Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
It shouldn't come as a surprise to you, fair reader, that I, Doc Holliday, hate Halloween. Yes, I said it - it stinks. It stinks like a wheel of cheese left in the sun for a week. It stinks like a fat person after court-mandated spin class. It stinks worse than the wafting smell of shit outside the men's bathroom in Grand Central Terminal. There's nothing about this "holiday" that I find appealing. And neither should you, by the way, if you're over the age of 13. And if you give me the old "girls wear slutty costumes" argument, I'll be forced to ask you - A. are you going home with one of these vixens? And B. if not, why are you exposing yourself to such ungodly torture?
I rest my case.
But, it pays to stay with a blogospheric theme. And since today is Halloween, and I'm sure every other baseball blog out there that now has dick left to talk about will be posting something to go with the spirit of the day. So, I thought I'd relate one of WMHG's favorite subjects to this bullshit celebration: Free Agent Pitchers.
Who doesn't love the thought of their respective team trotting out a new and improved rotation come April? I know I do, I had to watch that fat disaster Sidney Ponson pitch every 5th day. And what better way to get everything you want in a new free agent signee than by dissecting all of them, taking the pieces you want, and adding them together as your own Frankenstein monster.
Part 1 - The Body
Some critics will say that because C.C. Sabathia is 400 lbs, his body will not hold up. I disagree. Why? Because obese people do not drop dead until they're in their 40's. Sabathia is 28, so there's no need to fret.
Part 2 - The Eyes
What is more dissuading (and slightly erotic) than one single piercing blue eye staring you down from 60 feet 6 inches away? Nothing - except maybe a piss-drunk Kyle Farnsworth. And since Kyle Farnsworth isn't a starter, we get the right eye of Ben Sheets.
Part 3 - The Hair
My pitcher needs a sweet 'do. Call me vain, call me superficial, but if my pitcher does not have curls swinging wildly like tentacles after delivering a high-and-tight fastball, well, then I'm not interested. Pedro Martinez has cultivated his geri-curl/afro creation like no one in the last 25 years, so he gets the nod for this section.
Part 4 - The Guts
When you're a middle-aged lefty with a surname other than Johnson, you have no business pitching in the major leagues. You have no business pitching for your work softball league either - let that guy Steve from Sales get a look. But somehow, Moyer has not only stuck around, but also managed to lead the World Series Champion Phillies in wins and time spent trying to shit out the previous night's dinner. Now those are guts of steel, ladies and gents, that I would like to have.
Part 5 - The Arm
If there's one free agent starter out there who can throw 96+ MPH from the 1st inning through the 9th inning, it's A.J. Burnett. You can keep the rest of his septic body, I'll take the arm.
Part 6 - The Mustache
Again, some of you may think I'm more concerned more about appearance than physical and mental makeup, but I assure you, the mustache is much more important than one may think. Who do you know that has a mustache? Your creepy uncle, right? And are you scared of him? Yes. And that's why my pitcher needs a World Class 'stache. And who better to take from then the biggest hick/creepiest man alive, Randy Johnson.
Part 7 - The Groin
Think I'm talking about muscles here? Think again, nerd - I'm talking about Pavano's pishadoo, his manhood. This guy's run through more 10's than Tony LaRussa at a strip club bar. My creation needs this kind of experience for when the ladies start flocking and he needs to concentrate on shutting down the Sox at Fenway.
One can only imagine the colossal hangover felt by thousands of Philadelphians today - but it must be one of epic proportions. Somewhere in Grays Ferry, a man is kneeling over a toilet, wrapped in his stained Ryan Howard jersey, puking violently. Having already used all of his sick days, he had to use one of his precious personal days this morning, even though the company he works for may be on the verge of downsizing. But in his head, he says over and over again, "It was worth it. It was all worth it. The 14 shots. The 14 beers. The whole 'making out with a bum for $13' thing - it was all worth it, because my Fightin' Phils are world champs!"
Then he vomits again. And again. And then work calls, informing him on his answering machine that he no longer is employed. And he will not be receiving severance. His girlfriend - who also is hung-over - wakes to the raspy sound of the secretary's voice, unwraps herself from her pink Chase Utley jersey, and decides she does not want to date an unemployed loser, so she skips out. The man pleads with her to stay, but to no avail. She also takes their dog, J-Ro, with her.
Suddenly, the man realizes that everything that was so right in his life, so perfect, has collapsed, all because of one game. One single fucking game. He places blame solely on the Phillies, Pat Gillick, and Charlie Manuels charming twang, and vows to never root for them again.
The next morning, he leaves town, headed north on 95. He got the okay from his cousin in Flushing to move in. After a long drive of reflection and self-doubt, he double-parks his Ford F-150 on the corner, and walks past a North African that has a table full of knock-off merchandise set-up. In the middle of the clutter, he spots a worn, blue cap. The man picks it up, and places it on his tired head. It fits like a glove. The orange logo, the blue accent, it all looks so magnificent. He scans his new look in a nearby broken mirror and says to himself, "this is how champions are born", then walks across the street to his new home. Midway across Queens Boulevard, he's mowed down by a drunken Mets fan who decided to spend Wednesday and Thursday night drinking away his sorrows at his parents house in Rockville Center. He speeds away. The victim is transported to Queens County Hospital where he's listed in stable condition. No charges have been filed.
I have no idea what the fuck I just wrote. But hey, at least we can get the FA show on the road, right? Right? Who's with me?
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Here's one for ya, look-a-likes right down to the receding hairline. On the left, is solo home run hitting (that I just saw, which brought the game even at 3-3) Rocco Baldelli. He has Crohn's disease or something rare and mysterious just like it. On the right, we have the recently re-hired Brian Cashman, on board for a few more years of Steinbren-tastic fun in the Bronx! I don't know about you, but if my job required nothing but unreasonable expectations of perfection or risk ridicule by an entire city and verbal bashing in the media by my boss...I'd sure want to keep doing it too!
Curse? Curse? Why the fuck does every team have to be "cursed" in order to explain their two decades worth of mediocrity? Who, goddammit, who started this? Now you've got Philly joining in on your chant!
