Introducing the Buehrle Bile File

Good evening, ladies and gents, and welcome to the first ever installment of what I what I plan on calling The Buehrle Bile File.

This will be a recurring post that occurs before and after every Mark Buehrle start. (If there's redundacy in that last sentence, you're noticing a theme of mine and Mark's pitching.)

Let me say first that I am a huge White Sox fan, and I wish health, happiness and a hella-hook to all White Sox pitchers. But my target of vitriol from now on will be spared for one main antagonist. (If you haven't figured it out yet, you're a moron.)

Since Jeeves has been so kind as to allow me this little conceit, I say thanks, and I ask for this one diversion: tonight's game has me quite unprepared to type for a long stretch without some sort of liquid spinach, so it's off to meet my Miss Corona for a while. To quote someone at another blog, "My clock just struck Beer-o'clock."

When I return, tonight's lurid leerings have two bases for contempt: high change-ups and mental miscues.

Mark Buehrle beware, I'm about to become your Jay Mariotti. I'll safely boast of your bad outings from the safety of my own little study without ever having to pay for a ticket or stand in the sights of your favorite hunting rifle. I'll be sure to remind every reader of your poorly placed pitches, your increasing errors in the field of play and your lack of mental acuity in tight places.

You used to be one of my favorite pitchers for the White Sox; now you're only the opponents' favorite. If you succeed the rumbling and grumblings will be lessened, but until then, The Buehrle Bile File is in full effect.