We work in sales (gas analysis, legal services, flesh, your mother's secrets, etc), so the concept of the "hockey stick" is one which sits firmly at the forefront of our lives. 90% of our business is done in the last three days of the month and thats how we like it. Our bosses hate us for it, but it makes us feel like corporate hero-gods. After all, Superman is Superman because he saves feral children seconds before the orphanage is engulfed in flames, not because he installs smoke detectors months prior. Janitors install smoke detectors, we save unwanted babies from conflagration. Get it.
You know who else habitually worships the quiet storm of the hockey stick?
The Astros (and Sade).
Like you, we've openly written off this year's team with the disgust one usually reserves for a pawy new stepfather, but lately we feel the tinge of burden to cast our good eye towards grainy Astro game projections at Star Pizza on Washington (chicken, feta, spinach and artichoke hearts - try to deny it, it wont let you).
6 back with three weeks to go gives us shakier feelings like Michael J Fox during a game of Operation
But on an 8 game roll coupled with Milwaukee self medicating their case of Recent Success with a plunger enema, there are very wild notions running through our plumpy heads at present.
Basically, we're a sweep of Colorado away from filling our jacuzzi up with banana oil or cheese cake batter. And yes, you're invited.
Oh and there's this.
What's behind the surfboard you ask? Just a couple gold gloves and a career .344 slugging percentage, need more? There's no more.