Stick's Wide World of....Stuff

2006-03-30T10:32:00.000-08:00

Opening day is less than a week away, so let’s finish off the National League previews, in order of last year’s finish:

1. St. Louis Cardinals 2005 Record 100-62 (805RS, 634RA)

The Breakdown:

Boy do I hate the Cardinals. I hate the Cardinals so much I don’t even know where to start. From the uber-pretentious, self-appointed title of “The Greatest Fans in Baseball” to Tony Larussa being an arrogant piece of shit, to Mark McGwire juicing Roger Maris out of the record book and sticking Maris’ family in the front row to watch it, to powder blue uniforms, to listening to whining about Don Denkinger’s call (especially since the Cardinals thought the call was “No game tomorrow” ‘cause the sons of bitches didn’t even show up in game 7). You pricks realize you haven’t won the World Series since 1982, right? The Royals have won the World Series more recently. And the Marlins and Twins twice each. But you listen to a Cardinal fan carry on and you’d think they were the Yankees. As much as one hates the Yankees, you don’t have any choice but to respect them. The Cardinals just think everyone owes them respect.

The good news for people that hate the Cardinals is that they got worse during the offseason. The bad news is that nobody in their division got better enough to beat their asses on a consistent basis. The Cardinals will score plenty of runs, especially if Lex Luthor Larussa is able to scribble Albert Pujols’ name on his lineup card with any regularity. Albert Pujols isn’t even playing the same game as everyone else. He’s so far better than 99% of major leaguers you can’t even compare him to anyone. He’s the Anti-Brain Dead Carribean Hitter Hacking at Slop Nightly. He’s what Vlad Guerrero would be if he had any control over the strike zone. The only thing you worry about with Pujols is that there’s no way he’s as young as he claims to be. Danny Almonte looked more like a Little Leaguer than Pujols looks 26.
It’s the lineup around him that’s more suspect than in recent years. Larry Walker’s retirement left a big hole that the signing of Juan Encarnacion didn’t come close to filling. Reggie Sanders was a pro’s pro in left and the combination of Larry Bigbie and So Taguchi probably won’t match his production on the field or in the locker room. Jim Edmonds is 36 and has recently reported that he’s having so many problems with his arm, that he can’t even feel his forearm But it is Jim Edmonds, so that probably just means he’s entering an arm wrestling contest next month. Edmonds is the kind of asshole who’d light his own garage on fire just so he could run into his own house and save his kids. If Jim Edmonds was reading this, he’d wait until he had his pap smear appointment, start reading real slow, then plow through the whole column just in time to leave so he could tell his OB/GYN, “Man, I was almost late. I had to read this article, but I just barely got it finished in time!”

Normally, when a team loses Mark Gruzielanek, you’d consider that addition by subtraction, but STL replaced him with former juicemonster, Junior Spivey. Spivey’s played so well this spring that LaRussa may use Aaron Miles at 2nd and LaRussa is the polar opposite of a Catholic priest when it comes to liking young guys. Scott Rolen hasn’t been the same since he ran into Mt. Hee Seop Choi at first base last year. A lot is riding on his busted shoulder. David Eckstein is solid at short and is like a Bizzaro Danny Ainge of Baseball—the guy you hate until he’s on your team. Except you didn’t like Ainge because he was a dirty prick. Eckstein you don’t like because he looks like he should be sweeping the floors at McDonalds and all he does is get big hits. The Cards have some Molina catching for them. I don’t know which one, and frankly, I don’t care. There are so many Molina brothers running around baseball, the Zendejases are shipping their parents a crate of rubbers.

The Cardinals have a strong rotation fronted by Cy Young award winner Chris Carpenter and former Oakland co-ace Mock Mota. Jeff Suppan and Jason Marquis combined for over 400 innings last year. Accomplished wino and batterer Sidney Ponson made the rotation out of camp and is allegedly pitching with a chip on his shoulder since he’s no longer the biggest joke from Aruba. The bullpen is missing some pieces, but with a proven closer in Isringhausen and Braden Looper getting out of NY, they’ll be good enough.

The Prognosis:

As much as I hate these fuckers, there’s no one else in this division ready to win 90 games. Therefore, they’ll finish first again at 93-69. But they’re still fornicators with small woodland creatures .

2. Houston Astros 2005 record 89-73 (693RS, 609RA)

The Breakdown:

If the Astros season goes in the shitter, and it very well might, you can start by thanking cheapass Drayton McLane. While most teams were busy filling holes on their roster, McLane was busy making sure his team didn’t offer arbitration to Roger Clemens and trying to convince the best player in franchise history to hang up his cleats so he could shift the financial responsibility of a guaranteed contract to an insurance company. And then you can thank Roger Clemens. The 6’4” 235 pounder might be one of the greatest ever. But he’s also a huge cockteasing attention whore whose focus is to solidify his own legacy and make a shit load of money being a gate attraction. The guy’s been burned in effigy in Boston, yet his agents are sniffing around for money at Fenway. He played the “I’m Retiring” card in New York for all it was worth, until he got almost $20M a year from Houston to unretire and now he’s feeling out the boss. The guy’s even flirting with the Rangers because he knows how retarded they are with money. I mean, if Chan Ho Park is worth $60M, he might get 3 billions dollars and an ownership stake from Tom Hicks.
The problem is that Clemens doesn’t have enough left in the tank to make it through a whole season—even one in which he skips the first month. He had provisions in his last contract that basically let him come and go as he pleased and he still looked absolutely gassed last October. Don’t get me wrong, what he did last regular season at his age was nothing short of legendary. But to invest such a sizeable percentage of payroll into a guy whose loyalty’s been bought and sold repeatedly. is going to be at least a month late to work, and is clearly on the wrong side of forty seems foolish to me. Unless you’re just trying to sell tickets. And if that’s the case, why not just throw a bearded lady or the Rally Monkey into your rotation?

The Bagwell fiasco was an abomination. How the guy has taken as high a road as he has is beyond me. Are the Astros the first team to get burned on a guaranteed contract? Hell to the no. Suck it up and move on. To deprive the face of your franchise. a strong candidate for the Hall of Fame, and a guy who busted his ass just to get in some semblance of shape that he might be able to lift a bat and pinch hit a couple times last September the chance to see if he’s got enough left to go for one more season is a disgrace. And for what? Money. Some things are more important. And if McLane could unhook his lips from Roger Clemens right ass-cheek for 20 minutes, he might see that.

But whether Clemens or Bagwell come or go, don’t look for Houston to be back in the postseason. The lineup has too many holes and question marks. Wily Taveras could probably beat David Wells to the head of the buffet line—no small feat—but a .325 OBP from the leadoff spot is worse than woeful, especially since he only stole 34 bases when he managed to make it on base. There just isn’t any pop in his bat. Not that it matters since his popless bat rarely comes in contact with the baseball. The best case scenario here is that he goes Bump Bailey up the hill and into flagpole in the opening series and spends the season in a post-concussion support group with Eric Lindross and Troy Aikman. Morgan Ensberg had a decent year last year, but has been inconsistent one year to the next. And if he doesn’t duplicate his success, there’s literally no one to protect Lance Berkman in the order. Berkman missed an entire month but still managed to lead the league in Aw Shucks Likeability and bad cholesterol. Nice job, Lance. But unless the league votes to allow ghost men, there isn’t going to be anyone on base ahead of him to drive in. Adam Everett and Brad Ausmus are serviceable major leaguers, but throwing them out there every day gives opponents 6-9 free outs a game.

Lost amongst the congregation at the Church of Clemens is that Roy Oswalt is simply amazing. If he’s healthy, he wins 20 games. It’s automatic. Andy Pettite, though, is already starting to bitch about retirement and Brandon Backe just isn’t that good. If Clemens isn’t in this rotation, the Astros better break their retractable roof and pray for a hell of a lot of rain. Especially if Brad Lidge doesn’t round back into shape. There’s no reason to think he won’t. He’s saying all the right things. But melting down under the bright lights of the postseason can really fuck you up. If Lidge ends up more Byung Hyun Kim than Mariano Rivera, there’s not much behind him to fall back on.

The Prognosis:

The also-rans of this division are closing the talent gap, fast. The Astros won’t score enough runs to contend. In fact, they aren’t going to score enough runs to finish higher than 4th at 75-87.

3. Milwaukee Brewers 2005 Record 81-81 (726RS, 697RA)

The Breakdown:

The Brewers didn’t finish last? The Brewers finished .500? Congratulations you cheesehead, low-expectation-having pricks. It’s to be expected though. I think the last team that won anything in Milwaukee was Ricky Vaughan and Jake Taylor’s Indians while they pretended County Stadium was Cleveland Muni.
The Brew Crew have finally assembled some young talent but unless the new ownership group is willing to loosen the purse strings and not invest 20% of their payroll in people like Geoff Jenkins, their window of opportunity to win 82 games will close faster than a Miller Park chili stuffed bratwurst can make it from your mouth to your asshole.

Milwaukee has actually become somewhat of a trendy pick to make a postseason push this year. They’re loaded around the infield with Ricky Weeks, JJ Hardy and trendy Rookie of the Year pick Prince Fielder. Fielder’s best days may lie ahead in the AL, because he’s more likely to draw comparisons to Abdullah the Butcher in the field than Keith Hernandez, but it looks like he got some of daddy Cecil’s mashing DNA. He’ll need to bring the thunder since the team traded Lyle Overbay, one of last year’s offensive bright spots to make room for him. New 3rd baseman Corie Koskie came over in that deal (a deal in which Milwaukee didn’t get enough back) and secretly, or not so secretly, Brewer fans have got to be hoping he lands on the DL right about, umm, now to get some more AB’s for Bill Hall.
Around the outfield are the aforementioned money pit Geoff Jenkins, Brady Clark and Carlos Lee. Lee had a monster year last year and Clark was solid. The Brewers definitely have the potential to score runs in bunches, but should see a ton of rally killing whiffs and double plays.

Milwaukee could have one of the more underrated rotations pending the health of Ben Sheets. They locked him up as a franchise pitcher only to see him go down towards the end of last season. Without him in front of it, the rotation quickly looks pedestrian. Chris Capuano won 18 games last year, but his H/9, BB and HR were all high so unless he corrects those, his luck should balance out this year.
The bullpen is average. Derrick Turnbow saved a bunch of games last year, but getting him the ball with the lead could be an issue. Former Brewer closer and Atlanta Brave washout Dan Kolb returns for another tour of duty but doesn’t miss a lot of bats and raises questions in the set up role.

The Prognosis:

I think Milwaukee is still at least a year away from being any sort of real threat to the postseason. The inexperience will play a factor, as well as the lack of depth should anyone go down for an extended period of time. Enjoy another .500 season at 81-81 and an identical third place finish. You still have to be in Milwaukee though, suckers.

4. Chicago Cubs 2005 Record 79-83 (703RS, 714RA)

The Breakdown:

What hurts a Cubs fan most? Watching Boston break their octadecadeal championship drought or all the cuts, scratches and bruises they got leaping onto the White Sox bandwagon? I mean, Hawk and Wimpy were like the only White Sox fans on the planet until about 8 months ago. Now everyone claims they’ve been a Sox fan since birth, even though they wouldn’t drive their Mercedes SUV through the south side of Chicago if it was being pulled by The Flash. But enough about a good baseball team, this preview is about the Cubs.

I’ll give the Cubs some credit: They blew Prior and Wood out so early this year they actually have a game plan that doesn’t depend on either one of them seeing the field any time soon. You can teach a really stupid animal not to do something pretty quickly by busting it on the nose with a rolled up newspaper. Maybe someone ought to try that with the Cubs’ front office. Perhaps a rolled up Chicago Sun Times sports section with a headline that reads “Prior to DL, Again” or “Wood Shelved With Sore Shoulder.” When exactly do you figure out that some guys are durable and some guys are injury prone? Kerry Wood already reached his peak, morons. In his first start. It was bound to be down hill from there. He’s got the fastball of Nolan Ryan but his body is made out of the same stuff Sam Bowie’s legs are. And Prior doesn’t even look like he gives a shit. He’s Captain I’m So Mature for My Age and looks about as happy to be playing ball as a 30 year old guy getting ready to get a circumcision from Stevie Wonder using a hedge trimmer. Yet year after year, these guys land on the shelf, fans shake their heads, and the team fails to live up to expectations.

This year, hopefully, Carlos Zambrano will start getting the run he deserves. Instead of worrying about how many starts Puss and Pussier are missing, Cubbie fans ought to be flocking to the ones Zambrano is making. Zambrano has the stuff to be very, very special and a #1 guy for a long time. He’ll take the pressure off the rest of the rotation, with or without its more fragile components. Glendon Rusch looks like he’ll be a starter this year and with HOF’r Maddux behind him, it gives the Cubs a different look day to day. The rotation should chew up innings and the bullpen isn’t half bad. Ryan Dempster could turn out to be yet another failed starter turned outstanding closer. He saved 33 out of 35 chances last year. The Cubs threw big contracts at Bobby Howry and Scott Eyre and if they earn them, the bullpen could easily turn out to be the strength of the club.

The Corey Patterson experiment is finally over and Juan Pierre is the new, better suited, centerfielder and lead off man. He should easily score 120+ runs with Derrek Lee and Aramis Ramirez chasing him in. Lee had a breakout year and probably won’t be a legitimate triple crown threat, but he should still go for 30-100 as should Ramirez provided he’s healthy. Rookie Matt Murton is going to be given the left field job and hit well in a look last season. Jacque Jones won’t make anyone forget Sammy Sosa’s best years in right, but neither did Jeromy Burnitz. Michael Barrett hit 16 bombs and drove in 61 last year which was good enough to make the USA World Baseball Classic team, but not Italy’s.

The Prognosis:

For some reason, I’m high on the Cubs. There should be low expectations, especially since the far better team is playing on the other side of town, and this group of personalities might be better suited to playing out of the limelight. I think the Cubs will surprise and finish second, a game better than the Brewers at 83-81. Place your bets now on the date Dusty Baker decides to have Zambrano go both ends of a double header.

5. Cincinnati Reds 2005 Record 73-89 (820RS, 889RA)

The Breakdown:

Did you know that only 3 teams in baseball and no teams in the National League scored more runs than the Reds last year? Did you know that only 2 teams in baseball and no teams in the National League allowed more runs than the Reds last year? The air might be rarified in Colorado, but apparently the ballpark is just too damned small in Cincinnati.
The Reds, after gaining new ownership, are obviously in a transition stage in the front office. It’s a good thing there’s a feasible excuse for after a couple of years of dicking around with their overcrowded outfield situation, they finally deal Willy Mo Pena for Brandon Arroyo. The Reds didn’t really need Pena since they obviously know how to score runs, but Brando Arroyo? Arroyo isn’t going to make anyone forget about Jose Rijo, but he may get people to forget that Eric Milton served up 40 gopherballs last year, because he might double that. I mean, was Jose Lima not available?
There’s no reason why the Reds staff won’t give up close to as many runs as they gave up last year. Aaron Harang is a solid #3 guy, but he’s the best the Reds have. And that’s not good. And when the starters aren’t around after 3 or 4 innings, the bullpen is full of gas cans, retreads, and never-will-be’s.

