The 2024 White Sox season slogs on. Pedro Grifol, in his apathetic, monotone voice that displays less humanity than an AI skipper, makes the bizarre claim that the team is almost there. John Schriffen calls another pitch “juicy.”
We are in baseball hell.
The White Sox are the final square of one-ply toilet paper that you can’t tear off the cardboard roll in the office bathroom. The 49 Western bus that your transit tracker app said would be at your stop 32 minutes ago. Having a headache while the preacher on State Street is yelling at you through his megaphone at point-blank range that you’ll burn in hell.