It’s Friday. For most of you, your Friday falls on Friday. Mine? Mine typically starts on Wednesday, Thursday at the latest. So, that being said, I’m heading for the SeaDoos and the murky, nasty, oddly green lake water that is Grand Lake St. Mary. In my absence, I give the keys to the castle to our favorite little shit and resident dick joke teller, Timmy.
Hey there, grown-up type peeps. Timmy here. Last week, my Uncle Rex took me to that way cool basebrawl at the Dayton Dragons game. While we were there, he made me use my allowance to buy him all kinds of overpriced junk. Something about his assets being seized by the IRS, whoever they are. I just think it’s my former Aunt’s initials or something. Let’s see, I 
bought him a hat, a mini-bat, a Willy Mo Pena bobblehead from the discount bin, and enough food to make 10 kids sick. I did have enough to buy myself one hot dog. One very, very shitty hot dog.
What happened to ballpark dogs? Back when I was a little kid (I’m 8 now.), I remember the dogs at baseball games being the second best things to be had. The firstest best? Easy. Suicide Slurpees. Only problem is they hurt my head when my Uncle Rex told me to chug them so that girls would think I was gross and run away, but all I did was roll around on the ground until the stadium medical staff helped me. I fell for that one until I turned 7. I hate Rex sometimes, but on the cool side, he always brings a new Aunt for me to meet. He has lots of them. My friends think that’s funny, but my older brother says it’s cause he’s fraid of something called committalment. Either way, they dress like sluts, so someday I’m told I’ll like it.