And that was the good news. The bad news is that the Reds lineup isn’t anywhere near as potent as it was last year. Joe Randa and Sean Casey are gone, turning the corners over to Edwin Encarnacion and Scott Hatteberg. Hatteberg, of course, is best known for having a whole chapter of a bestselling book written about him. It was a very insightful book and really opened some eyes around baseball. You might have heard of it, it’s called “How to Justify a Roster Spot for a Shitty White Stiff.” I don’t care how many times Hatteberg is going to walk because unless he’s batting ahead of Dunn or Griffey Jr., he isn’t going to get driven in. Encarnacion is best known for having 5 syllables in his last name.
You have to genuinely feel bad for Griffey Jr. He took a below-market contract to play at home when he was the biggest name in the game and was rewarded for it by having his legs turn into cheap stemware. There’s plenty left in Griffey’s bat though. He delivered 35 bombs in only 128 games last year. The Reds might be wise to use him as sparingly this year if they can get that kind of production.
Adam Dunn is one of the best sluggers in the game. He’s what Rob Deer and Pete Incaviglia could have been. The guy does whiff. A lot. But he also walks a lot. And he could easily hit 50 HR.
Felipe Lopez, who I discovered is not the same guy that played basketball at St. Johns, thought he was hot shit, then ended up in the Mexican League or something, Tony Womack, Rich Aurilia, and town drunk Ryan Freel will combine for most of the rest of the AB’s. Told you this was the bad news.

The Prognosis:

There will be better days ahead in The Nati, just not many this year. The Reds are gonna finish dead, stinkin’ last at 71-91. And I hope Joe Morgan agonizes over every single loss. That prick.

6. Pittsburgh Pirates 2005 Record 67-95 (680RS, 769RA)

I was fortunate enough to be able to sit down with new Pirates skipper Jim Tracy to talk about his expectations for the upcoming season. Here’s how it went down.

Me: Mr. Tracy, thanks a lot for taking the time to sit down with someone who very often ridiculed you under his breath and publicly during your tenure with the Dodgers. Tell me a little about your decision to take the position with the Pirates.

JT: Well, if you’re asking me if it was a tough choice choosing between a minor league gig in Butthump, Arkansas or a big league job in a town where your lungs burn of acrid, steel smoke and the ladies’ idea of night-out attire is a Ben Rothlisberger jersey and stirrup pants, then the answer is ‘yes.’ It was a tough decision. But am I excited for the opportunity to play all the percentages to the letter with only 13 fans to care if I manage us out of 4 ballgames a week? You bet I am.

Me: Um. Ok. How are you feeling about your lineup this year?

JT: Do we have some holes? Sure we do. Are we doing the best we can with a payroll lower than the average household income in Flint, Michigan? Of course we are. Does that mean we have to acquire horrible players like our right fielder? You’re damned right. Am I excited to watch that Canadian guy play left field? I’d have to say the answer is yes. Do I think Joe Randa deserves a job in the big leagues? Maybe not, but we have to work with what we have to work with. Is watching Sean Casey run windsprints about as fun as watching two old people fuck? I’m inclined to say ‘yes.’

Me: Jim, you’re beginning to frighten me. How’s the pitching staff look? Were you excited to be able to bring over your old pitching coach, Jim Colborn?

JT: Is our staff the youngest in the league? Yes it is, but we’ve got some good arms down there. Do I wish we had a couple Japanese guys since Colby speaks Japanese? Of course I do, I mean look at how Kaz Ishii turned out. Could I tell you the first name of anyone in the bullpen? Or the last name if it wasn’t on the back of their jersey? Well, I thought really hard about this and the answer is ‘no.’ Do I make beat reporters jobs really easy? Of course I do, I have to be good at something other than having a really weird, stern jaw.

Me: Last question Trace, how are the Buccos gonna do this year and does anyone actually give a shit?

JT: Are we gonna finish last? The answer is no. Is Cincinnati a worse ball club than we are? By a slim margin, the answer is yes. Can we win 90 games? It’s only noon, so I’m not quite drunk enough to say ‘yes’ to that. Will we finish 5th? Probably. Is a record of 75-87 something we can achieve? You bet your booty.

Me: That’s all the time I have Mr. Tracy. You’re a really weird fucking guy.

JT: You punk.

NL East Preview

2006-03-24T13:54:00.000-08:00

After the critical acclaim, accolades and Pulitzer Prize nomination garnered by the National League West preview, it’s time to turn our attention to the other coast. Not that anyone on the other coast doesn’t already think we’ve got our attention on them. Eastcentric fuckers.

Once again, in order of last year’s finish:

1. Atlanta Braves 2005 Record 90-72 (769RS, 674RA)

The Breakdown:

The Braves don’t have a closer, or anything really resembling one. Andruw Jones has probably peaked and probably can’t come close to duplicating his career year last year. Leo Mazzone is gone and has been replaced by a guy who’s as likely to give a pitcher a hot foot as polish his slider. They traded for a Colombian shortstop who got his birth certificate from the Dominican Republic.

Seems like every season, there’s a list of similar questions revolving around the Braves in the offseason. And every season, they answer them and win the division. Since the last time the Braves didn’t finish first in the NL East, we’ve seen 3 US Presidents, 2 Gulf Wars and Kelly Taylor anorexic, raped, coked out, nearly burned to death, shot, seen naked by her stepbrother, and saved not-yet-famous Jessica Alba’s baby from being adopted by a couple of gay dudes. So why bet against them?

Well, for starters, they’re damned easy to hate. For a guy my age, the Braves were one of two teams broadcast nationally on cable during the golden age of the “superstations.” They were the self-dubbed “America’s Team.” “America’s Team?” Please. If America had a team, it wouldn’t have human cockroaches like Otis Nixon and Lonnie Smith playing for it. If America had a team, it wouldn’t suck for the entire decade of the 80’s. If America had a team, it wouldn’t wait until 1989 to acquire Oddibe McDowell. And if America had a team, it sure has hell would finish its goddamned games in its allotted broadcast time slot so I could watch NWA Wrestling not “already in progress.”

Just about any team in baseball would trade their top 2 guys in their rotation for John Smoltz and Tim Hudson, but behind them, the rotation and the bullpen are inexperienced. The loss of Leo Mazzone could turn out to be a huge factor or not one at all. But at least National League fans don’t have to watch him convulsing on the dugout bench like Katherine Hepburn with a case of the DT’s anymore.

The core of the lineup is solid if Marcus Giles, Chipper Jones (is there anything more ear grating than listening to Pete Van Wieren nasaly intone “there’s a chopper to Chipper?” Maybe Yoko Ono singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” Maybe.) and Andruw Jones are healthy. The corner outfielders are young, but they have some upside. Plus if Langerhans and Francoeur don’t work out, they can always be a European buddy cop show. He’s a no-nonsense tough guy from the mean streets of Munich. He’s a French pastry chef who moonlights as a crime fighter. It’d be like Cagney and Lacey, but less masculine.

The Prognosis:

Bobby Cox and John Schuerholtz have their work cut out for them. The Mets have built a team to win now, but until someone actually finishes ahead of them, I’m sticking with Atlanta to finish first with an identical 90-72 record.

2. Philadelphia Phillies 2005 Record 88-74 (807RS, 726RA)

The Breakdown:

Did anyone outside of Barry Bonds have a worse offseason than the Phillies? I mean you look at Philly’s offseason highlights and it reads like this:

--Hired Stand Pat Gillick to run the team
--Gave Jim Thome away for the good ol’ “defensive centerfielder” and paid a bunch of his salary.
--Couldn’t get anyone to trade for their best player.
--Jimmy Rollins’ didn’t die so his hitting streak isn’t broken.

What does it say about Bobby Abreu that even sabermetricinerd GM’s won’t even touch him? It says he’s about as interested in winning a baseball game as Tom Cruise buying a season pass for the Spice Channel. It says he does a 162-game long Ben Stein impersonation. It says he makes Shawn Green look like Jose Lima by comparison.
But the guy can hit. So can Rollins and Chase Utley. Ryan Howard is having a monster spring and if he carries it over to the regular season and gets over his fear of hitting the ball when it’s thrown from someone’s left hand, the Phils should score a lot of runs.

Phillies Ace Jon Lieber (hee hee, I just like to type that and laugh) fronts a rotation that actually isn’t as bad as it looks when you look at the guys who are in it. They will definitely rack up some innings. And they’re going to have to with Tom Gordon (who’s too old to close) and Arthur Rhodes (who’s too scared to close) being the best arms in a pedestrian bullpen.

Charlie Manuel is a welcome change from redass Larry Bowa and it showed last year when the Phillies managed to stay in contention until the last week of the season since they weren’t plotting the assassination of their manager.

The Prognosis:

It’s going to be a long summer for Phillie Nation. One the positive side, they won’t be anywhere near as horrible as Florida and Washington are going to be. But they won’t be able to run with the Mets or the Braves. So the Fans with the Most Ridiculous Sense of Self-Entitlement in America will do what they always do—take a bronze and bitch that they deserve better. 3rd place, 80-82.

3. New York Mets 2005 Record 83-79 (722RS, 648RA)

The Breakdown:

After last season’s marquee additions of Pedro Martinez and Carlos Beltran, GM Omar Minaya continued his quest to win the hearts and minds of New Yorkers who, for some reason, would rather watch a good baseball team than the Mets. And he’s under the mistaken impression that the entire city and state of New York is as fascinated by Latinos as he is.
He got rid of Mike Cameron for Xavier Nady.
He got rid of Jae Seo for Duaner Sanchez.
He traded Mike Jacobs and a bunch of currency with white people on it for Carlos Delgado.
He gave 47 year-old (and that’s what he’s admitting to!) Julio Franco a 2 year contract.
He agreed to employ tit-on-a-bull-useless Jose Valentin.
He got David Wright to change his last name to Rrrright.
He traded for Paul Lo Duca thinking “Lo Duca” was just Spanish for “The Duck” or something, not realizing he’s a 4 foot Italian dude from Brooklyn.
He lets Jose Reyes play an entire season and he only gets to first base about as often as I did in high school.
He got Billy Wagner because he needed a closer and hey, everyone needs a Scott Hastings type at the end of their bench.
I give it about 6 more weeks before Omar, Cesar Chavez, Vicente Fox and Fernando Valenzuela get in a black van, drive to Fenway Park and forcibly abduct Manny Ramirez from Boston.

Omar may get a little stick for the complexion of his roster, but the guy has put together a pretty good team on paper and one that’s got enough names and personalities to get people to tune into the Mets new TV station, ¡WNYM!.
Beltran is due for a much better year, one year removed from the pressure of signing a contract that Jon Koncak thinks is ridiculous. Rumor has it he’ll be able to afford Uncle Buck’s rat to gnaw the giant mole off the side of his face.
You can write down Delgado’s 30/100 in permanent ink and David Rrrright is poised to jump into the realm of superstardom. Hopefully Mets fans will get to see it before Omar trades him for a pack of tortillas and the Taco Bell Chihuahua. When healthy, Cliff Floyd can be one of the more underrated outfielders in the league. The Mets should definitely put some runs on the board.

Pedro Martinez’ ingrown toenail is a potential disaster for a rotation without a lot of depth. At times, Tom Glavine seems to be hanging around just to pad his win total. He only struck out 105 guys in 211 innings last year. And though he’s never been a huge strikeout guy, unless he starts throwing a knuckler, you wonder how much longer he can keep getting guys out. Much like LA somehow signed the wrong Guerrero (older brother Wilton instead of Vladimir), the Mets ended up with the wrong Zambrano. The good one is dealing at Wrigley Field. Steve Trachsel is so old, I have clear memories of Harry Carey slurring his name.
Billy Wagner is huge at the end and should pick up plenty of saves in 7-5 and 9-6 ballgames. Duaner Sanchez is underrated and will be a solid, if not spectacular setup man.

The Prognosis:

The Mets are built to win in a very small window. If this is the year someone ends Atlanta’s strangle hold on the division title, this could be it. Instead, I give the Mets a second place finish via tiebreaker and the NL Wild Card at 90-72. And if the Mets do somehow win the World Series, the victory parade will have to wait. Until Cinco de Mayo, 2007.

4. Florida Marlins 2005 Record 83-79 (717RS, 732RA)

The Breakdown:

Well, what would a Marlins preview be without a fire sale? The guys that coined the phrase in the 90’s brought some serious lighter fluid and kindling this year. They killed, gutted and violated the corpse of a pretty decent team. All in the name of holding Miami hostage so they can get a new stadium or move somewhere else and get one. I’m not going to debate whether the tactic is right or wrong, because in all honesty, it makes good business sense. There isn’t a lot of revenue flowing through the Fish so it’s kind of hard to pay good players without losing your ass every year.

Gone are….everybody. Dontrelle Willis and Miguel Cabrera are left. They’re trying to sign those two to long term deals, but if you’re either, why would you? If they perform anywhere near their capabilities, they’ll either clean up in arbitration or have enough leverage to sign good dollar 1 or 2 year deals until they can become free agents and go play for a good franchise.

I guess the good news for the Marlins is that they picked up some decent prospects for all the major leaguers they dealt and they’ll get to see if they’re any good sooner rather than later. The bad news is that nobody’s heard of any of the dudes they’re going to be trotting out.

I mean, if the opportunity of watching the development of guys like Jacob Michaels, Wes Kinkade, Miguel Aguila, Chris Stokes, and Alfredo Uggla doesn’t put a little spring into your step as you head over to Dolphins Stadium for another mid-summer rain delay, what’s gonna?

The Prognosis:

I’d predict any Triple-A team that played a whole season in the bigs to finish dead last. So that’s where the Marlins will be: 70-92.

5. Washington Nationals 2005 Record 81-81 (639RS, 673RA)

The Breakdown:

Frank Robinson is a bad mother fucker. The guy was a 13 time All-Star, MVP in both leagues, the Rookie of the Year, won a Triple Crown, only 57 hits shy of 3,000, 4th on the all-time HR list when he retired and the big leagues’ first minority manager. Last year, 70 year old FR, upset that Angels’ pitcher Brendan Donnelly had to resort to sandpaper and pine tar to get his hitters out, not only did Frank Robinson raise holy hell and get Donnelly removed from the game, but he also tried to beat the shit out of Angels’ skipper Mike Scioscia when he gave him some lip about it. And in case you’re not keeping score, Scioscia’s about 25 years younger and 50 lbs bigger than Frank Robinson.

So how does baseball reward such a highly regarded former player and manager? By sticking him in charge of a league-owned, Jim Bowden-run, former Expos franchise that plays its home games in a fucking soccer stadium.

Your welcome, Frank. Thanks for all the good years.

Much has been made of the Alfonso Soriano situation the last few days, and while Soriano is an idiot for being insubordinate and not sucking it up and doing what he needs to do to collect his $62,000 per game salary, General Manager Jim Bowden is equally clueless for trading for a second baseman and banking on the fact that he can be a left fielder. Hey Jim, why don’t you hire me to repair your car? Or grab the wino outside the stadium to fly the team plane? Hell, why don’t you hire Isaiah Thomas to be your assistant? Jim Bowden is a perfect example of Baseball’s Good Ol’ Boys’, errrrrr Good Ol’ White Boys’ club. The same shitty managers and executives keep getting recycled from team to team whenever there’s a need while guys like Ozzie Guillen have to wait for the scraps from the Country Club Kitchen. Or they’ll pass them up for retarded white people like Paul Depodesta.

