Seriously, Guys, I Wasn't Kidding

Somebody do a slumpbuster.

I'd volunteer, except a) I am not a slut, b) have no wish to be, and c) am in New York while they are in Los Angeles, which may be just a bit problematic unless doing it virtually counts. That was one of the most frustrating games in the early going of a long season, and hard to absorb for someone hoping that the deep doldrums over the bats might finally be broken. That's all I've got to say for now - it's redonkolously late (1 AM) I have to get up in about seven hours, and I can't even go to bed yet as I desperately need to do at least a page more of philosophy so my professor, who generally thinks I do very well in his class, has no need to change his opinion. But if anybody knows any good slumpbusters (this being L.A., they should be available in profusion) send them to the Rockies' hotel and tell their wives to yell at me should anyone complain. It'll pay off. A hitting player is a happier player, and that includes everywhere.