(spits in face of innocent bystander)
It's gone from humorous and somewhat interesting to fucking annoying. Remember when you first read about the Abraham Lincoln, JFK connections? You were intrigued, admit it. But after you're Great Aunt sends it to you via chain email for the 87th time, it gets a little old.
In no way is "curse" a valid excuse to link the words "bad franchise moves" and "no championship". 1+2 does not = moronic, but that's what writers and team aficionados like to proclaim. Well, not to rain on your parade(wucka-wucka!)believers-of-the-supernatural, but I have some news here, fresh from the 21st century of thought: There are no witches, there are no warlocks, there are no gypsies, there are no fucking voodoo temptresses out to get you, Philadelphia. Start owning up to the fact that YOU SUCKED FOR A LONG TIME. Mitch Williams letting up a walk-off? Not a curse. It was a bad pitch. It happens. Just ask your friend Brad Lidge, he can attest to this.
And not until dickface writers and numbingly stupid fans of team's that cry "curse" start owning up to their respective team's bad free agent signings - David Bell, Adam Eaton - bad trades - Placido Polanco for Ugie Urbina, Gavin Floyd for Freddy Garcia - and then starting recognizing great drafting - Utley, Howard, Myers, Rollins, Hamels - they will finally be able to put aside the Ouija boards, open their eyes, and realize that there is logic behind a team's transition from hopeless to contender.
Now excuse me, I have to remove the pins from my Curt Schilling doll's cock.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
There are two sides to every story. The right side and the wrong side. And if it happens to be a story that involves some sort of offending action, there are two right sides, and no wrong side. Simple math, do it on your stubby fingers if you have to. And this is the case with Tampa Bay Ray bench statue Ben Zobrist's father, Tom Zobrist, and the classy fans of the Philadelphia Phillies, who apparently made Tampa Bay Rays fans of all ages feel, "unwelcome".
Zobrist, in more than one quote, complains that Philadelphia fans, "harassed a baby". If the baby, is you Tom, then I understand, but how do you harass a baby? It's a baby! They don't know shit! They can't be offended, mad, upset, their feelings can't get hurt and they don't hold grudges. THEY ARE BABIES. They eat, shit, and sleep. They do not get harassed. And who brings a baby to a World Series game? Especially if you're a family member and/or a supporter of the visiting team? And don't give me that "we should all feel safe at the ball game" bullshit - it's Philadelphia - adhere to forewarning's! Leave your offended newborns with a baby sitter, or better yet, with their mother! This just shows the inept brain-power of most people in today's society. They feel entitled to do whatever they want, whenever they want, wherever they want. Well, if you feel like walking into Citizens Bank Park with a fucking Ray Hawk and a Jonny Gomes jersey, prepare to be harassed, and take it like a man, not a fucking 6 year-old girl with a skinned knee.
On the other hand, Philadelphia, along with their baby-harassment (horseshit) - also threw mustard at a 7 year-old kid. Although I am a fan of mustard throwing, or any type of condiment attack for that matter, throwing shit at a 7 year-old is low, even for the lowest forms of society, in this case, toothless fat guys from Camden. No fan base should be proud of an act like this, and it's pretty sad that Philly fans are defending it on forums across the blogosphere as we speak. Making excuses only validates my stance - only on the mustard throwing, remind you.
I must admit that as a Yankee fan, I was once thrown out of Yankee Stadium because I felt it necessary to pour beer on the head's of Boston fans who - gasp - had the nerve to set foot in my house, so I can relate to drinking too much and the allure of flinging a plastic packet at a navy blue hat sporting the letter "TB". But keep the age limit up, at least to 12 year old's and higher.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Here you are, Philadelphia, one win away from ending your drought at World Series Utopia. One single win. One. Just one. Can you do it? Can you appease the epically pessimistic fan-base that will forget this title the minute Philly opens next season 4-18?
With Cole Hamels on the mound, the odds seem to fall in your favor. He has the stuff to shut down a now shell-shocked Tampa Bay offense. They look more traumatized than someone getting results back from a bloodtest after fucking Lindsay Lohan raw-dog. Twice. It's that bad.
I don't want to drag this post out, so I say it ends tonight. Series over. Phils win, a city is set ablaze. Hopefully, in a literal sense. And if you're a fan, and I just jinxed it, ior you're mad because I'm "hating", sorry, but I root for the Jets, so my pain is infinite and I'm allowed to hate, son.
I HATE NEW YORK: A LONG OVERDUE UPDATE AND A LONG OVERDONE STORY
You would think that writing for a prestigious blog like WMHG would separate me, Mr. Fancy Man, from all that is wrong with this world. Well, it doesn't - I too share in your daily fight to avoid assholism. And to be perfectly honest, Google's "pee" ads bring in enough revenue to pay for nothing, really, albeit AK's subscription to "Mike Piazza's Alarmingly Gay Hairdo Club". But just seeing the ear-to-ear smile and joy in his blossoming eyes is well worth the $2.99 a month.
Today I was riding on the uptown 2 train, numbly avoiding any human contact or sharing of emotion like every other goddamn NYer, when this lady, let's call her WB(decide for yourself what the acronym stands for) gets on and lumbers in my direction to join me near one of the ultra-hygienic poles. Now, I'm fine with sharing daily hugs and awkward body brushes with people I don't know, it comes with the territory of living in this sinkhole, but this lady was different. Not only did WB step on my foot and bump into me with her fake Coach bag(again, I cannot stress how fancy I am, and how I now have the ability to spot knockoffs. And yes, I know this is gay), she gave ME a dirty look. Now, there were two routes I could have taken here: 1) I hit her so hard her stupid kids shit their pants, or 2) Take the high road, assume she hates me because I wear shirts with collars, and return to my book even though instead of absorbing the words, I blindly skim the pages thinking about how hard I plan on body-checking her, given the chance.
Knowing I do not share the same taste as Larry Johnson for hitting women, and also knowing that I would spend the rest of my (not so) gifted life in prison if I tagged her with a perfectly telegraphed right hook, I took route #2.
But, before I explain the perfect scrape-block I performed on her as a parting gift, a la Alan Faneca, I must tell you the part that bothered me more than the whole "fuck you and your shoes, guy I just walked into". WB was listening to an iPOD, literally, as loud as it could go. Maybe louder. She may have had an amplifier installed, it was that loud. Then she proceeded to bob her head and mouth the awful words to some terrible song filled with trumpets and horns and a lot of high-pitched screaming. It wasn't like she was overcome with emotion by some church rendition of "Amazing Grace", this was some fucking loaf-of-shit by (insert band name here) that has no business playing a concert for zero spectators in a landfill, let alone on recording albums.