Bowden gave big contracts Vinny Castilla, who’s since left for San Diego, and Cristian Guzman, who’s since forgotten how to play baseball worth a shit. He made the aforementioned Soriano trade which makes a ton of sense since they’ll be paying a guy $10M to play out of position in a horrible hitters’ park and who’s eligible for free agency next year. It might make some shred of sense if Soriano was a piece that was going to put this club over the top, but they’re playing in the same division as the Mets, Braves and Phillies, their ace looks like he just ate Bartolo Colon and Wilson Alvarez and washed them down with Lake Erie, their 3rd baseman has all of 80 some odd days of professional experience, their right fielder has spent about 80 days on the suspended list the last couple of years, and they lost a key bullpen piece for the year in the World Baseball Classic. All I’m saying is that the $10M he’s paying Soriano could have been much better spent—like greasing some Senators’ pockets to get a stadium deal done.

The Prognosis:

They’re going to win more games than roommates DC United and they can’t be as bad as Florida. Can they? I’ll pick them 4th at 76- 86.

Tune in next week when we get to make fun of the Cubs and the Cardinals!

P.S. All those players for the Marlins I mentioned, aside from Dontrelle Willis and Miguel Cabrera are completely fictional. I just mixed up first and last names of random guys on the 40 man roster.
Bet you didn't even notice, did you? Fuck them.

Baseball's Back: NL West Preview

2006-03-21T15:01:00.000-08:00

Well, I’m back from hibernation. Just in time for baseball season. Which means 6 more months of beating my head against a wall.
In what may turn out to be a full National League preview, here’s my 2006 NL West Division preview in order of last year’s finish:

1. San Diego Padres 2005 Record: 82-80 (684RS, 726RA)

The Breakdown:

The Padres feature a murderer’s row of Brian Giles, Mike Piazza, Vinny Castilla, and Ryan Klesko. Well, if it was 1999, it would be considered a murderer’s row when that group combined to mash 133 bombs, drive in hundreds of runs, and rammed 385 doses of bovine growth hormone into their collective ass cheeks. But in 2006, these has-been fucks will have combined for 144 years on the planet. The only good thing about that is that none of these dudes are Dominican, so at least San Diego can feel good about their actual ages, though Vinny Castilla’s immigration status could be a problem should California get strict with the border security issues.

The Padres should catch the ball with Dave Roberts covering left field and Khalil Spicoli at short. Mike Cameron will provide excellent range in center which will not only help cut down doubles in the gap, but also prevent guys stealing second from scoring when Piazza throws the ball into right center. The “X’ Factor will be how Cameron’s range will be inhibited by his wearing a football helmet on the field.

The top of the rotation is strong with Jake Peavy and Chris Young. Peavy is one of the most dominant pitchers in the league period and a preseason Cy Young candidate. Chris Young is trying to build off of a very successful rookie campaign in a launching pad of a ballpark. After the top two, the rotation falls off a cliff with castoffs Woody Williams, Shawn Estes and Chan-Ho Park. You’ve gotta feel for a guy like Chan-Ho Park. When you think of his career, what immediately comes to mind? The $60M contract he didn’t even come close to living up to? The flying judo kick during a fight at the mound? Serving up Barry Bonds’ record breaking home run? Tossing some pus right down the middle of the dish to Cal Ripken’s Corpse in the All-Star game? Or maybe you’re like me and you just wonder if he’s related to the venue where the Cubs have spring training—HoHoKam Park. Either way, it’s not been a great career for Mr. Park. But look on the bright side—his government just waived his mandatory military service for Korea’s performance in the World Baseball Classic.

The bullpen is once again anchored by 38 year-old Trevor Hoffman. Seems like it’s been going on 5 years that everyone expects Hoffman to finally fall victim to Padre Tiempo, but all he does is go out and dominate with one of the greatest changeups the game’s ever seen. The K/BB ratio and ERA aren’t what they once were, but the guy went out and went 43 for 46 in Save opportunities last year. He’s one guy I wouldn’t bet against.
The guys who are supposed to get him the ball with the lead is another story. Take a walk down memory lane with me. Remember back when you were a kid and you’d open a dozen packs of Topps cards and when the wax and shitty gum had settled, you had 2 good cards and 15 each of some guy who barely made the 40 man roster, who you’d never heard of, yet somehow he’d managed to stitch together a career? That’s the rest of the Padres’ bullpen. It’s Hoffman and a handful of Al Pedriques, Tim Teuffels, Vance Laws, and Craig Lefferts.

The Prognosis:

The Padres were way upside down last year in their Runs Scored vs. Runs Allowed and backed in to the division crown on account of everyone else being shittier. They really are the epitome of the boardroom scene in Major League:

“I ain’t heard of half these guys and the ones I have heard of are way past their prime.”

“Some of these guys never had a prime.”

This team is older and worse than they were last year, but due to the expected continued mediocrity of everyone else, they’ll finish 3rd, at 78-84.

2. Arizona Diamondbacks 2005 Record: 77-85 (696RS, 856RA)

The Breakdown:

Arizona could be the sleeper team of this crappy division or they could just as easily be battling Colorado for the basement. They’re very left-handed in the projected lineup with Mr. Rush Counsell, Chad Tracy, Luis Gonzalez, and Shawn Green all starting when healthy and on non-Jewish High Holidays. However, with Counsell battling shoulder problems, there’s a strong possibility that rookie Steven Drew could start the season at short. If Drew turns out to be a durable, non-pussy version of his older brother JD, AZ could have itself a franchise SS. The aforementioned Green and Gonzalez are clearly on the downside of their careers, but if healthy should have no problem combining for 40 HR and 140 RBI. Chad Tracy is poised for a breakout year, but will he put it together or fall victim to the hype? The local media has been fawning over this guy since he was brought up a couple of years ago. If this team is going to succeed, he’s going to have a big year. Orlando Hudson and Eric Byrnes will provide quality defense and energy up the middle, but Troy Glaus’ 37 bombs are going to be sorely missed. Phenom Conor Jackson won’t be having his glove cast gold any time soon, but the 1B job is his to lose, relegating Tony Clark, his 30+ homers, and his amazingly prematurely aged dome to a reserve role. Conor Jackson also represents the beginning of the Era of the Generation of Pretentiously Named Fucking Children. Expect Caleb Jones, Bailey Smith and Carter Brown to round out the infield in the next couple of years.

This staff is what experts and pundits like to refer to as “a fucking mess.” Brandon Webb is a younger, Arsenio Hall-shaped headed version of Derek Lowe. Minus the World Series heroics, no-hitter and 20 win seasons. Webb is a #3, #2 at best who’s been stuck in the #1 hole due to the lack of options. Now that Chan Ho Park’s deal is coming off the books, Russ Ortiz is now the proud owner of the worst contract in baseball. Ortiz is the 3rd highest paid player on the team and probably like the 39th best player on the 40 man roster. Plus he looks like that fat punk kid from your little league team who could throw ok but he was the coach’s kid so he got to pitch all the time. Boy, what a rat-faced fucker he is. Oh yeah, he’s got nothing left in his arm either. So just keep trying to pitch up in the zone, dick, when your 4-seamer’s topping out at 87.
Did I mention Ortiz is #2 on the depth chart? Filling out the rotation are Miguel Batista, back for a 2nd tour with AZ (from Tor. in the salary-dumperrific Troy Glaus deal), El Duque, who’s winning his bet with Fernando Valenzuela about who can get away with lying about their age by the biggest margin, and whoever picks the winner on the Jumbotron Ketchup, Mustard, and Relish race.

The Arizona bullpen is in much the same same as San Diego’s, except without the Hall of Famer anchoring it. Arizona’s closer is Jose Valverde whose nickname, we’re told, is “Papa Grande.” “Papa Grande” is brought to you by the same corporate weenie nicknaming group that brought you The G-Force (an ‘homage’ to the Astros’ Killer B’s), Bank One Big Flies (a corporate shill of a home run call) and D’Baxter D’Bobcat (worst mascot in history from the town that is home to the Phoenix Suns’ Gorilla and ought to know better.)

The Prognosis:

This team might score the same amount of runs but there’s just not enough pitching here or on the horizon. Arizona has some exciting impact position players near ready, but there aren’t any arms at high A ball. They’ll be in the scrum in the middle of the pack, my prediction: 75-87, good for fourth.

3. San Francisco Giants 2005 Record 75-87 (649RS, 745RA)

The Breakdown:

First off, let me say, “Fuck the Giants. Fuck them with a dirty syringe”

Ah, that felt good.

Next let me say, “Holy shit is this team ever old!”

The only thing more cliché when talking about the Giants than bringing up the ‘roids is their age. But holy shit is this team ever old! Let’s get the Barry Bonds thing out of the way: Blah blah, this team will do as well depending on how much Bonds plays. It sucks not to have much more insight than that, but it really is true. And the way things are looking right now is ‘not good.’ The Giant’s spring training camp is having wet dreams over the fact that Bonds scored from first on a double. That’s like giving the C- student the attendance award at school—you gotta accentuate the mediocrity.
Newcomer Randy Winn better be ready to cover a lot of cavernous ground at TPFKASBC-Park with Bonds being fitted for a walker in left and Moises Alou in right. Moises Alou is so old teammates can’t distinguish him from his old-ass father who manages the team. Felipe Alou is so old he can’t distinguish himself from his son who pisses on his own hands and often has to be returned to the dugout by the right field line ball boy when he goes wandering off in an Alzheimeric stupor on his way out to the mound. The 4th outfielder is Steve Finley who’s older than Alou and who’s production went off the cliff last year like the paper mountain climber on Price is Right. Omar Vizquel is still class at short and Pedro Feliz has some upside offensively at third, but Ray Durham is on the way down and Lance Niekro only walked 17 times in over 300 PA last year.

Matt Morris was a high-profile acquisition and should provide a solid 1-2 punch with a supposedly healthy Jason Schmidt. But Schmidt’s velocity has fallen victim to the Bermuda Triangle or the Juice Monster and has had to learn to pitch without the plus fastball that made him a Cy Young candidate in the early 2000’s. Noah Lowry had a solid 05 with a sub-4.00 era and 200 innings which is exactly what you want out of your #3 spot. Matt Cain projects to be in the rotation but needs to demonstrate better command (19BB in only 46IP).

Tim Worrell returns to the Giants’ pen after a stint in Philly and combines with former Cardinal Steve Kline for some needed depth behind Armando Benitez. Benitez’ 05 season was destroyed by injuries and he’s already reporting a barking knee in Spring Traning. The Giant division and wild card winners of the recent past had a rock solid Robb Nenn closing games and with a young rotation behind Schmidt and Morris, the bullpen has to step up for them.

The Prognosis:

With the distractions and the health problems, it’s hard to see Bonds playing more than 100 games, and even then, how many AB’s is he going to get? He should still preoccupy an opposing manager when in the lineup but there are too many if’s and too many miles on this team to see them finishing any higher than 2nd. But Brian Sabean has gotten more out of less before. My prediction: 81-81, 2nd place.

4. Los Angeles Dodgers 2005 Record 71-91 (685RS, 755RA)

The Breakdown:

LA is the trendy pick (and my pick because I’m a shamelessly biased bastard) in the NL West. Choose your “expert analysis” as to why:

a) Ned Coletti infused a horrible locker room with character guys who know how to win, shed the bad seeds, and didn’t tie up dollars blocking the paths of one of baseball’s richest farm systems

b) (*stat-lover bitch alert*) LA is due for a massive regression to the mean injury-wise. No team was as close last season in games lost to injury. There’s no way it can be as bad as it was last year (as a lifelong Dodger fan, let me tell you, it can always be worse than last year).

c) Everyone else is really fucking bad.

LA is still sorely hurting for power bats. Jeff Kent is the steadiest presence, but like many guys, the age shoe is ready to drop. Throw in a wrist surgery late in the winter and Kent could easily struggle to put up 20HR this year. JD Drew spends his days in church thanking his Maker that Russ Ortiz makes as much as he does so someone in the division is overpaid more than him. People will say Drew was unlucky last year to have been hit in the wrist and have it broken. I say “bullshit.” Drew misses months and months every single year for one reason or another. One idiot’s “luck” is another man’s “trend.” And he’ll miss a bunch more games this year. When Drew lands on the DL after severing a finger opening his Happy Meal, the lineup features a huge dearth of power. Nomar can’t be expected to regain his old stroke, especially playing as many games as he will at Dodger Stadium, Petco Park and Not-Candlestick Park.
Rafael Furcal is an impact free agent and should set the table along with Kenny Lofton, but Coletti lost his bet when he gambled on Gold Glove winner Cesar Izturis’ recovery time from Tommy John surgery. Izturis is the best defensive shortstop in the league, possibly in baseball. He’s projected to return to major league action by early may rather than the All-Star break. This has the makings of exactly the kind of locker room disaster Coletti tried to avoid by getting rid of basket case, Milton Bradley. With a healthy Izturis, you have one excellent shortstop sitting behind an above average one who happens to make $10M more than he does. Izturis doesn’t want to move to 2nd. Kent sure as hell doesn’t want to move to 1st. Nomar’s head is still spinning from learning to play first to move to the OF. Nomar should make it easy by blowing out his knee playing X-Box next week though.

The rotation expects to be solid, though unspectacular. Brad Penny, one year removed from vaginosis of the biceps, claims to have regained the snap on his curve. Derek Lowe is going to try not to wreck his home with any more reporters. Odalis Perez looks like he had his stomach stapled in the offseason. Brett Tomko is an ex-Giant fuckbag who is still very much Vince McMahonly in cahoots with Brian Sabean and is going to throw every start he makes against them. Jae Sao fills the #5 spot and wears glasses on the mound that he couldn’t break if he threw his fastball at them.

No player in baseball outside of Barry Bonds means more to his team’s success this year than Eric Gagne. Gagne is the face of the franchise, and not in a patronizing, look at the cute little guy hustle Paul LoDuca-y kind of way either. The guy has the sickest stuff outside of RBI Baseball on Nintendo. Much has been made of his velocity drop, but even in the low 90’s, Gagne can easily dominate with the best changeup in baseball or his Bugs Bunny curveball. If Gagne comes back to save 40+ games, it cuts the games to 6 or 7 innings and prevents Grady Little from having to make an actual decision. Danys (Danys?) Baez has closer stuff to fill the setup role and push one-pitch pony Yhency Brazoban back an inning.

The Prognosis:

Although 162-0 is definitely doable, I don’t want to damage my credibility by making such a bold prediction. LA is definitely the favorite and will have to face the expectations and perform. My prediction 87-75, 1st place.

5. Colorado Rockies

Fuck those shitty fuckers, I’m not wasting my time with them.

Alright Redneck Fuckwads, Here’s You’re Chance

2005-11-02T15:40:00.000-08:00

The government really is out to get you! They know where you live, from deepest darkest Kingman, AZ to Unabomberville, MT. They know about your 14 automatic assault rifles, 32 shotguns, 4 Tek-9’s, the Ted Nugent signature model hunting bow with the Bo and Luke Duke Exploding Arrows, the Nazi bayonet you picked up on eBay, the tow-behind howitzer, and the anti-aircraft installment under the hay pile behind your trailer. And they know they can pry them all out of your cold, dead hand (as soon as your hand, along with the rest of your compound, stop being on fire).

