Chicago at Minnesota. Bitch Sox 9, Twins 6.

An odd game of baseball was played tonight at Kirby Puckett Place. The home team which is not, um, known for its hitting generated ample offense against a pitcher heralded as a god (or at least a good starting pitcher , whichever you value more)—but when the god-like starter left, said home team was shut down by a bullpen not known for its divinity. Meanwhile, the home team’s pitcher, a veteran recently playing near the top of his game, had apparently suffered a massive head injury from which he emerged believing that a pitcher is supposed to spot his opponents exactly one run per inning. (He's not.) A catcher who was born the year “Every Breath You Take” was at the top of the charts and who was playing in his 24th big league game, hit two homers. A shortstop better known for bouncing the ball through the infield and running like hell hit a three-run bomb.

Of course, there's very little surprising about the Bitch Sox hitting the holy crap out of the ball, and there's little surprising about Misters Hunter, Jones, and Mientkiewicz having terrible games at the plate. In fact, while yesterday Batgirl made the highly controversial statement that the Twins are a better team than the Bitch Sox, they certainly aren't playing like it. So, if "team" means we work together and really care about each other and snuggle a lot, the Twins are certainly superior. If "team" means we hit the holy crap out of the ball, well, see above.

It's early. Just over a half a season left to play. And the Twins simply cannot play like this the rest of the season. There are laws of the universe at work. Perhaps this is a blessing in clever, nearly impenetrable disguise. One cannot help but think the Twinlets need a little kick in the pants to get them going. And if getting their pants handed to them by the Bitch Sox in two straight series at home doesn't do it, perhaps falling well back of them in the division will.

Yes, the Bitch Sox are playing like the better team; what we need to do is stay close enough in this race while we decide whether or not they really are. We have three months.

As for Freddy Garcia, Batgirl has heard some grumbling of the "why-couldn't-we-get-him" variety. She finds that grumbling bemusing. Freddy Garcia is not our lot in life. Freddy Garcia is the hot girl at the junior high dance who dances with all the jocks while the Twins linger against the walls and talk about Doctor Who. Dancing with the hot girl is simply not who we are, and while we might fantasize about it, we know in reality it ain't gonna happen, any more than Captain Picard is going to come down and take us away from all this. We know this. We accept our place. All we can hope is that somewhere during a conversation about a contest between the Master and Emperor Palpatine, the Daleks and the Borg, a girl sidles up to us and joins the conversation, a girl with ill-fitting glasses, bad acne, a homemade Tardis—and a great curveball.