I'm not really "Linky McLinks A Lot," but anyway. . . .

Speaking of thebrushback.com, this week’s edition has a hysterical blurb about Carlos Beltran’s wishing he were back in Houston. Almost made me need Depends.

Since I’m directing people to cool sport sites, you should check out lakeline. I stumbled upon her blog around the time of this entry, and when I stopped crying with mirth, I started lurking (I shouldn’t say that, I had to convince her I wasn’t a stalker so I could view her Cubs photos on flickr.com). Her “Baseball for the Casual Fan” series is awesome, and now she’s going to do hockey! (I’m a total hockey dumbass, but so are a lot of Texans. I think it’s because it’s so f***ing hot in Texas that we refuse to consider that perfectly good ice, which could be used for beer, can be used for skating instead.)

(Sorry about the asterisks. I’m really trying to stop using the f-word. In desperation, I told a friend of mine that I would pay her a dollar every time I dropped the f-bomb. Her husband found out about it, and was like, “Sweet! Let’s just trash-talk the Astros, and we can put the kids through college!)

I digress. Another great baseball blog is epiphany. It’s new to me, but I’m sold already. Why? Because even though Miss Julia bleeds Cardinal red, she likes the Astros. While dissecting her hatred of the Cubs and Mets, she blogged, “Much as I hate the Cubs, these past two years haven't exactly been spellbinding pennant races. I guess the closest we've got right now is the Astros, and that rivalry is lame because I like the Astros. I'd have had no problem cheering for them in the World Series last year. (Hmph, they'd probably have done better than we did - at least, they couldn't have been worse, could they?) Astros/Cardinals games are almost always fun to watch, but they don't feel like enemies. More like very, very scary obstacles. I respect them.”

Which, is exactly how I feel about the Cardinals. I’ve even tried to hate them, but I can’t. (The Mets are a different story. I hope that in the offseason, Roy Oswalt finds Cliff Floyd’s house, rings the doorbell, plunks him when he answers it, and runs away. Run, Roy, run!)

So, sports fans, there you have it, my favorite guilty pleasures. (They probably wouldn’t even be guilty pleasures except that I was raised a Baptist, and I can’t help it. Anything the least bit pleasurable makes you feel guilty. Shit, I digress again.) Enjoy!