It was a spectacle to see, and I hate public spectacles. Why can't everyone just mind their own fucking business, curse under their breath, and politley nod as they step on your face if you happen to take an untimely spill that interferes with my commute? Is that too much to ask? Is it? Well, yes, apperenly it is, because this lady did this for a good fifteen minutes. At one point the man next to me, a stout gentleman who probably likes to shout racial slurs as he hits his wife for letting the turkey get cold, gave me a look like I was the perp in the train car with the brain-scrambling music blasting. Well, sir, you are wrong, it was the lady next to me. But I couldn't say anything, so I tried to steer him toward her with my bulbous eyes. He didn't bite. I screammed loudly in my head, ashamed that I was associated with this moron next to me, and starting to pretend-read again.
So, when the train finally came to my stop, I took measures into my own hand, and gave her a nice, stern bump with my man-bag. There, you bitch, take that! And off I went to spend nine hours stewing over what a garbage can NYC really is.
Maybe I'm dating myself here, but if you don't remember the movie Dick Tracy, then you don't know dong about shitty comic adaptations from the late-80's. Al Pacino? James Caan? We all remember the last time they teamed up for a movie, ah? Ah? You know what I'm talking about...Throw in efficient wife-beater Warren Beatty, some Dustin Hoffman, Madonna (pre-fake British accent and aging disgustingness), Dick Van Dyke, and Paul Sorvino, and you got yourself an ensemble cast.
Putting it plainly - I was obsessed with this movie. I thought it was the equivalent of Citizen Kane, except much more violent and crowd pleasing. I remember being steamed that it didn't get nominated for an Best Picture that year - yes, at 9 years old, I had the self-absorbed upityness of a Park Avenue housewife.
Looking back on the movie now, I can't help but call it what it is - a piece of shit. And I find it hard to believe that even as a kid, I thought this was cinematic gold. But when I dig a little deeper, I realize there are a ton of red flags, making my childish opinion very suspect. For example, I went to see DT in the theater with two kids who legitimately couldn't read. In school, they were both assigned to the desk that had walls protruding from every side, except the sitting end, making it impossible for occupants to make eye-contact with anyone. And it wasn't a punishment, it was permanent. That was what educators in the 80's called "Special Education" - throw them off to the side, wall them in, and make them feel as ostracized as possible. Back to the subject - these two kids loved it, along with me, which makes me wonder, was I too, perhaps, a bit retarded? That's my assumption, but still, it pains me to see something that I thought was so amazing, actually be so fucking god-awful.
Anyway - the guy on the left is actor Ed O'Ross, who looks absolutely nothing like his character, and of course, soon to be irrelevant, but still toast of the American League, Rays manager Joe Maddon.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
This is pretty much it for the Rays. Joe Blanton and Ryan Howard just buttfucked this team with the mercy of a moderately hungry obese child stealing his baby brother's unattended ice cream - it was ugly. Chalk this one up for Camden, New Jersey's more-fuckable sister city. I'm being realistic as always, and not writing this to be like one of those dickheads who says shit to create "reverse jinxes" and then heads home to their basement apartment to enjoy several hours carousing the Internet for porn involving elderly men.
That's not me, that's not how I do. So, yeah, stick a fork in them. A big one. They're through.
And as I sat here tonight, pretending to be a real writer who has deadlines and word counts and actually makes a lot of money by ranting and cursing and screaming my opinion through the power of the blog, I decided I don't really care who wins. I'm done. I'm ready to move on. Let Philly take it, let their fans finally have their day in the sun, because the good Lord knows they will eventually take that day in the sun, argue with their spouse, verbally fight, physically fight, have police intervene, and end up looking at the bright blue sky through prison bars. And what if the Rays pull it out? Good, more shit to talk about, Philly melts in their own despair, very fun stuff.
Either way the 2008 World Series goes, I'm okay with the end result, and my staunch opinion has begun to wane - which is extremely rare when it comes to baseball, or maybe just sports in general, or food, or music, or mustache styles, or cab driver ethnicity, or the walking pace on a busy sidewalk, or well, every little fucking thing that goes on in this crazy world...so moving on past this one subject should free up some more of my time so I can meet pretend deadlines and carry out other delusional tasks.
We all win!
Friday, October 24, 2008
Take a minute and enjoy...John Stossel and Keith Hernandez. Or is it Keith Hernandez and John Stossel? I uploaded the damn pictures and I can't even tell. It's literally so creepy I had to do 2 side-by-sides! John Stossel, of ABC News fame, has graced TV news magazine shows like "20/20" for many years. He actually came to my college and gave a lecture, which I of course, attended. Upon the conclusion of his speech, I immediately rushed the stage with a baseball, sharpie and full docket of questions to ask including, "How in the world does a first baseman throw a runner out at 3rd off a bunt??" and "C'mon, weren't you AT ALL scared to death of Kevin Mitchell?!".
Mr. Stossel/Hernandez seemed confused at the time, but what I know for sure is I'll always cherish that ball forever. To add to the allure of this duo, the real Keith is currently 1/3 of the best TV announcing crew in the biz (along side fellow '86er Ron Darling and play-by-play man Gary Cohen), and I look forward to many more years of inappropriate comments.
So, over the years, I've slowly been driven to the brink of madness. I'm sure it has something to do with being a Jets fan, but I can't put the full blame on the step-children of the Meadowlands. But there is one person I can put blame on. His name is Jonny Gomes. And he stirs something inside of me that's wicked and evil and hate-spewing. God do I hate this fucking asshole. He deserves a fastball to the neck. You think I'm being rash? Think ol' Doc is being a little outrageous? Well, I disagree, and my slideshow below will vindicate my hostility. And if you - at the end of it - are not convinced that this guy belongs on an island reserved for egotistical, self-delusional ass-hats, then maybe you should join him.
