By Stuart Shea
Furbush?
Pujols?
Fister?
Head?
I was watching a game
But got Penthouse instead.
A Chatwood? A Dinkelman? They’re not reassuring–
they both sound painful,
though perhaps alluring.
It’s just like the old days, when we’d annoonce
That the Sox had a player named Rusty Kuntz.
So, I’m sitting in a bar halfway between Boston and San Francisco, watching a soundless game on TV, and some guy I’ve never heard of named Furbush comes in for Seattle late in a 2-1 west coast game against the A’s with runners on 1st and 2nd and 1 out. After an Al Hrabosky-like off-mound routine he toes the slab but has the look of a deer in the headlights. And he loads the bases and then escapes! So I google Furbush and get this great, perceptively quirky poem, and I wonder … how many other people have seen the Penthouse poem … what kind of hit volume does this site get … and did Furbush see the poem before he stepped into the headlight of history?
Gives a whole new meaning to having filthy stuff.
HA!