The Fedrill Guvment IS using your tax dollars to eliminate the white race.
The Fedrill Guvment IS covering up the fact that they blew up the Pentagon themselves.
The Fedrill Guvment DID take Hee Haw and The A-Team off the air.

And now they’re raising Outbreak chickens in Nixon’s secret rice field plantation in Vietnam with a nasty bird flu, just so they can release it on you and make you give more money to Big Pharmaceuticals!

Well what the fuck are you gonna do about it, Jethro?

Git on your phone, horse or pick-em-up truck and get hold of all your crack-head buddies and tell ‘em to quit cooking meth and start cooking Tamiflu.
You telling me you degenerate fucks can figure out how to turn some bleach and cold medicine into speed, but you can’t figure out how to make some flu medicine?
There are 330 million Americans who want a piece of that because the Fedrill Guvment ain’t done shit to help them out—way more people than your junkie ass is normally dealing to.

So get cracking, Cracker. If not to make money, to piss off Uncle Sam. Or Big Brother.
Or whoever the fuck you’re paranoid about.

You can take my Bling…when you pry it out of my cold, black hand.

2005-10-19T09:44:00.000-07:00

When I first got wind of David Stern’s new dress code, I logged my prediction on a message board I frequent that within 24 hours, someone would play the race card.
I’m not precisely sure when Stephen Jackson opened his mouth, but the memo went out Monday and the press is reporting it first thing Wednesday morning, so I’m pretty damned close.

Stephen Jackson isn’t pissed about do-rags or sport coats or dress slacks or anything like that. He’s pissed that he can’t sport his bling. And in his head, that’s racist.

The NBA’s dress code, in and of itself, is not a racist policy. In any stretch of the imagination.
A company has a right to insist that its employees dress in a certain manner, provided it’s reasonable. And it’s perfectly reasonable for David Stern to expect his young, successful millionaire employees to dress like young, successful millionaires.

The dress code is not about race, it’s about what’s good for business. Right, wrong or otherwise, there’s a growing segment of NBA supporters that don’t like the hip-hop look. And that segment is usually the one whose corporations are buying the courtside seats and the luxury boxes. And that segment is probably, predominantly white.

So if you want to play the race card, start with the people who are scared, intimidated, disgusted, or whatever by the lifestyle/culture that the hip-hop style of dress represents. The fact that hip-hop scares Whitey IS grounds to play the race card, because it’s a symptom of how far we HAVEN’T come.
Shit, I remember when I was in high school and the USA Today ran a cover story about Public Enemy and I was scared of the way they looked in that picture. Flavor Flav had his silly clock thing going on, but the guys behind him were in full military garb with dark sunglasses and a stone-faced look that was screaming at my young, ignorant, white ass “We hate you, Cracker, and we’re going to get you.” Since then, I’ve grown up and realized how irrational and silly that may have been, but I guarantee I wasn’t the only one who thought that way. And although I’m not the only one who’s grown up to know better, sadly, there are too many who haven’t.

It’s almost like Americans have transferred their racist tendencies and feelings off of the color of someone’s skin and on to hip-hop culture itself because it provides and easy, semi-plausible though flawed excuse.
“I don’t hate black people, I just hate THAT kind of black people.” Which in my opinion, is the same damned thing.

I don’t follow hip-hop, so I’m not someone who can explain what the culture actually represents, but if I were to turn on the TV and go strictly by what I see in the popular media, it’s about misogyny, excessive displays of materialism, and a “don’t fuck with me” attitude.

But if I turned the clock back to 1987, I could write the exact same sentence and replace “hip-hop” with “rock music” or “heavy metal” since those were the predominant pop music of the time.

Yet no one was scared shitless that Axl Rose and Bret Michaels were going to rape their daughters and shoot their children.

And that double standard of fear is a perfect example of the underlying racism that has led to David Stern’s dress code. Pop music is about selling an image and lifestyle to kids. And that’s what so many NBA players are now—they’re just kids. In the NBA’s heyday, the younger kids were in the minority. The older guys dressed professionally and the younger guys followed suit. Now, the “older guys” are only in their late 20’s and they still dress like younger guys so that expectation of how one should dress as a professional NBA player (as Stern’s dress code tries to establish) is no longer something that’s created and enforced by influential veterans, so the Commish has stepped in and made a policy change.

So if Stephen Jackson or anyone else wants to play the Race Card, they need to dig a little deeper and get to the heart of the issues creating and sustaining racism. Not the fact that you can’t wear your $40,000 necklace on the team bus anymore.

Predator vs. Total Recall

2005-10-11T10:37:00.000-07:00

VS

Long before Arnold Schwarzenegger became the Indian, Mexican and household pet-hating Governor of California, he actually made some pretty fucking sweet movies. Not the ones where he’s playing with kids or being pregnant or something stupid like that. It’s debatable where Arnie hit his cinematic apogee, but I’m willing to narrow it down between “Predator” and “Total Recall.” Both movies manage to make you forget about “Junior” for 90 minutes and they pretty much kick ass.

Which is better? Let’s break it down, all scientific-like. With apologies/thanks to Nick Bakay.

Plot:
In “Predator,” Arnie and his merc gang fly to some jungle country to investigate some missing people and end up getting hunted by a dreadlocked starfishfacedfanged thinger from another world. There is much blowing up and killing, including the wanton destruction of an innocent jungle canopy where one of the characters empties 17 billion rounds into the brush. And doesn’t hit anything.

“Total Recall” is about a guy who wants an exotic vacation on the cheap so he has some spy adventure implanted in his brain and we never really know if what transpires is real or his delusion. There is much blowing up and killing, including a dude who gets his arms ripped off in an unfortunate elevator accident.

Edge: Slightly to “Total Recall” for the fact that in a flashback scene in which he’s suffocating on the surface of Mars, Arnold makes the Large Marge Face. And that’s exactly how it reads in the screenplay too.

Supporting Cast:
“Total Recall” had future Hollywood megastar Sharon Stone before she catapulted to stardom on the strength of her conviction to expose her vagina on celluloid. Negative points because she’s a nagging, harpy shrew who won’t let Arnie get his ass to Mahs without bitching about it. Whore.
“Total Recall” also has the guy who would later be immortalized as Capt. Carmine Lorenzo, the airport cop who tows John McClain’s mother-in-law’s car at the beginning of Die Hard 2. He has a great line here, spoken with the textbook NY Italian accent, “Don’t fuck wit’ yer brain, pal.”
Because you should always take psychiatric advice from the guy in the sleeveless flannel shirt operating the jackhammer across the quarry from you.

“Predator” had Apollo Creed and Jesse the fucking Body Ventura. While Carl Weathers was merely using “Predator” as a springboard to the following year’s megahit, “Action Jackson,” Jesse the Body parlayed this shit into the Minnesota gubernatorial election. Do you think on election day, Minnesotians were lined up at the polls remembering his snappy campaign ads or him wrestling around in his skivvies with Bruno Sammartino?
Hell no. Suburbanite St. Paul mom’s wanted to live the dream of pulling little Johnny off the sidewalk after he fell off his bike because he’s a fat little fuck who sits inside and plays X-Box all day that he doesn’t have time to bleed. And most of all, they all wanted to carry around a gun that needs to be mounted on a helicopter because it’s so fucking big. I’m no ballistics expert, but I imagine a normal man would have been blown to Argentina by the recoil of that thing. But not Jesse.

Edge: So fucking “Predator.”

One Liners:
It wouldn’t be a Schwarzenegger flick without some one-line cheese. He was a one-trick pony in that regard and he rode that thing into the ground. Hell, he’s still riding it in his political speeches. “Dee Indeeins ah ripping yoo off!!”

“Predator” had a few good ones. Like when Arnie throws a knife at a guy that goes completely through his chest and stakes him to a tree and tells him to “Steek around.” Was it obvious? Yes. Was it unsophisticated? Yes. But do I still laugh every single time? Yes. But what do I know---I still roll when Butterfingers starts laughing and his drink comes out his nose in “Hudson Hawk.” Everybody likes “Yoo ah one ugly mutha fucka.” too. But I think that one is more because it was still kind of edgy to say “mother fucker” in a movie back in ’87. Nowadays every fucking two-bit hack will fucking throw around the f-word for no fucking reason and think he’s fucking funny because of it. Assholes.

When Quaid offs Sharon Stone in “Total Recall” the script says either “Consider that a divorce” or “Consider it a divorce” or something like that. What comes out of Arnold’s mouth is a combination of every possible permutation of that sentence and it ends up being something along the lines of “Conseedaditdadadivorce.” Some actors come up with genius ad-libs that end up being memorable parts of movies (Harrison Ford shooting the swordsman in “Raiders” for example). Arnie can do it with his pure butchering of the English language. And dude, how long have you been in America now, like 30 years? Speak English!

Edge: “Total Recall”

Stuff That Was Cool Because You Were Too Young to Know Better:
There’s all kinda stuff from back then that you thought was cool because you weren’t old enough to know any better. Like Michael Jackson.

Back in ’87 you could throw on the MLB Game of the Week and see Lenny Dykstra with a big wad of tobacco in his cheek and black gunk all down the front of his uni. Christ, could you imagine playing CF against Lenny’s team? It’d be like a damned minefield out there. I wouldn’t be diving in that shit.
And you could still go down to the Circle K on the corner and buy a pouch of Big League Chew.
And Jesse the fucking Body Ventura permanently had a chaw of chewing tobacco as big as Salma Hayek’s left tit in his cheek the whole movie long.. Why? Because that stuff will make you a goddamned sexual Tyrannosaurus, just like Jesse.
Man, I don’t think I even knew what a sexual Tyrannosaurus was, but I thought it was about the baddest thing on the planet and I wanted to be one.
Now TV shows me clips of guys stricken by Chewing Tobacco Cancer and I realize that nobody wants to bang a sexual Tyrannosaurus that’s missing half his throat and his left cheek.

When I first saw “Total Recall,” getting my ass to Mahs was almost beyond my imagination. NASA fucked that all up ‘cause now they send robots and cameras there every other week. Getting your ass to Mahs is so passé now.

Edge: “Predator,” with the Jesse factor again.

Bad Guys:
The Bad Guys in “Total Recall” were like the interstellar Wal-Mart or something. Big, corrupt, rich corporation who kept people hostage by concealing the alien technology that would create a livable atmosphere on the surface of Mars. ‘Cause there’s a lot more money in keeping a bunch of deformed degenerates in a big Thunderdome than putting up a Super Cohagen-Mart on every street corner of Mars. Assholes.

The Bad Guy in “Predator” was a supreme badass. He could see heat. He had a shoulder mounted laser thing that could blow a man’s chest cavity out. And he had a nuclear bomb on his wristband. That’s a one man wrecking crew if I ever saw one.
I only take points off because I think I liked watching F. Murray Abraham hunt Ice T in “Surviving the Game” a little better than watching the Predator hunt down a bunch of Mark McGwire-looking mercenaries. I guess it’s because F. Murray Abraham didn’t have a nuclear bomb on his wristband. Makes the battle seem a little more fair.

Edge: “Predator” again. The Predator didn’t need to cram a Lo-Jack up someone’s nose to keep an eye on them. He could see their fucking souls.

Stereotypes:
Every good action movie doesn’t waste time fleshing out characters. They just pick a 2 dimensional stereotype that we’re used to seeing so they can save time for more explosions.
“Total Recall” had Richter, the one-track minded corporate henchman who’s always one step too late. There was Benny the Black guy who, of course, drives a cab, acts all subservient to Quaid, then betrays him because he’s got 17 kids to feed. If that’s not a racist indictment, I don’t know what is. And when is a 3-titted chick ever gonna get a break from Hollywood? They’re always portrayed as whores. This is no exception.

“Predator” has Billy the Super Indian who can smell invisible interstellar creatures in his sleep and navigate a dense jungle with no compass. Then he commits noble savage suicide by machete-ing his own chest heroically calling out the Predator so he can just buy the farm on his own terms. What a hero.

Edge: “Total Recall” gets the nod here because Billy the Super Indian should have been drunk the whole movie.

The Woman, Because There Had to Be a Woman in There:
If there was ever a movie that had absolutely no use for a female character, it was “Predator.” Yet there she was—some no-name, no future, marginally attractive female supporting character that added nothing to the movie. What they should have done is use her as bait and catch that Predator in a crossfire and spill all that glow-in-the-dark blood.
I think her name was Lupe or Juanita or Maria.

“Total Recall” was just about the let down of all let downs. Quaid goes under and gets to create his ultimate fantasy and this Melina broad is what he ends up with? Recall better offer some sort of money back guarantee because that’s the best looking dame they could come up with? I mean jeezus, “The Running Man” came out that same year, couldn’t Arnie have at least inked Maria Conchita Alonso for a 2nd picture?
Flat-chested Sharon Stone and a woman who’s supposed to be a whore for a living but looks like a community college statistics teacher. For shame, Ahnold, for shame.

Edge: Feminists—for worming their way into an alien jungle movie and for keeping the T&A confined to mutants and midgets in the Mars brothel. We know you are women. Please quit roaring during non-Miramax movies.

Unintentional Comedy:
In any Schwarzenegger movie, there will always be unintentional comedy. And there’s a 99% chance it will be due to Arnold trying to do some serious drama chops. The equation is pretty much: Arnold + effort to be dramatic = Really memorable moment for the wrong reason.

1 part from each movie make me laugh just thinking about them:

“Gooooo! Gedoodahchoppah!!!”

And

“Dey ah peepil dyeeng. Get deez peepil sum ayah!”

Edge: Push. There’s no way I can make that decision. Feel free to express your own opinion on it because I’m completely torn.

So unless someone can give me a compelling case for an Unintentional Comedy victory, this battle has ended in the double count out of movie battles. Don’t blame me, blame the feminists.

Culture of Life—At What Cost?

2005-08-31T17:08:00.000-07:00

The Cult…errrrrr… Culture of Life is an interesting group of cats. They’re the repressed white dudes that want to bring you such awesomeness as Intelligent Design, wars, and state sanctioned religion in addition to coat hanger, back alley pregnancy termination.

But at what cost? Sure, that would suck that a 13 year old girl that was raped by her carnie uncle would have to visit a guy that got his Ob/Gyn from the internet and operates a clinic out of the back of his Volkswagen conversion van. Sure, that would suck that an entire generation of children would be much stupider by attending science classes at their school. Sure, that would suck to have your fucking legs blown off in the desert so some little-dicked elected official has a grudge and all kinds of complexes and decides he needs to change the world order. Sure, that would suck if freedom of religion became the new Jim Crow. Sure, that would suck to continue a 5 week vacation while an entire major city has gone Atlantis. Who am I kidding? Taking a 5 week vacation would fucking rock!

But who gives a shit about all that? Really?! We’re talking cash here. Hasn’t anybody stopped to think about how much the Culture of Life is gonna cost us in cash? Who knows? I do!

And it all stems from a little problem that develops when a fetus is the same as a person:
We have to completely redefine the concept of a birthday.
Why do those crazy old white bastards want to have some sort of annual festival to the wonder of having your head shoved through a vagina? (or your feet if you were breach, or Intelligent Designer-forbid you’re celebrating being surgically removed from the womb.)
Because that’s all celebrating a birthday really is if a fetus is a person. Your just cheering the Rite of Vaginal Passage or Womb Extraction if That Was Your Particular Method of Parting the Womb.