Look at Jonny. He's happy, he's celebrating. But celebrating what? He doesn't contribute, he doesn't do anything. He fucking blows cock. He's a glorified towel boy. He might as well be cleaning up the immense sweat puddles left behind on the bench by Cliff Floyd. But no, instead he's right up front, encouraging his pals to touch homeplate so he can jump around like a gaylord, even though deep down, they're saying, "Why the fuck is Gomes still here? I thought we traded him for someone who doesn't look like a fucking morbidly obese Justin Timberlake, but without the charm and hot-girl-plowing track record."
"Want some inside info? I keep one foot on the top step of the dugout and one on the field, just in case there's a chance that something game-ending could happen, almost assuring that I'm the first one onto the field so I can zip around like a tard, arms out, not really caring that I'm irrelevant."
See the above quote, and understand why Gomes is the 3rd person on the pile, besides the pitcher and catcher who helped end the ALCS against the Red Sox. Seriously, it's almost impressive that he gets himself into these photos. But it's also pretty fucking sad.
Last night, who's the first guy to give a high-five to James Shields after he worked himself out of a jam? Well, it's Jonny Gomes, of course! And why not? He's got nothing else to do. It's not like he has to worry about playing some fucking baseball. He's either there for simple decoration, or for his improvisational celebratory skills. Either way...well, either way nothing, he's a fucking cock-choker.
And you know what? I'm begging for someone to prove me wrong. I'm begging for someone to come along and show me a receipt listing money Gomes donates to orphanages, hospitals, clinics, the fucking zoo, anything. But you know what? That might not even sway my opinion of him at this point, that's how far-gone I already am. ESPN could report tomorrow that Gomes donates all his paychecks to Lymphoma research, and I would still suspect he does it to get in more AP photograph opportunities.
*Note - Gomes's tendency to douche up a photograph is not relegated to the post-season, he's been doing it for years. If you have seen any, please post links in the comments. I'm going to turn this into a fucking thesis.
I've always been infatuated with Brett Myers thick, boisterous eyebrows. They're their own entity. I wouldn't be surprised if they got up off his face and helped him beat his wife the next time she dares speak out in a public place. Obviously, that's what originally made me make the connection between him, and one-half of America's favorite gay couple. And seeing that Bert is probably the top in the relationship, I'm sure he shares the same spousal-abuse tendencies as Myers, giving them that much more in common!
Thursday, October 23, 2008
This picture is some scary shit. Not like, "Boo" scary, but "waking up with your penis glued to the floor" scary. Just in time for Halloween, too. Now what if - and this is just a speculation - what if these two were separated at birth? It's possible - that shit happens all the time. Don't you watch 20/20? It's like that based on a true story movie Twins - one brother goes on to win 4 World Series titles, play in 6, become the most dominate closer in history AND pull off the "I have a receding hairline but I don't give a fuck because I'm Mariano Rivera" look, while the other brother goes on to become an above-average 3B for decent teams, but is ultimately overshadowed by bigger and more popular personalities. Imagine that? That would suck. And I'm sure every time Pedro Feliz sees Mariano on TV, he shakes his fist and says, "usted esta muerto".
But again, this is all speculation. Or, maybe I should just stop sniffing the dust-off in the supply cabinet.
I have to admit, I'm not super-into this year's World Series, as previously stated, but I am glad that all of the text messages I sent to my degenerate gambling friends rang true - bet on Cole Hamels over Scott Kazmir, he's been just plain dominate this post-season. And I hope they made enough money to dive right back into the pool for Game 2, and then instead of listening to me they listen to some internet jerk-off who over-analyzes the game and they end up losing their rent money AND prescription drug money.
Ah, such a special friend I am...
But while half-watching the game last night - disinterested and bloated from stuffing my fat fucking face with a gallon of ice cream - the one thing I began wondering was, why don't advertisers use the World Series platform to launch bigger and better campaigns for their products? Even though it's not even close to the revenue scale of the Super Bowl, (because in baseball, you lose all that fat women - mouths stuffed with guacamole, wearing the jersey of a player who retired in 1989 - who love to continuously yell, "Shh, shh, the commercials are on!")it still draws a significant percentage of the male 18-54 demographic. I don't want to get all "technical" here, (pushes glasses back up nose, flips through James Joyce novel) but I think certain products should spend all of their budgets on the series. For example:
- If you are the VP of Marketing for Skoal, give me one good reason why are you not dumping all of your dollars into these games? I understand you can't advertise on TV, but who said you can't pay 1,500 people to hold skoal signs up in the stands? It's not rocket science, idiots.
- Also, why don't you ever see commercials for aluminum baseball bats? Again, in Doc-Fantasy-Land, if I work for TPX, and I want to really get my new bat out there in front of over-bearing little league dads who are forcing their 9-year-old to sit in front of the TV and watch every major-leaguer pivot his front foot, I'm getting my bat on screen during every break.
- What about Muscle Milk and Creatin and all that body-building other shit? What is their marketing department doing, sitting around with their veiny thumbs up their asses? I bet they are. What's a better way to corrupt and convince a 15-year-old to experiment with untested, possibly sterilizing, but legal performance-enhancing drugs? The World Series on Fox, of course! Yay, shrunken cocks for all!
Obviously, this is mostly pipe-dreaming on my part, because my pitiful salary is probably more than the television budgets for any of these brands - and that's just sorry. But when you sit back and look at what's being put out there during games, you start to question if these cranky-old-fucks running shop for these brands are just a little retarded? Want to reach middle-aged women? Don't use the World Series - women couldn't fucking care less about baseball. There are no tight pants and no quirky commercials and no over-the-hill movie stars doing douchey sell-out dances for Pepsi. Start reading Variety or something, you fucking morons, or turn over your office keys to this guy.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
We're just a few hours from Game 1 of the 2008 World Series, and boy could I care less! My job is done. You may ask what job that is, and as I slowly tussle your hair, I'll explain to you that my job was making sure those cocksucking, motherfucking piece-of-shit New England garbage cans did not make it into the World Series. And they didn't. So I can relax until Day 1 of free agency.
But what kind of blogger would I be if I didn't offer my extensive take on the matchup at hand? What kind of blogger would I be if I didn't post a shitload of stats to back up my asinine predictions? What kind of blogger would I be if I didn't break down each game's pitching matchup, wind projection, crowd attendance, and toilet flush trajectory?
