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Alyssa Milano’s All-Star picks ruin many-a-man’s utopia.

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While doing research for a post about baseball players who use Twitter, I came across Alyssa Milano’s page. Milano’s a heralded Los Angeles Dodger’s fan and she also runs her own women’s baseball clothing line called Touch. There’s nothing hotter than a hot woman who knows baseball and from what I’ve heard, Milano’s a lot more than just another let’s-see-how-loud-I-can-yell-at-the-TV-to-prove-I-know-what-baseball-is fangirl. So naturally, I spent too much time on her page, ogling her words, imagining them coming out of that pretty little mouth of hers.

Kept at full size for your viewing pleasure.

Kept at full size for your viewing pleasure.

Hmmm, Alyssa Milano.

Must…keep…writing.

After browsing through countless posts about Iran, which I really don’t care about, and Tweets on some never-ending Perez Hilton saga, which I could care even less about, I came across this:

Picture 1

So, of course, I visited her blog. If Milano’s the baseball girl I’ve dreamt about for the past 24 years, she’ll certainly have similar picks to me. And if she doesn’t, using her other-womanly and superfluous baseball knowledge, she’ll have very firm reasoning for doing otherwise.

As my browser loaded the site, my heart began doing flips, recognizing that it was close to becoming an Aristophanes’ whole. The clouds separated above my house to reveal not only the sun, but a rainbow that began and ended atop my roof. My dog stopped scratching at the door, sat on the toilet, flushed, then promptly removed her fur, and began showering. It was beautiful.

Our ballots weren’t exactly similar for the American League, but Alyssa’s was far from horrible.

First, she voted Boston’s Dustin Pedroia in over Texas’ Ian Kinsler or Toronto’s Aaron Hill. Then she voted for the Yankee’s Derek Jeter over Jason Bartlett. Then for the American League outfield, she voted in Texas’ Josh Hamilton. The same Josh Hamilton who’s played in just 35 games.

Those choices are, at the very least, debatable, and I am willing to accept that she has good reason for them. Plus, she’s so hot that I can ignore an error here and there.

But as I scrolled down the page, everything came crashing down. The dreams. The Stepford Wife. The prototype. All of it gone. Gone!

You should be ashamed of yourself.

I should have known unicorns don’t really exist, for Milano’s nothing more than just another horrible woman baseball fan with a season ticket and the ability to talk to professional players.

Alyssa, I no longer have any interest in you; you don’t deserve me.

What you deserve is a Brandon Webb sinkerball to the cooter.

Arguments can be made for some Dodgers making the team (Kemp, Hudson, and Blake are pretty good), but James Loney over Albert Pujols is blasphemous, atrocious, abominable, disgraceful, and horrendous. There aren’t enough synonyms for outrageous to prove just how stupid that pick is. She also picked Russell Martin. One home run Martin.

I am crying. Tears of sorrow, tears of blue balls, tears for the many men whose lives also came crashing down on June 22, 2009.

But now we all know. We know that a man-brained woman baseball fan does not exist.

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