Every once in a while, a Tweeter comes along who manages to impress me. And, if you know me, that ain't easy to do. I like to think I'm the Queen of Twitter when it comes to things like NFL Draft Day or the now famous "Ode to Flop Night" where I definitely ruled the Twitterverse.
And along comes @Monte_Colorman. While his wit is obvious to any who follow him, the fun and brilliance of his timeline of tweets this evening has prompted me to put them all together and showcase therm here so that you can all read them. ENJOY!
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Twas the night before Monte's Vacation, when all thro' the Twitter, Fans wondered if the the Tribe was bound for the shitter.
The spikes were hung by the locker with care, In hopes a new reliever soon would be there.
The prospects were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of new teams danc'd in their heads.
And Chris in his 'kerchief, and Mark in his vest, Were racking their brains on a trade deadline quest
When out on the field there arose such a clatter, They sprang from their suite to see what was the matter.
It's a dude on a Scooter trying to be incognito. They knew in a moment it must be St. Tito.
More rapid than eagles his coaches they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and call'd players by name:
"Now! Brantley, now! Bournie, now! Stubby and Kipnis, "On! Carlos, on! Giambi, on! 'drubal and Chizkid;
"Off the end of the bat! To the top of the wall! "Now take second! Take third! Take home, all!"
Tito spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And fill'd two bases; then turn'd with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose A quick double-steal keeps defense on their toes.
After the inning ended on a Reynolds pop fly, With a lead and their gloves, they're ready to try;
So up to the mound-top the pitcher he threw, With an arm full of fastballs — as St. Tito knew:
And then in a twinkling, I heard thru the mic, The cracking and pounding of each little strike.
As I nodded my head, and was screaming around, Downed the side on 3 K's and Big Masty came off of the mound.
He was dress'd in polyester, his blue uniform shirt, And his clothes were all tarnish'd with pitchers mound dirt;
His eyes — how they twinkled! His dimples: how merry, His cheeks were like roses, his head, not too hairy.
Home runs to the bleachers, the balls carried true, With all of the regulars — and Rayburn too:
The fans' mouths all dropped while watching Yan throw, His right arm, a cannon, put on a great show;
A pipe stump was found in the house of Pure Rage, And the smoke from the dog was a magic first aid.
Slider's chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laugh'd when I saw him in spite of myself;
He had a broad face, and a huge fuscia belly That shook when he laugh'd, like a bowl full of jelly.
A wink of Tito's eye and a twist of his head Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He sprung to his scooter, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew, with beards full of gristle:
But I heard him exclaim, in a voice quiet post-gamey— Happy Swishmas to all, and to all a #NoPantski!
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