What kind of blogger would I be?
A good one, that's what kind. But that's not me, so here's my take, anyway.
Charlie Manuel was born in West Virginia. Have you ever been to West Virginia? Well, I have. It’s one of the top ten scariest places on Earth. It's a dumpster filled with people missing an unhealthy amount of teeth, shacks that look like they entertained dozens of male-rape fiestas, and women that look like walking corpses, but not in the sexy Hollywood way, in the un-sexy Meth addiction way. Bottom line - not a fun place to hang out in. But it does have West Virginia University, which is the most lawless place known to man, outside of a spilled dildo truck in the West Village.
Maddon has horn-rimmed glasses, looks like a nerd, and seems like he would be a polite dinner guest that may even provide a sweet bottle of expensive hooch.
Philly has the big-names – Jimmy Rollins, Chase Utley, and Ryan Howard. But they also have Pedro Feliz, who has ties to the San Francisco Giants, who used to employ the man on the WMHG banner, who did enough steroids to paralyze even the likes of Rodney Harrison, so obviously Feliz uses too. And their catcher is Carlos Ruiz, who’s actually 57 years-old and from the future (false).
The Rays have an ethnically diverse infield - Dominican sensation Carlos Pena at 1B, Japanese import Akinori Imamura at 2B, half-Fillipino Jason Barlett at SS, and cornbread white-boy Evan Longoria at 3B. Rounding out the infield – and I mean rounding out the infield (wucka-wucka!) is apparent All-Star and Venezuelan, Dioner Navarro. What does ethinicity have to do with infield defense? Nothing. I'm just trying to be topical.
The trio of Jayson Werth, Shane Victorino and Pat Burrell, pretty much sums up the entire consistency of the Phillies roster – a role player who can step it up, a cast-off who turns into a post-season hero, and a slugger who, despite consistent numbers, is verbally scorned by the retarded fans inside Citizens Bank Park. But none of these guys is a spectacular athlete - they're just plain and bland, like Jeter without the high-top fade.
On the other hand, the Rays have more talent stalking two of their outfield positions than the Phillies do across all three, in Carl Crawford and B.J. Upton. There’s really no need to mention rightfielder, Gabe Gross, because realistically, the Rays could put a large Fern out there with a glove taped to its branches and the results would be pretty much the same.
Jaime Moyer is old as fuck. He was born in the same year as Daryl Strawberry, Ivan Calderon, Sid Fernandez, and Roger Clemens. Strawberry’s been to jail like 17 times. Calderon got shot in the head 5-7 times (don’t know how that’s debatable), Fernandez has eaten more food than all of your mom’s first cousin’s combined, and Clemens have pretty much kept a low profile, except for the occasional congressional hearing and statutory rape case. And what does all of this tell us about Moyer? He’s cursed, that’s what. But Cole Hamels is pretty good, and if Brett Myers can wean himself off wife-beating for a week or so and Joe Blanton can stop eating the entire deli tray in the clubhouse after games, they could have a formidable 1 through 4.
Andy Sonnanstine is not a good pitcher. Although his numbers may state otherwise, and his performance most certainly will prove me wrong, he’s still not a good pitcher. He could throw seven straight perfect games and I will still meticulously point out his mechanical flaws, so-so stuff, and stupid beard. But the Rays have James Shields, ALCS MVP Matt Garza, and southpaw/Clay Aiken doppelganger, Scott Kazmir.
Before I go any further, I would just like to say how all of these guys, and I mean ALL of these guys, are overachievers (excluding David Price). Yes, that includes Brad Lidge, who even pre-Pujols fail, never performed on the same level as he did this season. That’s why I don’t think there’s a necessary need to size-up both sides individually, because they’re almost identical – giant/lefty Grant Balfour cancels out giant/lefty J.A. Happ, failed starter Ryan Madsen cancels out failed starter J.P. Howell, retread weirdo Chad Bradford cancels out retread weirdo J.C. Romero...And this is where we take into account the X-Factors – Lidge and David Price. Lidge has the obvious pedigree and experience, even though Price is destined for stardom, but I have to give Philadelphia the nod.
Don’t even try to bring Dan Wheeler into the occasion, because he’s Joe Borowski with a beard.
Let me just tell you that I fucking loathe Jonny Gomes. Hate doesn’t even cut it as a description, I spit on hate as an adjective when I think of this guy. He sucks at hitting. He sucks at fielding He’s fat. He can’t fight. He looks like asshole. His name is stupid – are you Spanish, or white – what the fuck are you? But somehow, he takes up a spot on the Rays thin-bench. Why? I can’t say for sure, but my best guess is he has scandalous photos of Rays GM Andrew Friedman wildly celebrating Easter instead of Passover last March. The Rays also have the good-guy veteran with several illegitimate children, Cliff Floyd, a juiced up Willy Aybar, and nobodies Fernando Perez and Ben Zobrist.
What do Eric Brunlett, So Taguchi, Greg Dobbs, Geoff Jenkins, and Chris Coste have in common? Give up? They are all worthless failures. Am I being a bit harsh? Yes, but c’mon, these guys sound like fucking lawyers, not pinch-hitters or defenisve replacements.
I truly believe this series will be tight. Tighter than you at a work party filled with free-flowing booze and easy secretaries itching to get back at their cheating boyfriends. Tighter than Joba Chamberlain being harassed in a Lincoln, NE strip club, several vodkas deep. Tighter than Pac Man Jones at a John McCain rally. Tighter than Joey Porter at an adult spelling bee…
You get the picture, it will be an uncomfortable, long, and hard fought battle, pitting two solid teams with similar makeup against one-another.
My pick? I got the Rays winning the Big One, only because I never, ever thought I would be saying this in my lifetime. And to be honest, deep down I kind of wish Philadelphia was scheduled to be paved over to make room for a large commuter parking lot with nice views of the Atlantic Ocean. But more the former reason, definitely.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Dun, Dun, Dahhhhhh
...THE SAME COMPANY!
Yes, it's true. Another piece of the puzzle falls into place. The keepers of WMHG once were more than just co-bloggers, they were co-workers! But, ever since that last train robbery went sour ( I STILL say you didn't have to kill ALL of them) we've gone our separate ways to tell our tales in this great medium/forum/crap depository/whatever you want to call it.
