I live in fear.  I am a captive in my own home.  I fear these may be my last words.

Let me back up for  a second.  Let me explain.  Each Sunday night, I wheel the trash can and the recycling bin dutifully out to the curb to satisfy the resident’s part of a social contract.  The other part of that vital, yet mainly unspoken agreement happens each Monday morning, pre-dawn, by two men … two strangers in overalls with barely a year of high school education between them.  They arrive through the mist of the early morn, bringing with them rotting stench of society’s refuse.  They are the modern day Moorlocks.   We create the garbage and they take it.

Somehow this fundamental arrangement has gone terribly awry in my neighborhood.  When something this essential, let’s call it the Garbage Collection Accord, fails it is all the more disturbing because its existence seems to predate the advent of fire or the brave, curious hominids that first ventured out of the cave to take a shit in the bushes.

And it is for this reason that each week, I am held captive by my own terror.  Cold, stark fear.  I am, of course, speaking of When Garbage Men Attack.

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This may sound as un-American as performing the ‘sieg heil’ during  the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan, but I think baseball sucks.  I’m an Oklahoman too, land of Mickey Mantle, and I’m not sure I’ll be welcomed back to my home state.  But what the hell.  Baseball sucks, sucks, sucks.

And not just your average level of sucktitude (ala the Khloe Kardashian Tier), but the full level of shittiness reserved for bus stop hookers with liverworts and canker sores (also known as the Rob Kardashian Tier).

We are quickly coming to that point in the summer when the NBA, international soccer, and hell even hockey will end.  And during that time, about two months, we’ll be left with only baseball.  Oh sure, we’ll have Wimbleton or the Tour de France … but I’d sooner put my genitals into a wine press.  Which means baseball.  Baseball all day, everyday.  Dominating Sportscenter and ESPN.  And it makes me realize something.  I hate baseball as much as Hosni Mubarak hates Twitter.

But I have my reasons.  Ten of them in fact.

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Getting it on with that special someone … or something (we don’t judge here) … requires the right mood.  The right ambiance.  And very few things have the ability to inspire the booty mood than music.  So I’ve been thinking about creating the Lucky Playlist for your bedroom exploits.  A collection of songs that will take your Midnight Bumpin tot he next level.

But before I begin let me warn you that I’m not interesting in Luther Vandross or Rev. Al Green for this particular playlist.  Those guys are meant for wooing the woman.  I’m looking for something else.  This is game time.  This is music meant to inspire you to reach Charlie Sheen like prowess.  So what better to fuel your competitive libido than …

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