And that brings to my point.

There are an estimated 295,734,134 people in the United States. If even 25% of those people have been issued drivers licenses or state ID’s or passports—well, we gotta change “Date of Birth” to “Date of Vaginal Passage or Womb Extraction if That Was Your Particular Method of Parting the Womb” on all those 73,933,533 forms of ID. It costs me $5 bucks to get a new Drivers License, so at 5 bucks a pop times that many ID’s, that’s: $369,667,667.50 right out of the economy. Maybe Jesus can cut us a check to cover it.

Or we can spend some more money to just redefine “birth” and have it read “see: ‘conception’ “. But if that’s the case, we need to spend the $369,667,667.50 on top of that because we need to tack ¾ of a year on to everyone’s life to cover the 9 months of frolicking about in placenta.
Maybe they’ll go this route because they could cut a pretty good deal with the science book publishers to do the dictionaries for them too since we’ll be revising all of those.
So anyways, feel free to reference this to get out of buying birthday presents for all those hypocritical Culture of Lifers. Fucking assholes.

2005-08-01T10:03:00.000-07:00

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Asshole.

A Case for Steroids

2005-07-01T15:13:00.000-07:00

The Juice gave us a hell of a run.
I’m not talking about the catchiness of “Queen of Hearts.”
I’m not even talking about Orenthal putzing down an LA freeway in what should have been America’s best reality TV show.

Of course, I’m talking about the last 10 or so years of Major League Baseball.
Chicks dig the long ball. Not-chicks do too.
Purist can say what they will in retrospect, but it was a damned fine time watching athletic caricatures launching balls that would poop in Tiger Woods’ toilet.

But those days are gone. It’s time to clean up the act, re-level the playing field, and get back to playing the game that Billy Ashley couldn’t succeed at.

Putting aside the grandstanding legislators and political blusting, I think across the board, in everyone’s heart of hearts, they recognize that this is the right thing to do for the game. Except in one instance. There’s one guy right now who desperately needs steroids. He doesn’t need a few extra miles per hour on his fastball. He doesn’t need another two tenths of a second down the first baseline. He doesn’t need “the competitive edge” (athlete speak for “cheating”). He doesn’t even (necessarily) want another man jabbing him in his ass with a needle in the bathroom (not that there’s anything wrong with that.) He just needs an explanation and a scapegoat.

That man is Kenny Rogers of the Texas Rangers. (And if you’re looking for any Kenny Rogers The Country Legend jokes, I’m too old for tee ball, so move on to the next blog.)

What the fuck was Kenny Rogers of the Texas Rangers thinking? The guy went Tommy Lee/Sean Penn on a fat, bald cameraman who is about two heads shorter than him. And for what?
First off, Kenny Rogers of the Texas Rangers isn’t exactly paparazzi material. He’s a 40-year old journeyman pitcher who has a rotten attitude because he wants a contract extension. Hey asshole, why don’t you check out the track record of starting pitchers in their forties who aren’t named Clemens or Johnson and take a wild fucking guess why they don’t want to give you an extension?

Second off, the cameraman wasn’t dangling from a tree outside Kenny Rogers of the Texas Rangers’ home or lurking in the bushes. He was standing by the first base dugout at Arlington Stadium, fully credentialed, doing his job.

Kenny Rogers of the Texas Rangers had been doing the wise thing, for both himself and the public. He decided to go on media strike. A win-win for sure. We didn’t have to read about the contract bitchings of a douchebag and the beat writers didn’t have to bother to ask any questions about it.

But for some reason Kenny Rogers of the Texas Rangers went ape-shit on Joe Cameraman not once, but twice, knocking the guy’s camera out of his hands, re-aggravating a couple of the camera guy’s previous injuries (*cough cough* allegedly), earning himself a 20 game suspension, and the ridicule and loss of respect from millions.

Kenny Rogers of the Texas Rangers, here is my advice to you:

Go down to Gold’s Gym. Find the guy who’s still wearing the Zubazz pants, the fanny pack, and the pony-tailed mullet and have him shoot you full of the harded, nastiest ‘roids he’s got on him.
Get yourself tested. Get caught. Get apologetic.

There is absolutely no excuse for being the grade A, class 1 motherfucker that you were to that cameraman. Except one: “The ‘Roids made me do it!”

Roid Rage. It’s the perfect alibi.

Hell, give your old lady a black eye and clog the pores on your back intentionally if you gotta, but for god sakes man, you had better have been on The Juice for the complete dickhattery that you put on display.

Unless you’re just one of those jock pricks who gets off on picking on guys half their size. But you probably would have grown out of that, let’s see, like 22 years ago? Wouldn’t you?

But ‘Roids or No ‘Roids, you’re a complete fucking asshole, Kenny Rogers of the Texas Rangers. I hope next month when you’re unsuspended, and you’re down in the bullpen warming up, that other psycho asshole from the Rangers launches a folding chair and breaks your stupid fucking asshole nose.

2005-06-17T13:47:00.000-07:00

I friggin’ love peanut butter. I was raised on it. My mom used to buy it in the gallon pail (before Costco and Sam’s Club made buying in bulk socially acceptable) because I’d eat so much of the stuff. I had a little problem with wetting the bed when I was younger and my mom gave me some psychosomatic home remedy of a tablespoon of peanut butter before bed. Cleared it right up. Dry sheets for the rest of my life.
It’s about the finest processed food on the planet. Hell, I even outgrew jelly. I just throw more peanut butter on the other piece of bread and chow that bad boy down, choking as it coats my throat and the roof of my mouth.

There’s simply not a better food around.

If there was a Circle of Hell where some nasty fucked up demon tortured you by shoveling peanut butter from the back of a cement mixer down your throat for eternity, I’d ask “What sin do I gotta commit and how many times do I have to commit it?”

A while back, I noticed that our friends at Skippy started selling a “reduced fat” recipe.
“Great!,” I thought, “now I can enjoy the wonderfulness of peanut butter and take in a little less fat in the process!”

And all was good. It tasted great and it was great for me.

A couple weeks back I opened a new jar and went to make me a nice sammich for lunch. I unscrewed the lid, peeled off the seal, and inhaled the fresh aroma. Juan Valdez and his stupid donkey don’t got shit on the smell of freshly opened peanut butter. The only thing that’s close is a new can of tennis balls.

I jabbed my knife in and prepared to spread some joy across my wheat bread. The knife stuck a little bit and instead of a creamy, dripping dollop of peanut butter on my knife, I had some nasty, clumpy dry brown shit on it instead. I figured maybe I got an old jar or something, so I tossed it. I opened a new jar. Same thing.

Some dumb sonofabitch at Skippy has changed the recipe of the reduced fat peanut butter from “so good your taste buds can’t tell the difference, but your arteries and heart can” to “if you are someone who would enjoy eating peanut butter that’s been tossed around in clumping cat litter, this shit’s for you!”

Thanks for that you assholes.

I should not have to burn more calories trying to drive the knife through the dry, flaky muck that you think you can sell as “peanut butter” than I gain by eating it. For years I fought the “reduced fat,” “lower sodium,” and all the other “more healthy” versions of products because they tasted so horridly NOT like the original. Skippy Reduced Fat Peanut Butter restored my hope in science.
But now my hope has been dashed against the rocks like a drowned baby seal carcass.

Let me help out the geniuses at Skippy, since obviously, they need some help. Here’s your new marketing slogan for your piece-of-shit reduced fat peanut butter:

“Skippy Reduced Fat Peanut Butter—9 out of 10 people agree…..that it tastes better after it’s come out than it did going in.”

I’m going to the store. The wholesale store. And I’m gonna get me a 5 gallon bucket of creamy, greasy, oily JIF. And as all that cholesterol is exiting my colon, I’m gonna peel the label of my Reduced Fat Skippy, and I’m gonna wipe my white ass with it.

Why am I so Damned Tired?

2005-06-14T10:39:00.000-07:00

I’m never one to get as much sleep as I should. I used to go to bed pretty early, but now I’m of the mindset of “Hey, I worked hard all day, hell if I’m going to go to sleep 3 hours after I got home from work!” So I’ll stay up late and do things I want to do.
Next thing you know, it’s 12 or 1 in the morning and I’m screwed for the next morning.

And it would be one thing if I could just get a nice 5 or 6 hours in, wake up, shower and get after it, but it never seems to happen like that. I’ve got such huge bags under my eyes, I make the new Pope seem bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

You want to know why? Here’s an example of my life starting around the time I got home from work yesterday:

6pm Get home, change clothes, sit down to try to finish “Angels and Demons.”

6:30pm Girlfriend gets home, turns on Seinfeld Season 4 DVD’s. A bit harder to concentrate on the book now, but ok.

7pm We’re hungry. Time for dinner. I suggest I grill up a rib-eye and some shrimp. But we don’t have any fresh veggies to go with. I’ll go to the store to get some. “No, I’ll go to the store”, she says. Ok, so I go back to reading the book.

7:30pm She’s home from the store. Along with the cherry tomatoes, baby bellas, and sweet onion that I need, she’s got bacon wrapped filets, a loaf of bread, crab legs that were on sale and some Dannon smoothie shit.

So instead of defrosting the rib-eye and shrimp, I get to work on the stuff we just bought, quicker that way since it’s already close to 8pm. I thaw the crab legs, put toothpicks through the bacon to try to keep it from unwrapping, skewer the veggies and head out to the grill.

8pm A little luck, grill’s still warm, someone just used it. I throw down some foil and stick the skewers and the crab legs down. I stab the filets with my big-ass BBQ pitchfork so I can sear the bacon and of course the shit completely unravels. I try to rewrap it, now a piece of the filet comes off. Somewhere in the process, I burn the piss out of my finger. I stick my finger in my mouth because it hurts and now I just got a mouthful of rawbaconbeefcrabmushroomtomatoonion. Pleasant.

I get the filets somewhat back together and manage to cook everything.

8:15pm Go back inside and wolf down the grub before it gets cold. Crab legs are a little overdone and stringy. Plus they’re a bitch to crack open.
I get a big kick out of working the claw and watching the piece of crab meat attached to it go back and forth.

8:45pm Done with dinner, back to the book. Seinfeld still on. Same episode 4 times in a row. First time is the regular version. Second time has the pithy little notes at the bottom. Third time has the overdubbed commentary by Jerry and some other Jew whose name I didn’t catch. Fourth time has 2 extra minutes that were included in the original airing but don’t show in syndication. But I’m plowing through the book and heading towards the climax. Even though it’s the same damned book as “Da Vinci Code” and I’ve got the twist figured out, I still want to finish it.

10:30pm It’s kitty track meet time. The bastards start doing wind sprints around the apartment, taking hacks at each other when they pass in the hall. This means that it’s dinner time. I go feed them and they fill their faces, then return to the track meet.

11pm Move to the bedroom while the girlfriend showers. Almost done with the book, about 40 more pages to go.

11:45pm Too tired to read anymore, time for bed.

12:30am Too awake to sleep, still to tired to read. Time to toss and turn.

1:30am Almost asleep. 3rd and 4th heats of the kitty track meet.

5:45am Paranoid wake up as daylight hits. “Did you set the alarm?” I ask. “Grunt.” is the response. I ask this several times a week even though the alarm stays on and doesn’t need setting. Now the bastards are awake and stalking for breakfast. One walks back and forth on us until it gets flung off the bed by the girlfriend.
Clock in the bedroom ticks too loud and it’s inhibiting my ability to get back to sleep.

6:30am Alarm hits. It’s always too damned loud. “Push the button” I groan. The alarm clock isn’t on my side, so I always have to request this since she’ll sleep right through the alarm.

6:40am Snooze over. Alarm on. “Push the button.” Back to snoozing.

6:45am Thump. Thump. Thump. One of the bastards is in the master bath, opening the cupboards and letting the door slam back shut. This means “Get up and feed me.”

6:50am Snooze over. Alarm on. “Push the button.” Back to snoozing.

7am Snooze over. Alarm on. “Push the button.” Turn over. Kitty in my face. Just sitting on the bed next to my head. Then it makes its cry which isn’t even a meow, it’s like a bleating, pleading, whining sound like when you poke a 3 year old and they go, “oowwww.” One of the other cats takes a footshove of the other end of the bed and now the other one’s pulled open the closet door.
“Cut it out!!!!!!!!” gets screamed in my ear in an attempt to get the cats to get lost.

7:10am Snooze over. You get the picture.

7:20am Uh huh.

7:30am Time to get up. Sweep the bed of the cats to clear a path. Stumble to the bathroom. The cat with the annoying voice runs to the tub next to the toilet and does her morning ritual which consists of putting her front legs on the edge of the tub and licking the shower curtain while I’m taking a leak. No clue why it does this, but it does it every morning.

7:32am Wander around with no glasses, pull out the medicine bottle to give a cat medicine. Grab it, pry its mouth open, shove the pill down, massage the throat, squirt a couple cc’s of water down its throat just to be sure.

Now I gotta wait a couple minutes to give the medicine time to settle. The cats follow me everywhere until I actually put the food in their bowls. While I’m in the kitchen, I notice that one of the bastards has climbed onto the counter and chewed open the loaf of bread we just bought, ate about a slice and shredded the bag. Nice. My anti-Atkins cats.

Crap, it’s almost 8am. Go in the closet to find some clothes. Come out of the closet to find one of the cats retching some clear goop onto the bed. Clean that up, grab a Diet Coke and my stuff, head out the door and am at my desk by 8:10am.

Now I’m still tired, grabbing for caffeine, and trying to be productive.
Happy fucking Tuesday.

Air America Phoenix, Progressive Radio—Progressively Hypocritical

2005-05-24T14:39:00.000-07:00

My sister just bought a house way the hell out in Southwest Phoenix a couple of months ago. Last weekend, I decided to take a trek over there because she said she’d let me have the old Super Nintendo system we used to have growing up. I was a bit disappointed when I got it home though because my Super Return of the Jedi and NBA Jam! Cartridges are missing (He’s heating up!). But anyway, on the 45 minute drive out there, I scanned the AM dial to look for the Air America affiliate that I’d heard had been launched.

I usually avoid news/politics talk radio because the people that participate make sports talk callers look well informed and intelligent, but I watched a documentary about Air America’s troubled startup and decided to tune in.

5pm to 7pm on Saturday, I discovered, is the M&M Show. The M&M “show” is 2 guys, brothers I think, who are so well regarded that they get 2 hours in the late afternoon on a Saturday in a Red State.

And they proceeded to do the exact same shit that turns me off from conservative talk radio. They used rhetorical talking points without representing an informed, well-thought out point-of-view. They constantly railed about how “they’re winning!” Take a look around the country fellas. They shouted down an old war veteran when you don’t need to shout anyone down on radio, you can just mute them, unless, of course, you’re trying to make a point that you’re edgy and controversial and in-your-face.

And for their grand finale, they decided to have some fun with Rush Limbaugh’s name and referred to him as “Limpwrist.”

I’ve got more than one problem with that.

1. Punning on someone’s name is probably about the most juvenile thing possible. I was expecting to hear “Rush Rush Bo Bush, Banana Nana No Nush, Fee Fie Fo Fush……” next.