So, one day at one of the many anger-filled cafeteria lunches Doc and I shared with several other co-workers, the topic turned to Sam Champion, and the rumored relationship he had with my baseball hero, Mike Piazza (Yes, I did love Todd Hundley and curse Mike Piazza when he was on the Dodgers, but that's neither here nor there. The Mets of '92-'96 were a black hole, and while I was growing up, the only things I had to hold onto were Bernard Gilkey, Lance Johnson and Todd Hundley's 1996 seasons. Did I sell out? Probably, but I was 15 at the time, and didn't know any better. Anywaaaayy...
(it'll be a 3-1 to Bernie...).
A heated discussion arose, as they frequently did when we all discussed sports, about whether Piazza was gay and having torrid on-again-off-again love affairs with Mr. Champion. Needless to say, this argument was never resolved.
However, after this old story was jolted from the depths of my subconscious this afternoon, I thought I'd revisit some of the career info, historically significant stats and events (some courtesy of wikipedia) produced by NY Mets Future Hall of Famer, Mike Piazza (yes I know he could just as easily go in as a Dodger, but c'mon, let's get serious here. Oh, and I fully plan on attending the Mike Piazza induction ceremony in Cooperstown, NY in 2012):
Drafted: Selected by Los Angeles Dodgers in 62nd Round (1390th overall) of 1988 amateur entry draft.
Transactions: [Jul 11,1988] - signed [May 14,1998] - Traded by Dodgers with Todd Zeile to Marlins for Gary Sheffield, Charles Johnson, Jim Eisenreich, Bobby Bonilla and Manuel Barrios. [May 22,1998] - Traded by Marlins to Mets for Ed Yarnall, Preston Wilson and Geoff Goetz. [Jan 31,2006] - Signed by Padres [Dec 8,2006] - Signed by Athletics (1-year)
- 12-time All-Star
- Is regarded as the best hitting catcher of all time, and holds the career record for home runs hit by a catcher with 396.
- He had at least one RBI in 15 consecutive games for the New York Mets in 2000, the second longest RBI streak ever (Ray Grimes of the Chicago Cubs had 17 consecutive games in 1922).
- In 1993, Piazza hit 35 home runs, setting the record for most home runs by a rookie catcher and surpassing Detroit's Matt Nokes who hit 32 homers in 1987.
- He was named the All-Star Game's MVP, in 1996, after he went 2-3 with a double, home run and two RBI.
- His 40 homers in 1997 and 1999 are the third most by a catcher. Todd Hundley is second, with 41 homers in 1996, and Javy López (steroids) set the record with 43 in 2003.
- His .362 average in 1997 was the highest ever by a catcher (110 games) in the National League, tying the Major League record set by Bill Dickey, who also batted .362 for the New York Yankees in 1936. Piazza finished 2nd in the NL MVP balloting (which he never won) for the 2nd consecutive year to Larry Walker, of Colorado.
- On September 21, 1997, Mike Piazza became just the third player and the only Dodger ever to hit a ball out of Dodger Stadium with a blast over the left-field pavilion.
- He hit the longest home run in Astrodome history, an estimated 480-foot, two-run blast off José Lima in the first inning of a game on September 14, 1998.
- Piazza, Derek Jeter, and Bernie Williams are the only players in major league history to hit a World Series home run in both Yankee Stadium and Shea Stadium.
- He won a record 10 consecutive Louisville Silver Slugger Awards. The award is given annually to the best offensive player at each position in each league.
- He joined Cincinnati's Johnny Bench (1968), New York Yankees' Thurman Munson (1970), Atlanta's Earl Williams (1971), Boston's Carlton Fisk (1972), San Diego's Benito Santiago (1987) and Cleveland's Sandy Alomar, Jr. (1990) as the only catchers to be named Rookie of the Year.
- He finished second in the N.L .Most Valuable Player voting behind San Diego's Ken Caminiti after batting .336 with 36 home runs, 105 RBI, 87 runs and 16 doubles in 148 games in 1996. (Caminiti later admitted to taking steroids during his MVP Award-winning season...And then dropped dead.)
- He led the All-Star voting in 1996, 1997, and 2000.
- He hit more than 30 home runs in eight consecutive seasons (1995-2002). He has nine career 30-homer seasons.
- He hit .300 in nine consecutive seasons, dating from 1993 to 2001.
- Yogi Berra, Carlton Fisk, Gary Carter, and Johnny Bench were on hand at Shea Stadium to honor Piazza on "Mike Piazza Night" on June 18, 2004. Piazza was celebrated for breaking the record for career home runs by a catcher.
What the fans don't know...
- During the 1994 baseball strike, Piazza and Joe Morgan appeared on Married...with Children. He also did cameos in episodes of Baywatch, Celebrity Jeopardy! and The Apprentice.
- In 1998, "Mike Piazza's Strike Zone" was released for the Nintendo 64 system.
- He appears in the 2002 Sandra Bullock and Hugh Grant movie, Two Weeks Notice.
- In 2000, he contributed guest vocals for the Black Label Society song "Stronger than Death".
C'mon, does that guy look gay to you?!?!
There are many, many things in life I despise. People, for example. But also posers. I hate posers. I get physically sick when I see people hamming it up, trying so desperately to be something they aren't. It makes me want to take them aside, give them a long talk on how to be a leader and not a follower, and just as they're nodding their head, grinning through a stream of emotional tears, I hit them over the head with a chair leg...because that's how I do.
About two years ago, following up on a friend's recommendation - who by the way, I now hate solely because of said recommendation - I bought Tucker Max's I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell. Now, before I really begin here, I'd just like to state that I am a huge advocate of catchy titles, whether they suck or not. For example: I Am Legend, No Country for Old Men, Cool Hand Luke, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, California Cocksuckers, etc...And I truly believe his book has an engaging title. It's alluring and ironic. Right away I assumed I had a book that would keep my attention away from the guy who smells like fresh piss and crazy lady banging the metal railing with her mud-covered hands during long subway rides.
I was wrong - the book did not help one bit. It actually made things worse.
