Captain's Log: Day 2 Post-Botball
As I finished a leftover Beefy 5-Layer I meticulously compressed the wrapper to begin working on my admittedly lackluster offspeed pitches.
Setting up an empty 30 rack of fine American pilsner on a folding chair I fashioned a series of used paper towel rolls into a chestplate, taping it to the handle of a broom which I then carefully leaned (upside down of course) against my thrifty strike zone. Positioning a bucket gently on the bristles thus completing my setup this unnervingly anthropomorphic amalgam of cleaning supplies would serve well as an umpire.
Turning on my stove's fan to simulate the low hum of a stadium brimming with spectators I let loose a slurve for the ages, soaring high and outside just barely missing the cardboard beverage container and tumbling out of sight behind the counter when over the crowd noise I heard a blood curdling squeal.
That damn Racoon came scurrying into view donning a tiny nightgown and nightcap. With a puffed out chest holding my MacGyveresque baseball in one hand and a crudely sharpened butter knife in the other the beast unleashed a verbal tirade.
"Was this you? Did you throw this ball you little shit? Are you trying to fucking kill someone? You trying to die tonight?!"
I stood paralyzed in fear when I heard a booming voice from the broom.
"That's no ball, that's a strike!"
My mangy nemesis looked to the umpire in confusion to which the broom, not missing a beat, roared
"Don't even start with me, you're outta here!!!" as it slid to one side of the chair, twisting slightly.
The Raccoon emanating a sense of defeat shrugged and spit at my feet before wandering back into the laundry room from whence it came.
Even if I didn't get my ball back I can't remember a time I have felt so grateful just to be alive.
I never was one to believe in Angels, but I think today proved I have a Guardian Angel Hernandez.
P.S. look up the number to animal control