It's Sunday and what better day of the week than Sunday for a sermon? So let's talk about love; let's talk about loving even those who push your buttons, and those who drive you crazy with their many shortcomings. Sure I wish Chavy could hit more consistently, in all months, in all situations. Sure I wish that Swisher would take walls a little more seriously, and that Crosby would take Kielty, Ellis, and the opposing catcher a little more seriously. Sure I wish Zito would put "Fearless In The Zone" on his pitches instead of just on his cap.
But brothers and sisters, let us instead love those whom we are most tempted to hate; let us instead treasure those whom we most wish to discard; let us instead embrace those whom we are most inclined to kick in places known only to urologists, lovers, and very bad priests.
All of which is to report that I got a new tea kettle recently, and it is has to be the single weakest tea kettle ever manufactured. When the water boils, the kettle tentatively begins to almost-whistle for about 3-4 minutes before finally committing to a faint warbling so wimpy that it conjures up the image of a frail accountant with black spectacles and plaid pants, lying on his deathbed. This kettle, even when it finally commits to whistling, seems to be saying something along the lines of, "Um, excuse me, I seem to have hit 212 degrees fahrenheit...well, around there, anyway...I mean it could be 211, who am I to say, really...but I'm reasonably sure I'm boiling, so... well, you're busy, maybe I should come back later? Or no? OK, very good then...so, well, here goes...er...tweet?"
So I've named my new tea kettle Jason Kendall--because you have to cherish your lovable muppets for who they are. Ah, men.