2. If you’re going to make fun of someone’s name, make it funny like “In a Rush to find my next Oxy fix” or “Limpnoodle” because….

3. By broadcasting on a progressive/liberal station, you lose your right to get to make passive/aggressive gay bashing jokes, you idiots!

How does using a derogatory term for a gay person as an insult possibly jive with the values and politics these two purport to have? It doesn’t.

These 2 twerps were bragging about how they were such good “BP’s” (that’s button pushers in case you don’t plan your weekend around listening to them). That’s how people who don’t have better ideas operate. They wind others up to get them to make themselves and their point-of-view stupid—and that’s frankly how a lot of conservative talk hosts operate. That and they yell.

Which is what I wrote about earlier. A veteran of two wars called in to try to argue his opinion and these two yelled over the top of him before he could even get to the predicates of his sentences. And in doing so, they informed this gentleman that they were anti-military because they loved peace.

I don’t even know where to begin to touch that one, but I’ll start by saying that it’s a perfect example of why the term “liberal” has earned a 4-letter connotation over the last 30 years. I’m all in favor of idealism. We ought to strive for the ideal. But claiming that you are anti-military because you love peace is such a piece of zero-sum bullshit, that it fails to even deal in reality. It completely displaces compassion, empathy and appreciation for American women and men who choose to fight and defend our country so that people who don’t want to fight, don’t have to. It also neglects the fact that whether one likes it or not, a military—a damned good military—is a necessity in our world. Now I’m as anti-irresponsible-use-of-the-military as the next guy, but a distinction needs to be drawn, lest you come across as a numbnut with his head so high in the clouds, he can’t see the storm beneath.

So when I got home, I sat down immediately and emailed Air America Phoenix to tell them how disappointed I was as a first time listener to hear Sean Hannity’s show from the polar opposite perspective since “progressive” means, I don’t know--progress, moving forward, new stuff?!

If you are able to present and convey better ideas and truth in a well-informed, easy-to-understand, dare I say pleasant, manner, one stands a chance at changing minds. And isn’t that what progressive talk radio should be about? Or is it just about providing a head-nodding amenathon for those of us further left of center? Based on my experience, I’m going to assume the latter until I hear differently.

And the self-dubbed “start-up” hasn’t bothered to respond to me. So I’m doing the only thing I can do—pit the 8 readers of my blog against the 5 listeners of their program and drive them off the radio dial and back to obscurity forever. Mwah hah hah.

So I encourage you, dear reader, to write to KXXT 1010, Air America Phoenix at:

comments@1010kxxt.com

and not only further express my dissatisfaction with their hypocritical Saturday afternoon puppet show, but to suggest to them that I am the voice of progress and that I should be given my own pulpit from which to preach to the mountaintops the right takes, my takes, on things in the world today.

P.S. Air America Phoenix—If you want to be taken seriously, you’re going to need to get better ad sponsors. I don’t need Garafalo telling me to throw out my TV and go to the Phoenix Theater (we have a theater?) and watch a musical. Once again, you’re pandering to people who already agree with you. Save the elitist snobbery for our Congressmen.

Waiting to see Star Wars, or "Why I Hate White Kids."

2005-05-19T16:40:00.000-07:00

I got a hair up my ass yesterday to go see the new Star Wars flick at midnight. I hopped online at lunch and got a couple of tickets to the multiplex a few miles from home. This theater actually ended up doing a pretty good job. They were having somewhere around 6 showings at 12:01am. We got to the multiplex at about 9:30pm and were surprised to see that there wasn’t a huge line waiting to get in. The multiplex actually scrapped the last showings of the other movies so they could make the theaters available when people arrived for Star Wars instead of waiting outside in line. It was nice to be able to relax in the AC in a chair and there wasn’t 6 theaters worth of people in line at the snack bar a half hour before the movie started.

All in all, it made for a decent 2 and a half hour wait, if there is such thing. Except for the dozen assholes sitting in the row behind us.

Goddamn I can’t express how much I hate middle class suburban high school fucking white kids.

I’ve got about the foulest mouth of anyone I know and I’d never heard anyone modify as many words in one sentence with the word, “fuck” as these idiots were doing. If every other word out of their mouth wasn’t “like” it was probably “fuck.”

And I understand these kids were probably of a pubescent age, but from what I could hear—and I could hear everything since they shouted back and forth at one another for the better part of 3 hours—these kids had like fucking hooked fucking up with like every fucking like girl at their fucking school. I had to listen to how people with a 300 word vocabulary struggle to find the words to brag to their equally vapid friends about things that probably didn’t happen and other things that they were going to do this weekend that probably aren’t going to happen either. Oh, and as a prerequisite, every line of thought had to start off with “I was fucking wasted….”

And this went on. And on. And like fucking on.

And it burns my gut that these little Hollister and Fitch fucks are staying out ‘til 3 in the morning on a school night to watch a movie so they have an excuse to skip class or sleep through it the next day, even though it’s final’s week, because they don’t have to study to get their C- that gets them in to State college where they’ll be far away enough from mom’s house to get Nattied and 3-pump the fat co-ed in the next dorm whenever they want, but close enough to get their palm crossed with a couple of c-notes from Dad so the Doritos and weed don’t run out before they can get their degree in Business in 6 years—6 years spent still going parties attended by students at the high school they graduated from with Stewy, Dewey, Brick, Gump, and their other friends whose nicknames are derived by adding a “y” to a syllable in their last name or something/somebody that they’re barely smarter than—so that the American workforce can continue to have a fresh supply of Alpha-types to fill countless outside sales positions and bank 6 figures while doing nothing at work but kissing ass, traveling, lying, and cheating on their butterface wife with the fake rack so they can get their divorce and go live in an apartment they can barely afford while they’re supporting their two boys who are so developmentally disabled from their genetic predisposition towards utter stupidity that they grow up to continue the cycle of shallow, banal, self-gratifying existence.

Goddamn, do I fucking like hate fucking middle class fucking suburban like high school fucking white kids.

Give the money back? That's whack.

2005-05-13T13:51:00.000-07:00

Now that Jason Giambi has become pretty much what everyone expected him to become without his MVPJuice, the sanctimonious assholes are at it again.
Peter Gammons, Skip Bayless, and anyone else with a forum and a readership is railing about how Giambi needs to accept a trip to the minors, or negotiate a buyout of his contract, or die on a cross made of Louisville Sluggers and pay for the sins of his generation, or whatever else the armchairs can think of that makes things just in their world and gives them the self-righteous feeling of “That’s what I would do if I was in that situation.”

There’s plenty of blame to heap on Giambi. He was a mediocre, insecure ballplayer and he found the magic bullet. And he shot high capacity magazines into his veins for years. Now he’s paying the price.
But why all the sympathy for the motherfucking Yankees? These are the motherfucking Yankees we’re talking about!!
The same Yankees who, in their effort to give a ridiculous contract to a guy who was sure to have had plenty of people whispering “steroids” at the time, actually gave in to Giambi’s agent at the negotiating table when he asked specifically for a clause relating to voiding the contract if Giambi used steroids. !!!!!

Now everyone thinks Giambi should just give the money back?
Why?
Everyone including the Yankees knew he was using when he signed the goddamned deal. And neither party gave a shit because Giambi was going to go out, mash, drive in a shit load of runs, and win World Series’.

For Steinbrenner and his cronies, that was an acceptable level of risk. But you know what? That’s why they call it “exposure.” There’s a chance you’ll get depantsed and everyone will laugh at your tiny dick.

Give the money back? My ass. Where’s the precedent in that? Why is Giambi being held to a higher standard than everyone else?

Because the holier-than-thou sportswriters, to a man, would give back $80M if they were in his spikes.

If you want to blame someone, blame the owners for being a doormat during collective bargaining for the last 50 years. Blame the owners who allowed guaranteed contracts (like Giambi’s) to become the rule instead of the exception.
Did you get that word, George? G-U-A-R-A-N-T-E-E-D? That means you owe him the money no matter what.
If you had stuck to your guns and not allowed the steroid language to be stricken, maybe I’d have some sympathy and you’d have a leg to stand on.
But you don’t, so pay him his fucking money.

He won’t accept an assignment to the minor leagues? It’s the right thing to do?
So what!? It’s part of the collectively bargained labor deal. A guy with his service time doesn’t HAVE to go to the minor leagues!!

These are the rules everyone agreed to, yet now it’s convenient to expect one guy to not have to play by them because he’s the posterboy.

I’m still waiting for the “Alex Sanchez Should Forfeit His Salary” column, Gammons.

The same people who are telling you that Terrell Owens and Drew Rosenhaus are devils because they’re not honoring a contract that T.O. signed are telling you that Jason Giambi is a devil because he IS honoring a contract that he signed.

And I got a name for people that tell you things like that: Assholes.

I've Solved the Mysteries of Humanity and I Have the Solution

2005-05-06T10:44:00.000-07:00

I never studied philosophy in school but from time to time, I get what I consider to be “philosophical.” Millions, maybe billions of people dedicate at least some portion of their lives to following a faith or a way of life or a way of thinking—some sort of moral code or compass to guide and shape us.
Many people seem to have an innate need for something bigger than their meager existence to exist, something to validate life. People believe in higher authority as a means to figure out what life, etc. is about.

I think, deep down, we know what it’s all about.

The Christians are wrong. Jesus was a cool dude, no doubt. Hell of a rabbi. Good parabler. Hung out with the real salt-of-the-earth types and embraced them as His friends. But Christians lost sight of Jesus’ message hundreds of years ago. They keep reading the words in the Book, but they don’t know what they mean. Sorry Red Americans and others like you. That isn’t what it’s about.

Muslims? They’re wrong too. The 99% majority has allowed the 1% minority of extremists to sour the world with their corruption and hijacking of a legitimate religion.

The Catholics pray to pieces of cloth, wood, and stains on overpasses. They do get some points for being one of the firsts to politicize their organization into a real temporal power. An impressive accomplishment, but unfortunately it has fuck all to do with what life is really about.

I feel bad for the Jews, because history hasn’t treated them well. At all. There’s a little too much guilt involved in being a Jew, and far too many culinary rules to follow. As one of the founders of genital mutilation, they clearly are not right.

The Eastern “religions” are an interesting lot, but they’re too focuses on pithy little expressions, thinking an awful lot, letting people trample you with horses and other passive bullshit for me to think that they’ve got it right.

Atheists, intellectuals, scientists etc.—Let me just tell you that your elitism has the exact same polarizing effect that you think the faithful are guilty of. Reconcile the strength of people’s faith with your acceptance of only what’s proven. There can be an accepting of both.

I have a dream, and my dream is to someday see the people of the world come together and realize the truth.
And that truth, as they say, shall set us free.

I want to see everyone: Christians, Jews, Muslims, Catholics, Buddhists, Taoists, Shintoists, Hindus, Freaks, Geeks, Jerks, Pricks, Idiots, Black, White, Brown, Yellow, Blue, Red, Short, Tall, Fat, Skinny, Pretty, Ugly, Hetero, Homo, or Metro-sexual, yes—Everyone! gather together in a giant, all-encompassing worldly circle, to hold hands and put their right foot in.
And put their right foot out.
And put their right foot in.
And shake that motherfucker all about.
Do the hokey pokey, and turn ourselves around.
Because THAT, my friends, as we’ve all grown up to know, is really what it’s all about.

There can truly be world peace through the hokey pokey. Would a suicide bomber really go through with his task if he went into a café only to be welcomed into the dancing circle of people thrusting their appendages in and out of the middle? And shaking them joyously all about?

Could a death squad soldier a back-water African dictatorship really look at a hokey-pokeying circle of bushmen and possibly want to slaughter them instead of joining in?

Presidential debating and mudslinging would be a thing of the past. I want to see our politicians get their hokey-pokey on. Proper decision making and legislation will fall easily into place.

The next time you feel desperate, unhappy, depressed, helpless—like you don’t know why you’re here—get a few chums together. Gather together. Put your whole self in. Take your whole self out.

You see. That’s what it’s all about.

Joe Morgan is a Fish-Taco Loving Asshole.

2005-05-05T09:44:00.000-07:00

I was watching ESPN’s telecast of the Dodgers/Nationals game last night and had to suffer through Joe Morgan’s color commentary. I’ll come right out and say that I have an axe to grind with Morgan.
A few years back, my friend The Rick and I were cruising around the concourse at Bank One Ballpark before a game and we saw Mr. Morgan walking as well. He was hitting up every concession stand, frantically asking where he could score some fish tacos. Either Joe Morgan really, really, really likes fish tacos or “fish tacos” is the new street name for crack or heroin or something, because Joe Morgan needed his fish taco fix and he needed it now.

Sorry to break it to you Joe, but they don’t sell fish tacos, crack, or heroin at the BOB. Maybe across the street in the warehouse district.

Well, The Rick and I were like, “Wow, check it out, there’s Hall of Famer, Joe Morgan!”
So as he’s walking by us, drooling, obsessed with lightly breaded cod filets topped with cabbage, lime, and salsa wrapped in a soft corn tortilla, we tried to strike up a casual conversation with him.
“Hey Mr. Morgan, welcome to Phoenix, how’s it goin?”
Joe Morgan stopped, rolled his eyes at us, turned on a dime and stormed off in the other direction.
I wish I’d have had the presence of mind to shout “Go shove a fish taco up your stupid ass” or something to that effect, but I didn’t.
I did write a formal, polite letter to ESPN expressing my dissatisfaction with the professionalism of their broadcasting employee, to which I never got a response.

Well, years later, Joe Morgan has picked up 2 Sports Emmys. I know this because they brought a cake up to the broadcast booth last night to celebrate it. It was chocolate, with white frosting I think. Not a fish taco in sight. Sorry, Asshole.
Joe Morgan, in his effort to be humble said how honored he was to win the award over the other nominees who included John Madden and Cris Collinsworth. Quite the accomplishment, Asshole.

It’s clear to me that winning a Sports Emmy is like winning a Gold Glove—it doesn’t quite denote the accomplishments that it’s supposed to. I think the Sports Emmy voters just give it to the guy who was actually the best player in their heyday, because it’s clear that they’ve never listened to Joe Morgan’s commentary.

Last night, he couldn’t shut his fish taco hole about Livan Hernandez slowing his arm down to throw his changeup. It was a good catch the first time. I didn’t notice it myself. Livan Hernandez probably threw about 20 changeups last night and good ol’ Joe Morgan informed us Every. Single. Time. that “Boy, that’s weird, I’ve never noticed Livan Hernandez slowing his arm speed to throw his changeup.”

Talk about a one-trick pony.

Make that two tricks. Joe Morgan also informed us about 17 time that Dodger starter Odalis Perez was perilously close to balking on his move to first. Since he never got called for it, I’d say that’s just a good move to first base, Asshole.

