Wet Verlander Hot, Beltran Not (Wet or Dry)

Welcome to the worst Championship Series in...well, a long time. We tried to remember the last Championship Series that we felt absolutely blasé about, but couldn't recall one. The Tigers advancing to face the Red Sox is the only excitement we've gotten thus far and it was mostly because MLB posted a photo of Justin Verlander soaked in champagne. Turns that Verlander is really sexy...wet (that's what she said!).

The progression of TBB team support went as follows:
Pirates over Dodgers/Braves over Cardinals/Rays over Red Sox/Tigers over A's.

The Braves and Rays dropped out of the running relatively quickly, which transferred our loyalty to Serena's Future Ex-Husbands. Now only one Future Ex-Husband remains standing and he is facing a team of Paul Bunyans. The entire lineup of the Boston Red Sox are living their lives with beavers resting peacefully upon their faces. Interpret the word, "beaver" as you will. You might view it as a metaphor for something or you might view it as a literal animal. Both work. Oh, also we're from New York and it's impossible to support any team hailing from the Boston area (trust us when we say that it's not like Boston would ever support our teams, so there).

We're not totally in love with the Dodgers (even though we love Don Mattingly) and while Yadier Molina is a real American fantasy baseball hero, we refuse to support the Cardinals for three LEGIT reasons:

1. The one Cardinals fan that gave us stink eye on the Busch Stadium Tour for being from New York.
2. We cannot live in a world where Carlos Beltran feels the joy of success and a World Series Championship.
3. It was incredibly hot in St. Louis when we went there, which meant we suffered from breast sweat. Which, in case you can't figure it out, is uncomfortable. Also, Serena's red tank top bled onto her white bra, which is now pink no matter how many times she's washed it. Bras are expensive.

The moral of today's story, kids, is that we want the Tigers to win the World Series.  More sexy champagne-drenched Verlander, please. The End.