me picture something crazy in my mind.

Yeah, so the Jays lost again. That’s their second sweep of the season and we’re barely out of April. This one was blown by Jason Frasor in the eighth, but the game was actually lost in the fourth inning.

With the Jays ahead 4-3, Grady Sizemore lined a pitch to center off Dustin McGowan and handcuffed Alex Rios who pretty much dropped the ball just as he did the previous day (which led to the Josh Towers meltdown).

The Rios error sent Josh Barfield sprinting around the bases from first and toward home. Rios retrieved the ball from the grass and threw to shortstop John McDonald, who then threw a perfect strike home (because he’s the best defensive middle infielder in baseball) where catcher Jason Phillips prepared for the imminent arrival of Li’l Barfy.

Phillips blocked the plate, and managed to maintain control of the baseball despite Li’l Barfy coming in spikes pointed directly at his knee. The final out of the inning was called, but when Phillips stood up, he turned toward Li’l Barfy and yelled something about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

David Delucci, in the on-deck circle, took exception (clearly an Israeli supporter), shoved Phillips and both benches cleared. Not a single punch was thrown, but with Delucci standing up for his teammate, it was only a matter of time until the Indians, suddenly congealed as a team over their support of Israel, would walk away with this one.

No, actually, I don’t believe that bullshit for a moment. Frasor fucking blew it again and Gibbers, who was probably saving Scott Downs for the ninth, ended up taking Frasor out one batter too late, without even a pat on the ass.