After the first few paragraphs, I realized this guy was an asshole. And not a cool asshole like Keith Hernandez, but an asshole who deserves a foot to the face, like Bob Sagat. His stories are redundant, unfunny, and unoriginal. If a guy like this gets published telling not-so-out-of-control stories, I'm wondering if I could get published too, seeing that the centerpiece from my "hilarious drinking stories" library isn't about getting drunk and having my pants fall down while eating sushi. Wucka-Wucka!
(laugh so hard I shit my pants)
Oh, boy, that was side-splitting comedy gold.
(wipes away tear)
Anyway, this guy stinks. The fact that his book is selling stinks even more. I don't want to be a "hater" on any level (false), but I just can't help but cry out "farce" when I read shit like this. I hear better stories at the deli by my apartment, and they all speak Korean.
Hey Tucker, you got drunk in a field? BFD, I fell down stairs and shattered my faceplate - beat that! Oh, you had sex with a girl and left a shit-stain on her couch cushion? I know a guy who shit his pants in the middle of hooking up! You got another story, Tucker? Well, I got a better one.
Please, all of you faithful WMHG readers (yes, all 50 of you), if you haven't read this already, don't waste your time. Read the back of a shampoo bottle, it's much more titillating, and 10% funnier!
Oh yes, Tucker Max kind of resembles Tampa Bay 3B Evan Longoria.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Yesterday was a rough one for this guy. I chased a hangover all day, didn't eat an ounce of food until 4:30, and watched the pitiful Jets bend over and grab their ankles for the Pop Warner Raiders - who by the way have the fakest fucking fan-base on the face of the earth. The Black Hole? Ohhhh, a bunch of middle-aged, poorly educated douche's screaming and wearing Darth Vader masks. Sounds more like virgin-filled Comicon than an intimidating place to play football. Oakland is for the birds. But I can't really shit on them the way I want to, because the Jets lost, and that's just plain sad.
So like I said, the day did not start off in a positive light.
But things changed the minute Tampa Bay took the lead in the 5th inning last night and didn't look back. Can I say I had faith in them? Nope, because every pitch that crossed the plate was potentially the continuation of Red Sox Nation (rhyme) douchebagery. Luckily the squeaked out a victory and orchestrated one of the gayest celebrations ever seen outside of the Halloween parade in the West Village. There were Ray-Hawks aplenty, a ton of screen-time for fatso Jonny Gomes acting as if he had something to do with the ALCS title, and a very awkward interview with B.J. Upton who looked more like he just found out he has triplets living in a raised-ranch in Pasadena than he did an ALCS hero. But all in all, it was a nice, and it sets up a pretty evenly matched World Series, which makes for better TV than any of the horseshit I've been subjected to recently, ie: nothing.
Now, like many of you, I'm faced with the moral predicament of which team to root for - the team that trumped the Yankees - but also the Sox, or the team representing the N.L.? I've heard people say they root for their league's champion, which I find ridiculous. Why would you root for the team that just ass-blasted your team out of the playoffs and/or hunt for the playoffs? Shouldn't you be pining for them to lose? In most cases, this is how I feel, but this year it's different. And no, it has absolutely nothing with what the media is predictably calling a "Cinderella Story" in the Tampa Bay Rays, which is as original as shitting your pants and blaming it on the dog.
What, you never did this before?
Moving on then...The decision for me is pretty simple, really, because I just can't bring myself to really root for the Phillies and fall asleep at night (or at the bar in the 5th inning after my 32nd silver bullet). You see, I went to college with a dozen or so Philadelphians, and all I can say is may God have mercy on their souls - or lack thereof. They're evil and vindictive and stubborn and black-hearted - and that's just the tip of the iceberg. So I'm stuck with the Rays, and their awful stadium and their awful fans and their stupid haircuts...
But fuck it, I can't really complain, because it's a relief to know that Kevin Youkilis is probably sitting in a tub full of tzatziki sauce right now, crying his eyes out like the fat little bitch that he is.
Ah, the karma. No, it's not karma? Well whatever it is, it's better than my other sport options.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
It's come to my attention that Joba Chamberlain was arrested for driving under the influence and speeding early Saturday morning. Before we jump to conclusions, let's remember that he hasn't formally been charged just yet. And it could be worse, you know, it's not like he woke up behind a dumpster near his home covered in thorns, or in some strangers living room wrapped up in their fancy drapes, or in someone's garage under the car, or blocking someone's driveway submerged in a waist-full of beer cans with his car still running, or in his trunk where he fell asleep trying to remove his spare tire, or in his parent's front bushes, or in the bar he was at the night before wrapped delicately in the rubber floor mats, or locked in the bar he was at the night before tucked away under a long tablecloth, or on the floor of the living room of a party that no one wanted him at because he was the drunkest one there and he ate one of the host's last birth control pills, or in the woods with one sock on and one sock wrapped around the end of a stick, or on a fishing boat even though he doesn't know anyone who owns a boat, or...
*all of the above are true stories.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Fuck you, Boston. Fuck you for ruining my pleasant evening. You left a taste in my mouth reminiscent of the morning after a drinking black-out, highlighted by getting punched in the face by a girl and vomiting in an alley. You made me bite my lip, too, which fucking hurts, so now every time I chew, it stings. And it's all your fault. I also had to suppress my screams of contempt and damnation, because the lady was sleeping, and in doing so I got sick to my stomach. Fuck you for making me stay up when all I wanted to do was pass out, but I couldn't, because I knew what happened might happen. And it did. Goddamn you.
And fuck you, Joe Maddon, for sitting idly by while your overachieving bullpen finally underachieved and then unraveled. A lead-off walk, you watch blankly. A two run home run, you watch blankly. Another series of misadventures for Dan Wheeler, you watch blankly. Game's tied, you watch blankly. And fuck your glasses, too. They're not different, they're stupid. Fuck all of your player's mohawks too. Gee, that's really original, nobody's every done that before (false) - maybe you should start calling yourselves the idiots and wear cowboy hats and sign Kevin Millar and just be that much more adorable, huh? Why don't you do that, too? In 50 years, when one of my grandsons is watching a replay of this game and asking me why all of you dummies have the same out-dated hairdo, I'm going to tell him, "It's because they were the first team made up solely of homosexuals". Stew on that one, asshole.
Fuck you Dan Wheeler. Your mediocre rising fastball isn't fooling anyone. Shave your face, you look like a fucking hobo.