Aside from Joe Morgan’s banal commentary and less-than-insightful, repetitive “analysis,” he made a bid for getting his precious Sports Emmy ripped out of his fishy smelling paws when he decided to chime in on Nationals outfielder Jose Guillen’s situation last year.
For anyone that doesn’t know, last year, in the final month of the season, Jose Guillen (then of the Anaheim Angels) was lifted for a pinch runner by his manager, Mike Scioscia. Well Jose Guillen is too good to be lifted for a pinch runner and he returned to the dugout, spiked his helmet at Scioscia (“He claims he was throwing it towards where the helments go”—thanks, Asshole), then lit into him during a profanity-laced tirade that extended to the clubhouse.
What did the Angels do? Well thank crap they suspended him for the remainder of the season, the playoffs, then cut his stupid ass loose, which is why he ended up in Washington.
Joe Morgan says that the Angels cheated the other 25 players and their fans by getting rid of Guillen, because “it didn’t give them their best shot to advance in the postseason.”
Let me make 2 things abundantly clear to you, Joe Morgan, you Former-Player-Now-Shilling-For-A-Current-Player:

1. Last postseason, the Angels got the shit swept out of them by Boston in the first round. Boston was the team of destiny. Having Ted Williams, Babe Ruth, Hank Aaron, and Franklin Stubbs in the Angel lineup wouldn’t have altered their fate.

2. MOST IMPORTANTLY! The Anaheim Angels didn’t cheat their team and their fans by cutting loose Jose Guillen. JOSE MOTHERFUCKING GUILLEN cheated his team and its fans! Jose Guillen decided to act like a childish, subordinate prick. Not Mike Scioscia, not Arte Moreno, not Wally Joyner, not Donnie Moore, not Mickey Mouse. Jose Guillen is 100% solely responsible for his actions.
Hey Joe Morgan, why don’t you turn to Jon Miller, throw your microphone at him, call him a bald, fat cracker bitchfuck, and do it all on camera. Then we’ll watch ESPN cheat you out of your third Sports Emmy.

Stay tuned to Sunday Night Baseball this week when Joe Morgan will be providing a riveting retrospective on how CBS cheated sports fans out of Jimmy the Greek’s continued insight.

Joe Morgan, you are an Asshole, but I’ve no more time to spend railing against your worthless ass.
I’m going to Rubio’s for lunch.

Hall of Fame Voting Assholes

2005-03-25T10:26:00.000-08:00

It took about as long for the media fucknuts to start their pontificating and holier-than-thouing as it took for Raffy Palmeiro’s spit to dry from his mike after his steadfast, finger-pointing denial of steroid use to Congress.

The same media members who literarily fellated the McGwires, the Bonds, the Sosas, etc in the mid to late 90’s are now spouting off and using the only clout they have: threatening to dispense their own brand of justice by not voting in the guys who are currently embroiled in Roidgate.

The same media members who vote in Rollie Fingers but not Mike Marshall or Goose Gossage?
The same media members who vote in Tony Perez and not Jim Rice?
The ones who don’t think Gil Hodges is worthy?

One fucknut’s take:
“Right now I'm sort of sitting on the fence, but leaning toward not voting for McGwire or Bonds because they cheated," said Hal McCoy of the Dayton Daily News, himself a member of the Hall's writers' wing.
"McGwire had the opportunity to say something, but didn't. To me, that's sort of like pleading the Fifth Amendment and not denying he did it," he said.
(source: http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/news/story?id=2020890)

“To me, that’s sort of like pleading the Fifth Amendment and not denying he did it?”

Here’s hoping that asshole isn’t ever on any jury in this country. I mean, what the hell kind of justification is that for keeping some of the greatest players out of the Hall of Fame?
And where does he get off singling out Bonds or McGwire? The whispers have swirled around so, so many other players, but they get off scot free?
Sorry, dickwipe, but if Bonds and McGwire don’t get in, neither does anyone in the last 15 years. Seal the Hall. No entry.

And let me put it this way:

A pitched baseball reaches the plate in a fraction of a second. What if you could do something (i.e. cheat) that could do something to give you even the slightest advantage over the guy thowing the ball, make your muscles react a split-second sooner, get your bat head to the hitting zone a split second sooner, raise your bat speed.

When you consider even a minute advantage like that on the scale of how quickly a ball reaches the plate, I think the boost given by steroids becomes tremendous, and the statistics produced and supported by the anecdotal evidence of steroid use would confirm that.
So you don’t vote that guy into the Hall of Fame?

But what about if you were a pitcher and you found a way to do something (i.e. cheat) to make the ball move a little bit more, late after it leaves your hand, almost as it reached home plate, to throw off the hitter’s ability to make solid contact with the ball.

Do you vote that guy into the Hall? Of course you do, his name’s Gaylord Perry.

Baseball has and always will be a game of cheaters. You’ve got the really bad cheaters like the Black Sox and Pete Rose. You’ve got guys like Perry who will revel in his cheating ways by taking jars of Vaseline to the mound during old timers games.

The Shot Heard ‘Round the World is widely rumored to have received a big assist from some cheaters in centerfield with binoculars, relaying the catchers signals to the players.

Such luminaries as Craig Nettles and Wilton Guerrero have had the pleasure of having their bats break and reveal things inside that don’t grow naturally in wood (namely cork and um, Superballs—thanks for that Craig.)

Whether it’s sandpaper glued to the glove, a sharpened burr on a belt-buckle, an emery board in the pocket, a furtive glance back at the catcher to see where he’s setting up, baseball will always have cheaters.

Like in nature, the ballplayers found a better way to cheat. For better or for worse.

And don’t feed me the “it’s illegal” bullshit either. ‘Cause if that’s the case, I want you to go round up every major and minor leaguer who’s living with their girlfriend and pounding them in the ass, ‘cause both of those things are illegal in a lot of places they’re living too.

I won’t stand for the hypocritical, selective justice doled out by people who imply that they’re somehow better than the players and owners. If the same media who says that the players or owners or management should have come out sooner, would have done the same, maybe we’re not in the situation we are now. You guys knew too and don’t tell me you didn’t. You had the same things at stake as everyone else—money, jobs and prestige. And you didn’t want to lose any of them.

So do me a big favor and shut the fuck up. Report the stories, opine if you have to, but make up your goddamned minds. Either this entire era gets an asterisk or we do the same as we always do—evaluate the players based upon the peers in their era.

Not to get all McGwire on you, but it’s time to move forward. I’m tired of witch-hunting, because, in the end, what’s it going to accomplish?

If you’ve got the answer, I’d love to hear it. Here’s a hint—the answer is “nothing, unless you’ve got your own agenda or vendetta to push.”

In other news, Hee Sop Choi is still a big, fat, stupid, patient Korean and he’s still the starting first baseman for your Los Angeles Dodgers of Los Angeles California USA Earth. Play ball.

Your name is what?

2005-03-11T08:01:00.000-08:00

This is Mal Washington. He was a pretty good tennis player back in the day, even reaching #11 in the world back in the early 90’s. Now he covers tennis for ESPN. He’s done pretty well for himself. Except for one thing that’s been bugging me for about 15 years. Check out his full name: “Malivai.”
Now check out how he pronounces it: Mal—uh—vee—uh
I don’t know what language “Malivai” comes from, but unless it’s one that transposes the sounds of the last two letters of every word, the dude’s been mispronouncing his own name his whole life. Dyslexic mother? Cruel joke? Who knows, but I’m really glad he started going by “Mal.”

P.S., my friend V (who’s also got a blog: http://flipflopsandsocks.blogspot.com/) asked that make sure that everybody knows that this:

is his favorite guitar player, Steve Veeah.

An Untimely Reading of “Moneyball” and Why the Dodgers Will Suck This Year

2005-03-09T12:30:00.000-08:00

So I finally got around to reading “Moneyball,” which was all the rage a couple of years ago. That’s about my standard curve for things that get a lot of hype. I think I finally caught Fear Factor in Season 3 or so. The first Police Academy movie I saw was the one where they made Bob Goldthwaite one of the cops. I had dial-up for 5 years before going high speed. Though I did wait in line for midnight showings of the first 2 Star Wars prequels, so go figure.

But anyways, it was a good read. I knocked it out in a couple of days. It raised some very interesting points, most of which I’m cursorily familiar with by following baseball as close as I do. I know well the current fascination with “alternate” statistics like On Base Percentage, On Base Plus Slugging Percentage, Number of Pitches Seen per At Bat, etc. I’ll admit that I was willfully ignorant to a certain degree because it’s contrary to what I’ve grown up accepting as baseball dogma. I’m still not ready to pledge fealty to the sabermetric god of slide rules or nominate the Oakland front office for a nobel prize, but the facts and statistics are, frankly, irrefutable.

But the thing that struck me the most is the very frank admission by Billy Beane himself that his system only works given a large enough sample of games. In a 5 or 7 game series, most of it comes down to luck. That’s not good enough for me. When you’ve got arguably the best 3 man rotation going in short series, won a hundred games, and can’t make it to the Series year after year, that’s just too much luck for my liking and starts to get into the area that I believe in that Moneyballers are so quick to discount—chemistry and the other intangibles that statistics will always fail to measure.

The argument over how a club has chemistry (whether winning breeds it or you have it and it breeds winning) is for another time. I believe that it exists and I believe that it’s essential to championship teams. One of the things in the book that really stuck out for me was when Beane was going through a mental checklist of all the things he was going to do as soon as he took over the Red Sox (which he ended up not doing). One of the things on the list was “get rid of Jason Varitek.”

Now, almost to a player, everyone on the 2004 Red Sox will tell you that Varitek not only was “the” guy for them last year, but also the one guy they couldn’t afford to let walk prior to the 05 season (as evidenced by the above-market price they paid for him).
Theo Epstein, the General Manager of the Red Sox, has successfully fused the Moneyball statistical evaluations with the intangibles that are absolutely part of the game. Johnny Damon wasn’t a Moneyball player even when he was in Oakland. Stole too many bases, risked too many outs. Epstein signed him anyway. Varitek certainly isn’t, but again, ask the Sox who the one player they couldn’t have done it without.

I am of the belief that you make your own luck, as intangible as that is. They say chance favors the prepared mind, and that leads back to chemistry. Guys on the same page or whatever cliché you want to throw at it. The point is that walks and slugging percentage alone won’t do it for you. Neither will assembling a statistically predictable club. There’s that certain something else that guys like Varitek, Jose Lima, Steve Finley, Paul LoDuca and Alex Cora can bring your team.

Those last 4 guys, in case you don’t know, were unceremoniously dumped from the Dodgers. Not even offered serious contracts. They low-balled Lima so he’d leave. Why? They don’t fit Dodger GM Paul DePodesta’s computer model of what a team should look like.
Apparently a fat starting pitcher with a history of arm troubles does.
Apparently a shortstop with a frightfully low batting average does. If he’s going to play 3rd base for you. (Jose Valentin’s On Base Percentage sucks also, in case you’re wondering)
Apparently a past-his-prime second baseman who’s never been much with the glove and been much less in the locker room does. At eight and a half million per.
Apparently a minor-league catcher compared to Ivan Rodriguez, not because of his arm, but because of his ass does.
Apparently a right-fielder who considers it an accomplishment to have finally played 145 games in one season does. But he walks a lot. To the trainers room. And to the DL. A lot.

JD friggin’ Drew has the audacity to show up for Spring Training and demand to play Center Field because Right Field is too hard on his knee. Right Fucking Field? The Out Fucking Field? Base Fucking Ball? If you’re not pitching or catching, you’re sitting on your ass waiting for something to happen 90% of the goddamned time any way. Is he going to have someone pinch run for him every time he gets one of his sacred walks? What’s harder, loping under a fly ball in the corner or going from 1st to 3rd on a single?
Oops, sorry, going from 1st to 3rd on a single is one of those things Moneyballers don’t care about. That’s a “heady” play. And you might get thrown out.
And this just in, Assfuck, the Dodgers already have a Center Fielder. His name’s Milton Bradley and he just happens to still be pissed that he had to move to Right last year to make room for Finley. Centerfield is the safest place for Milton Bradley and baseball fans everywhere. For a thrown object to reach him or for him to reach a fan, it’s the furthest distance and the odds are greater that a teammate or security guard might be able to intercept him. As long as he doesn’t go through right field, wouldn’t want JD McPussy to hurt his knee in the process. If the guy’s knee can’t take the “rigors” of playing the outfield, maybe he needs to join the World Poker Tour instead.

Dodger fans have grown to love guys like Kirk Gibson. Paul DePodesta gives us a cross between Bartleby the Scrivener and a glass slipper. People say that Drew will have a better year than the guy whose money he’s making, Adrian Beltre. All I’ve got to say to that is-- name the stakes.
Adrian Beltre was a Dodger his whole professional life. They signed the bastard when he was 9 or something. They stuck with him, let him learn at the big league level. The guy went out and almost won an MVP last year on one leg and what does he get for his effort? An empty promise from an owner with no money and not even the courtesy of a phone call in the offseason to say “Sorry, we’re going in a different direction.”
Oh, LA made a posturing contract offer after Beltre’s agent called to say, “By the way, 3 teams have offers on the table, do you want to even bother making one?”
The Dodgers spin it like he chased the money, but all he wanted was a little respect. Not too much to ask in the grand scheme of things.

So the bottom line is that DePodesta is going to throw a bunch of walkers out of the field who have never played with each other managed by a guy who doesn’t even have a managerial style that lends itself to the kind of club DePo wants to build and he expects to win the division again?

Screw chemistry. Screw MVP’s.

We’ve got Hee Sop Choi (and he’s cheap!)

Mike Greenwell is a Butthole

2005-02-17T09:08:00.000-08:00

“Where’s my MVP? I was clean. If they’re going to start putting asterisks by things, let’s put one by the MVP.”

Mike Greenwell is a butthole. A whiny, bitchy butthole.

Odds are, unless you’ve closely followed baseball over the last 20 years or you’re from Boston, you probably aren’t terribly familiar with Mike Greenwell.

Mike Greenwell was a left fielder for the Boston Red Sox in the late 80’s and 90’s who arrived on the scene with a hell of a lot of hype. Some touted him as the next Carl Yazstremski—high praise from the Boston faithful. When I was growing up, the true test of hype was how much someone’s baseball card was worth at the time.
Greenwell’s 1987 Topps rookie card (the one’s with the really stupid faux wooden border around them) was one of the most valuable in the set when it came out, up there with Mattingly (whose cards were always ridiculously overvalued) and McGwire’s rookie card. Crap, the guy was even a Donruss Diamond King at one time.

Well, it appears that Mike Greenwell is a little upset about the fact that best thing he ever accomplished in his career was finishing 2nd to Canseco in the ’88 MVP voting.
In a classic bitch pile-on maneuver, Greenwell figures since everyone else is taking a shot at Jose, he might as well get his too—even though he’s not even mentioned in Canseco’s book, presumably because when you’re supposed to be the next big fucking thing and you launch 130 homers over 12 years, people tend to a) forget you for being a huge pile of overrated suck and b) not suspect you of ‘roiding up.

You know what dickhat? Maybe you should have stuck your ass in the air and let big Jose shoot you full of muscle juice. Maybe then you wouldn’t have gone from the cover of Beckett Baseball Card Monthly to a rolled up poster in Peter Gammons’ attic faster than Sam Horn did. Are you jealous of Jose’s title as the “Father of Modern Steroid-ridden Baseball Accomplishments?” Ok, here’s your title: “Father of Modern Porn-Stache Wearing Wash Outs.” You’re welcome, fucktard.

And Mike, for the record: Nobody is going to put an asterisk next to anything. Except maybe you in your little, bitter peabrain.

