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2013 Phillies: There is No Bottom (Guest Column By August Strindberg)

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I received a package in the mail today, containing a yellowed letter, sealed with wax. It was postmarked 1896 from Sweden, but the letter was written in French. My translation may be rusty.

Deflated, night falls.
Deflated, night falls.

[Cue this now.]

Oh, Phans...what a dismal season. Once it started, I was greeted with three items of bad news:

  1. A weasel had killed the stud.
  2. An expensive, fungible reliever had fallen ill.
  3. I have forgotten the third.

I should have realized that the powers had condemned me to the hell of excrement but indeed I have passed through a thousand hells of this life without faltering. I am like a corpse that lies buried beneath the roots of a tree which flourishes by sucking nourishment from the decomposing remains. Sure enough, life is punishment. A hell. For some, a purgatory. For none, a paradise.

[Cue me now.]

Oh, Phans....listen to their happiness! It brings me...misery. There is no hope of a single lasting happiness in this life, since we are already in hell. My soul is empty. I am dead to the world.

Oh, and Marco....Polo. Epic.