Oh my god, look at that dork.  Jesus, no wonder people hate that song so much.  If I hadn’t just spent my hard-earned American cash on this computer I’d be very tempted to drive my fist right through it.  I apologize if you have been unable to resist that temptation, but I am absolutely not going to reimburse you for it.

Anyway, today we’ll be drafting our own personal drummer boys, more specifically, drummers.  Did they play the drums?  Then they’re eligible.  Look, don’t fuck this up, because that goofy bastard up there is the commissioner, and I do not want to be posting him more than the one time I already did.

Side note before we get started, the last couple of draft I haven’t really been too active because work obligations have gotten in the way.  Tomorrow is no different, with two depositions in the afternoon.  So from 1:30 to 4 you’re on your own, and without telling him beforehand I am arbitrarily appointing Rikki to be substitute commissioner during that time.

What can I say, the guy knows how to abuse power, and I respect that.

Anyway, drummers.  With the first pick I’m taking Buddy Rich.

I’ll get a video of that drum solo in the comments, since I’m a moron and can’t figure out how to do it here.  Well, I probably could, but it’s 11:18 pm and I’m on my second beer, (it was a busy day and night, and you could ask the dwarf why, but that fucker’s signed to an ironclad NDA, so good luck), and I frankly don’t want to.

Quick story, so as to satisfy the #content overlords:  When I was a wee Cornblower I used to drive down to New Haven for the Jazzfest on the town green during the summers.  9 times out of 10 it was me and my friend Rick, neither of whom was 21, trying to find people who’d buy us booze, a goal I’d say we hit 50% of the time.  The rest of our time was spent striking out with various women.  Can’t imagine why women at a jazz fest weren’t interested in a couple of high school dorks with bad haircuts and worse social skills, but that’s New Haven for you!

Then we went on a night when Buddy Rich was the main event.  Rick, who drummed, told me on the way down that this time we were going to watch the show.  No Boone’s Farm, (strawberry, fuck yeah!), no humiliating efforts to get to second base.  Buddy Rich was a god, I was told, and we were by god going to to watch the man drum.  Which he did.

Rick was not wrong, Buddy Rich was a god, and he is the first pick in this week’s draft.  The rest of you are on the clock.