Thom Forbes

What a bunch of jamokes. I've never seen such knuckle-headed play in all my years of sniveling. I mean, even in the midst of finding out by cell- phone communication that my third-born had mistaken a pack of Bubblicious for a laundry product and placed it in the dryer with the wife's cashmere sweaters, I could see the opportunity to BLUFF — an opportunity than only arises three, maybe four, times a year in our game — right before my disbelieving peepers. But NO ONE WAS TAKING IT!!!!!!

OMG, I could have peed my trousers. 

(Unfortunately, I should add here, I already had followed my proclivities and folded the hand I was dealt -- a 6 1/2. I can't tell you how many times I've been burnt by that hand. Mikey B., a master of deceit and recipient of three billion Sky Miles, has you thinking he's hoarding a 7 so you go for the picture card and you get a 10. What the hell, you say, you feel compelled to soldier on. And then you get picture card after picture card. Before you know it, you've nickeled and fifteen-cented yourself into the poorhouse. You know the drill, particularly if you're D. Stein, but I digress.)

The worst offender last week was Thom, who [or is it 'of whom?' No ... it's 'who'. Or should I say 'Thom was the worst' ...? Maybe. Active voice. I've never been dealt a more confusing set of syntax options  in my career as a guest commentator. Well, you decide; I'm dropping from this discussion.] Anyway, Thom, who in my judicial observation is given to attempting to steal the pot second only to my esteemed colleague, P. (for Peculator) Wolf, DID NOT SEE OPPORTUNITY KNOCKING HIM UPSIDE THE TESTES.  It was like watching Dusty Pedroia take three fat ones from A.J. or C.C. or any old P.U. right down the middle of the platter. But now you've got me going on a sidetrack. Or should I say cosmological wormhole? 

All I want to say, really, is PAY ATTENTION men! Focus. Bear down. Concentrate. There's nothing as disheartening as seeing a sure thing blown. And I should know. I'm a Red Sox fan.