Says Mike:
“I do have a problem with losing the MVP to an admitted steroid user. Every time you renegotiate a contract, if you’re an MVP, you have a different level of bargaining power. But in honesty, I don’t care about the money.”
You don’t care about the money? Um, yes you do, or you wouldn’t have brought it up. What else could it be about for you, since never in your little PMS-fest did you ever allude to the fact that you were maybe pissed because an admitted steroid user’s team was a consistent winner and even won a World Series?
You don’t care about the money. You’re like one of those people who uses a derogatory slur, then justifies it by saying you’re not a racist because “you’ve got lots of black friends.”
At least it’s no secret where Canseco stands. He wanted to cheat to make a crap load of money. You surface from oblivion, bitch about not getting your big payday, backpedal off of it, and for what? Just to get YOUR name in the papers again.
Do the world a favor, Greenwell. Buy a copy of the 2004 Red Sox Championship DVD, pop it in your player and watch it a few thousand times until you can deal with your own personal feelings of inadequacy for not being able to accomplish anything remotely similar in nature or scope.

And P.S: I’ve got about 4 dozen of your worthless rookie cards laying around that I’d be more than happy to send you. If you don’t want them, I’m sure there’s an ass somewhere that needs wiping.

All quotes source: http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/news/story?id=1993112

The Berg and The Lime

2005-01-31T09:09:00.000-08:00

There’s a guy I used to hang out with a lot when I was single, The Berg. I knew him through soccer and he lived in my complex, so he was a good fit for a drinking buddy.
The guy has a lot of quirks, like he’s just not quite wired right. He does odd stuff like before he goes out to the bars, he stops at the Circle K on the corner, bring his little cooler inside and fills it with ice out of the fountain drink dispenser to keep his Keystone Lights cold. He steals firewood. Not sure why. He bought one of those little Chiminea things for his patio and on his way home from the bars, he’ll back his SUV up to a grocery store that looks inadequately secured and load up with firewood. Then he’ll go sit on his patio with the fire going until about 5 in the morning. The guy once washed his car at a party. Pulled his car into the host’s driveway and washed his car in the middle of the night. Another time, at another party at the same host’s house, he just disappeared for awhile and went and took a shower. He comes out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel and a head full of shaving cream (he’s one of those cats who Bics his head.)
Just a weird, weird guy. But also the kind of guy who’ll be the first to get your back when some shit goes down. But anyways, I was telling this story the other day on the way to dinner because it’s my favorite Berg story and it’s probably worth documenting for posterity.

This one night, The Berg and I were at this joint called Ernie’s. Ernie’s is technically in Scottsdale, but it’s pretty much the antithesis of Scottsdale bars. For one thing, they have Karaoke. Every night. And the people that end up there are usually capping their evening after bowling, Monster Truck rallies, playing poker for foodstamps, or spending a relaxing evening betting on fighting roosters. And to all of you thinking to yourselves, “What were you doing there, dumbass?”, shut-up. I didn’t have to drive and the beer’s cheap.
So anyways, we’re knocking a few back, our ears bleeding, people watching, blah blah blah. We see this one girl walking around the bar, putting her $1500 augmentations in as many people’s faces as possible—presumably to draw attention away from the trowel marks on her face from when she applied the pancake batter or whatever to it. This thing was a real piece of work, desperate for any attention that she could possibly get.
About an hour or so later, the bartender comes over to us and asks if we bought anyone a drink.
“No, why?”
“Well, that girl over there (pointing to BigChest/CakeFace) ordered a Gin & Tonic and said to put it on your guys’ tab.”
We politely informed him that it was bullshit, that we did nothing of the sort and the matter was easily resolved with the bartender. As for the crazy bitch that tried to pull it off, it wasn’t quite over. I was content to let it go, but as I turned to look for The Berg, he’d already started walking around the bar towards her. He stopped in the middle at the garnish tray on the bar and grabbed a lime wedge.
Then he walks over to her table and without a word, winds up like Sandy fucking Koufax and just nails this girl in the grill with the lime wedge. Just drills her. Without even a word. Then he just casually turned around and walked back over to where we were sitting, like it never happened. Didn’t say a word about it.
Don’t know why this always strikes me as funny as it does, maybe it’s one of those “you had to have been there things.” You decide.
The only other memorable thing from that night was me having to make small talk with some guy in a wheelchair for about an hour while The Berg tried to pick up Wheelchair Guy’s friend. He wasn’t a very nice guy either.

Why Going to the Bathroom Anywhere but Your Own John Sucks AKA My Rant Against Public Bathrooms.

2005-01-28T15:15:00.000-08:00

As a disclaimer and warning: the following may contain bathroom humor. If you are offended by such or just don’t think it’s funny, you’re probably wasting your time. Go to church or something instead of reading any further.

No matter how badly I feel the need to heed Nature’s call, it’s always a big, goddamned pain in the ass to do it anywhere except my own little water closet at home.
Let’s think about it logically:

You go into the public restroom at your job, a restaurant, a library, a grocery store, etc and whether you pull up to the Yoo-RHY-nal or the stall (derived from where they keep pigs and cows and other stupid creatures. Ironic.) it’s just the beginning of a chain of events that no matter what you do is sure to put you in a far worse mood than you were in before you went in—regardless of how close your bladder was to bursting.

The urinal:
You’d think this would be a slam dunk as far as the easiest, most efficient method to do your business, but no. For one thing, there’s always this mysterious puddle, right underneath the urinal. What exactly is the challenge in actually getting your piss into the thing when you’re standing 2 inches from it with about 6 inches of space between the corporeal exit and the water? Are people trying fucking tricks like freestyle pissing or something? I cannot fathom why the piss puddle appears beneath every urinal around.
Solution? Put indentations in the ground beside it with footprints so people know exactly where to stand since it seems like people are going for distance or something.
And would it kill people to make it so while I’m reading the article in that case, I can actually finish reading the story if I so choose? “Crpl. Adams then hit the dirt as his unit came under fire when all of a sudden….SEE COVER STORY PG. A-4.” Thanks for that. Assholes.

The stall:
Is there a more ill-conceived concept than the public restroom stall? Should perfect strangers really be forced to move their bowels in a common 3’ x 5’ area? Whether you’re a germaphobe or just someone who cringes at the idea of putting one’s ass on the same seat that had God-knows-what done to it in the last five minutes, dropping Uncle Charlie in public just plain sucks. You gotta fuck around with that stupid toilet-seat shaped paper that’s made out of the same stuff the barber tries to choke you with and somehow get that to remain in place long enough for you to plop down on it, without it blowing away or slipping so that your skin actually comes in contact with the porceteria.
Either that or waste what little TP is guaranteed to be there by putting several protective layers to ensure the sterility of your cheek skin.
And people, please listen when I tell you: It’s ok to be modest with the noises that come out of your body while you’re doing your thing. Hearing the door open to the restroom is not a casting call for your best interpretation of a tuba as performed by your ass. It never ceases to amaze me what sounds people will emit in the presence of others.

So you’ve done your deed, now:

A) If you’re like most of my co-workers, it’s time to blaze out the door and go back to work, carrying the Outbreak monkey around on your hands.

Or

B) If you’re like me, it’s time to actually wash your hands.

Washing your hands is even a pain in the ass. You’re usually faced with a couple of scenarios:

1. The Super Duper Magic Motion Detector Faucet Turner-Onner: Allegedly, there is a point in space, somewhere in the vicinity of the sink where if you hold your hands there, right fucking there, not a millimeter off in any of the 3 dimensions, water will dispense uninterrupted from the spigot.
2. The one where you press the thing down and water is supposed to flow and then the thing goes back up and it stops. How big, exactly, were the motherfucker’s hands that designed this thing? How in the name of shit, am I supposed to get my hands adequately cleaned with that split-second of water? By the time I hit it and move my hands under, the goddamned thing is turned off already. You gotta put some soap on, then have one hand hold the knob down, and then try to have one hand scrub itself, like you’re thumbing through a stack of money. Or you can just get soap all over the knobs, the sink and everywhere trying to keep pushing the thing down. Look, I’m 28 years old. I can fight and die for my country. I can vote for my leaders. Hell, I can run to be one of those leaders. I can sit in a casino and play poker for 36 straight hours slurping rot gut scotch and get 10 lap dances afterwards should I choose to. I am an of-age, responsible adult and I am perfectly fucking capable of deciding for myself exactly how much goddamned water I think is the proper amount with which to cleanse my hands. I will turn it on when I want and when they’re clean, I’ll turn it off. I’ve already had the low flow shower head forced down my throat and the low flow toilet that can only swallow 1 square of toilet paper at a time. I listened to the whiny bitch on TV who told me to turn off the faucet while I’m brushing my teeth. I hardly ever wash my car. I GIVE A HOOT. Please, please, please just let me operate my own public bathroom faucet.

Now you’ve washed your hands and another couple of things can happen:

Your hands are dripping wet and you search around for some paper towels only to find one of those wall-mounted hot-air blower units. You know the ones. Every single one in America has been graffitied by some dumb ass who didn’t realize that somebody in 1983 already thought to scratch out the “on” off the end of “push button.” It’s not funny anymore. The damned thing is most likely out of order. Even if it does work, I don’t, as of yet, recall ever walking out of a bathroom with one of those things with my hands any drier than they were when I left the sink, save what dripped off. Sorry that I don’t have 10 whole minutes to stand there while that thing tries in vain to evaporate the water without burning my skin off.

Or:

Your hands are dripping wet and you search around for some paper towels only to find some dumbass holding some paper towels out for you while standing next to his sympathy tip bucket, boxes of cheap cologne, breath mints, cigarettes, playing cards, walkmans, shoe shine, electric razor, chassis lube kit, microwave, VCR, ferris wheel, greeting cards, and delicatessen.
I’m not in the mood to fucking impulse shop, I just want to take a piss. And I’m certainly never, EVER, going to give another man (or woman for that matter) and of my goddamned money to assist in that process in any way. I’ve been practicing for almost 30 years, I don’t need any help, I’ve got it, I’m good. Why do they trust that sonofabitch to turn the faucet on and off for me? I have a college degree. He works in a fucking bathroom. You do the math.

A bit of advice.....

2005-01-28T11:13:00.000-08:00

A lot of people ask me for advice. Why? Because I’m one wise motherfucker, that’s why.
Unfortunately, due to the inordinate amount of requests for my time, attention, and guidance that I receive on a daily basis, I’ve discovered I have to go the way of so many other brilliant, American institutions—subcontracting my customer service.
Now don’t worry, your emails won’t be processed by someone in New Delhi or a 3rd grader on break from his lacing job at the Nike factory. I’ve got an even cheaper domestic option. My cat, Lucky.

We’re pretty sure he’s mildly retarded, if, in fact, retardation exists for his species. But for a retarded cat, he’s got quite a unique perspective on things, and when it comes to dispensing advice, he’s, dare I say, precocious.
Got troubles, trials, tribulations or anything else on your mind that you need help with?
Ask Lucky.

Dear Lucky,

I consider myself pretty smart (IQ tested around 135), yet I'm having no luck finding a job. Am I too smart for my own good? Am I just unlucky? Does my brilliance intimidate my potential employers? Or am I just an arrogant wanker?

Niggity Nico,
Orlando by way of Birmingham

Dear Niggity Nico,
I’m sorry to hear of your quandary. Usually when things like that are weighing on my pea brain, I’ll just go over and hop on top of the scratching post, then reach underneath the platform and scratch the rope upside down. Sure, sometimes I end up losing my balance and falling face first from 4 feet high, but after that, I can just go back and lay in the pile of hair I’ve made on the sofa and go to sleep for several hours.
You’re welcome.

Hey Lucky,

What's the secret to life, the universe, and everything?

Cheers,
Arthur Dent

Dear Arthur,

The secret to life is the art of grooming one’s self while making the most god-awfully loud and obnoxious slurping noises possible while people are trying to watch television. Then I can get a nice squirt from the squirt gun and not have to groom myself anymore.

The secret to the universe is to scarf all your breakfast as fast as possible, not even making an attempt to chew even a single morsel.
Then go find an article of clothing, a shoe, or just a part of the carpet that isn’t stained yet and puke your fucking guts out allllllll over it. Make sure to preface the purge by making really gross, wet hacking noises, just enough to get someone to come running from the other room to try to grab you and throw you on the tile only to proceed with the barfing, right as they reach you.

The secret to everything else is to lick where your nuts used to be. A lot.

Dear Lucky,

My wife says that my feet stink. I can't argue much - they pretty much do. It's so bad lately that she won't even touch them when we sit on the couch to watch The Wheel and give me a foot massage like she used to back in the olden days. I really gots no issue with that in and of itself - I mean, I prolly wouldn't touch her feet, either, if they stunk this bad. I mean these suckers STINK. So anyways, to make her happy (and to get my feet rubbed again,) I went out and got me this powder stuff to put in my shoes, and to be honest with you, it didn't work all that well. You know the stuff - Gold Bond or whatever they call it? Waste of money. Anyway, I used it for like ten days and nothing. I mean not a thing - they still stunk to high heaven. So then I got me these little colored balls that are supposed to absorb all the sweat and stink from the shoes. I used them last month and they kinda worked okay. My wife was pleased with the improvement, but was still afraid to touch my feet. I was at a loss. So then I told my buddy at work about the problem and he told me that I gotta wear socks. He tells me that if I wear socks each day, the stink will go away after a while - oh, and to keep using the little colored balls, cause those seem to be working somehow. So I tried his advice and for a couple days it worked wonderfully. Not a stink to be smelled. But then after about four days, my shoes started to stink again - which of course, meant my feet started to stink again. But this time is was even worse. Like rancid pork chops or something. I was puzzled. I didn't know what to do. So I go back to my buddy at work and tell him that it worked for a while then it stopped working. He tells me this time that I'm supposed to put on a new pair of socks each and everyday and to toss the dirty ones in the hamper when I'm done with them. (Like he couldn't've told me this information the first time, sheesh.) Anyway, so I tried his miracle method and like magic, it's working to this day. My wife's pleased. I'm pleased. Even the dog is happy now. Hell, last night, I gots me like a fifteen minute foot rub! (from the old lady, not the dog.) I couldn't've been happier. But of course, that's not exactly why I'm writing you. What this series of events has gots me thinking is this; Do you think maybe Brad Pitt's feet stink, too? and maybe that's why him and Jennifer split up? Cause if it is, he should think about changin' his socks more.

Sonny
Carson City, Nevada.

Dear Sonny,

You know what really stinks? When I go to the litter box and take a big dump then try to bury everything else in the laundry room—the washer, the hot water heater, the floor outside the litter box, the door—EXCEPT my steaming, stinking turd. Now THAT stinks. For full effect, don’t even take a shit in the actual sand. Perch yourself up on the corner of the box and drop that guy right over the side onto the laundry room floor. No one will even remember what stinky feet smell like.
Brad could get Jennifer back if he’d just go sit by the front door and cry like a little bitch, real loudly for about 20 minutes for no reason. It really seems to please the people I live with.

It worked

2005-01-25T17:41:00.000-08:00

Ha, I've got you licked, you pig-fucking html tag blog bullshit, now it's on.

That's me punting a soccer ball by the way.

Test

2005-01-25T17:15:00.000-08:00

Let's test this:

Shall we?

So Yeah....

2005-01-21T19:25:00.000-08:00

Well, gotta get this beeyotch off to some sort of start.
I'll easily conquer the internet within a few months.