The only reason I am a Twins fans is because I prefer to kind of not like Chicago as much as I should if I lived there because everyone is probably actually pretty darn nice if you live there and I suppose the sun still shines there. Yet gosh, they are so-so mean in that city with their rough accents and lack of culture but its not their fault that they are all probably poor, part of a minority gang or got none morals and religious compasseseseses. That’s what a big old mean city does to a poor soul, it makes it rotten through and through. That is why I sure like it here in Waseca a bunch. If I want to get something off my chest or feel like masturbating, I go on down to the Lake Coochiecoochie or to the willow tree in my pastor's backyard and pray to God kind of like my heathen ancestors would have done before figuring out the glory and salvation of the lord almighty, bless their eternally burning souls.

After having being spent, spiritually, I usually go to my mother's house and help her with her puzzles and speculate what our antique furniture would be worth if we ever wanted to sell it even though we never will because Grandpa Merle built them in his workshop in the woods before they found the little kids remains underneath it. When Ma finally falls asleep watching Wheel of Fortune, I usually have to move her knitting materials and put them in the wicker chest so she can find them in the morning so she can have them and that is fun thinking about how she was proud of me when she woke up.

I've been to Chicago once for a Twins/White Sox series and the White Sox suck just as much as I always knew they sucked because we whomped on them so well this past decade. The food there was yummy, the park was clean as a cat, the skyline was goodest but after the Twins won the first game of series I could help but try to kill some White Sox fans with kindness by saying, "Cheer up, better luck tomorrow! We got lucky this evening". What ended up happening was I got beat to within an inch of my life and just as those evil toughs walked away while spitting on my Kirby jersey, I told them "Hey! That was a dirty move" and an especially ornery guy in a Harold Baines jersey ended up dropping trow and whizzing on my face, whizzing I tell you!

A group of other Twins fans helped me to their Astrovan and drove me to the hospital to update my hepatitis shots, then we went for custard and the custard was goddman AWFUL…oh…forgive me for using your name in vain Christ but at the hospital the doctor told me I needed to have a blood transfusion because of the urination on my skin and now I got AIDS from it and I think he did it on purpose because he asked me who my favorite baseball player was and I told him, "Jeff Reardon, for his smart beard and because my grandmother thought he was a hunk".

Gosh darnnit if that’s what His plan for me is, I'll take it like a trout because he knows better than I do about the makings and goings on the planet he created in his likeness. Now a days I usually while away my days trying to discern my freckles from my lesions and its not too bad if you ask me, a little busy work never hurt nobody.

I never thought I would be a 37 year old virgin. I thought I would have made at least one sex on my dream honeymoon in Glacier Naitonal Park but now with the HIV I guess my plans for Sven, Jr. are muddlebutted a bit. Gosh, it seems like Mary Beth and I were holding hands in her parent's gazebo just yesterday but I don't think she would want to marry a man with AIDS. She left town when rumors were flying around town about me getting AIDS from the buttsex. I still write her my letters but I don't get no responses any longer. She tells me she just uses the craigslist to communicate with men at all, any more. Last I heard from her she told me she moved to Chicago and the Choral Group ran into her after singing 'Go Tell It on the Mountain' in Grant Park for the Amish festival last summer and they tell me that she is acting the part of a hussy down there which is sad sometimes…because those Chicagoans sure do relish in taking our maidenheads away from our Minnesota gals, promising marriage and what not and so forth only to get close enough to eventually drug them and before long the poor lasses, like my sister, find themselves giving happy endings in the southern suburbs of Peoria, which I suppose couldn't be all that bad as long as the endings are happy. What's an ending? No matter, anyhow. I forgive Mary Beth, I tell Marmaduke that every morning and night.

Now the youth group at Bethlehem is raising funds for my treatment by selling Taffy-Apples at swap meets and I spend a lot of time mopping the bathrooms at the Olde Thyme fudge store just to bide the time until something happens to me other than waking and sleeping. I still do chuckle when the Twins wallop the White Sux, (see what I did there! It’s a pun on suck and sox, god forgive me) and between that and my other programs, like 7th Heaven and the Waltons, I keep myself busy and try not to masturbate too much. When I do though I beat my wiener with the King James Bible until my invisible friend Marmaduke tells me, "stop for godssake". The Twins have Jesus Christ on their side against the White Sox and I almost feel bad for cheating with ten men on the field. God sure does work in mysterious ways but I believe in magic and I hope you do too. We'll probably lose over 100 games this year but we should probably be able to sweep the White Sux (harhar) in all our matches just because we always have and if that ain't logic then I don't know what is. I like to sit here and think about White Sux fans being awfully mad but I try not to, too much, because my dick and bag always end up in these sinful hands and I can't spend ALL day praying.