Fuck you, Dioner Navarro, for calling that high fastball seventeen times over the course of an inning. You didn't deserve that All-Star birth. You deserve a diet. And a catching lesson.
Fuck you, B.J. Upton, you should have caught Kotsay's ball, but you were too busy envisioning yourself rolling around in a pile of money on the arbitration table this winter.
Fuck you, W.B. Mason. Who else but you? How about Mayflower - you suck at moving.
Fuck you, Kevin Youkilis, and your garbage can sized head. Your teammates make fun of you behind your back and sleep with your woman.
Fuck you, Dustin Pedroia. Invite me to the laser show, so I can laser your fucking face. With a bat.
Fuck you, Bill Simmons, you gave up on this team and know you're back on the wagon, drinking the Kool-aid. You're not funny anymore and you're not cool because you wrote your book using two fingers. That's called retarded. I can't wait to buy all of your new books from Borders and throw a book-burning rally in the parking lot.
Fuck you ESPN.com, for egging this team on. And just like last year, they were dead in the water, but now, they're showing life. If they win this series, I'm taking it out of your ass.
Fuck you Google, for advertising pee on our blog. What the fuck is that? Pee photos? Who takes photos of pee? The Japanese? Well fuck them, too.
Fuck you Rays fans that were at Fenway last night, you obviously have no idea how to handle the presence of the Red Sox. Cheer on your team instead of standing there like deer in headlights, watching them collapse like you're watching your significant-other make a porno with a bag-lady.
Fuck you Pesky Pole, fuck you Green Monster, fuck you Yawkey Way, fuck you USS Constitution, fuck you Bunker Hill, fuck you Cheers, and fuck you tea party.
No, you know what? Fuck you, Doc Holliday, fuck you for subjecting yourself to this year after year. You need to learn a lesson...
(forgets lesson, burns Red Sox flag)
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Hank Steinbrenner, in his infinite wisdom - and severe case of mouth diarrhea - is finally saying something I can agree with. No, he's not suggesting that he drive a stake through his own heart and then hurl his dying body off a seven story cliff - he's saying Joba Chamberlain will probably start in 2009.
Music to my ears, guys and...well, guys, music to my ears.
Now, I've had the "closer vs. starter" argument more than Joe Maddon's been called a "nerd", so I figure it's time I get it on down on paper, so I can simply refer people to my blog, and hope maybe they'll understand my stance, and then click on a "pee" link, just for the fuck of it.
Keep Joba in the Pen
It's easy to understand why you want a guy like Chamberlain coming in the eight inning - he assures the team that he will be a sturdy bridge to closer Mariano Rivera. And he's not only been a sturdy bridge, he's been absolutely lights out. Let's also not forget that he's timely with his advances on women.
For reference, his 2007 and 2008 stats as a reliever:
59 IP, 1.33 ERA, 78 SO, .167 BAA
It doesn't really get much better than that, especially for a guy who was blacking-out on Tuesday nights and plowing college groupies just two short years ago. Would it be the worst thing in the world if Chamberlain stayed in the pen? No, I can think of worse options - hint, one of them rhymes with BaTroy Bawkins.
Start the Chubby Bastard
In his brief, yet breathtaking run as a starter, Joba was dominate. Don't try and tell me otherwise, because my statistical analysis will fuck you up. And it will fuck you up good.
Check out these stats, and weep softly like the little bitch that you are:
12 GS, 3-1, 65 IP, 74 K, 2.76 ERA, .245 BAA
Yes, naysayers will continue to crow "How can you judge a guy after just 12 starts?" Well, after I'm done wedgying said naysayers, I will ask them if they remember the way Joba walked into Fenway and out-dueled Sir Shit Chin, Josh Beckett? If they say no, then I will cram their Banana Republic boxers so far up their ass, they will taste their own ball-powder.
And even though this one performance does not make a starter, but then again, it's not a bad place to start.
Look, the Yankees need a solid rotation, it's been 1/2 of their Achilles Heel for the past few seasons. They need pitchers who are confident, talented, and not named Sidney Ponson. And most importantly, they need guys who are durable. Yes, Joba had an elbow injury last season, but he came back and showed no ill-effects, and he has the body type to shoulder a 200+ inning season.
Here's a sweet little stat nugget: The last time the Yankees had 3 starters pitch at least 200 innings was the last time they went to the World Series - in 2003 (they actually had 4: Wells, Pettite, Clemens, Mussina).
Suck on that, people.
On the heels of one of the most uneventful Division Series in the history of modern baseball, The Phillies decided to continue to bore through the Championship round, handling the Dodgers with the ease and grace of a helpful geriatric nurse, capturing the N.L. Pennant in the process.
All you lurching, drunk fans of the fighting Phils can thank Shane Victorino - a cocksucker in his own right, not because he is a bad person or dirty player - no, because I drafted him this year in one fantasy league and then dropped him because he went 0-200, then watched with bleeding eyes as he resurfaced and stole 143 bases. So fuck him.
And you guys can also thank Cole Hamels, the best lefty in the National League not named Johan Santana or C.C. Sabathia, and without question, the hunkiest.
Anyway...Congratulations, guys! You may now continue on to the World Series where you will collapse historically - Brett Myers and Joe Blanton have it written all over their wife-beating, plump/obese bodies - which in turn will send a few thousand Philadelphians whining and crying all the way back to their fucking row homes, hopefully to sulk in a warm tub and with each shot of whisky, they creep a toaster closer to the edge.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
There are some things in life you just shouldn't do. For instance, never drink water in Mexico. Seriously, don't do it. I always thought it was an urban legend. Well, it's not, and here's proof. In college, a bunch of my friends and I went to Acapulco for Spring Break. I stayed in a place that had modern plumbing and a lobby, others stayed in a beat-up dump with no pipe filters to strain the parasites out of the drainage water that they pumped in to the hotel and passed of as hygienic. A lot of them were girls. Through a constant fog brought on by tequila and warm, pissy Dos Equis, I specifically remember overhearing conversations about "ramped diarrhea". I wish I was kidding. I'm not.
Another thing you should never do is walk across Broadway in Manhattan before you're given the go ahead. I saw some asshole a few months ago - fancy suit, brain melting blackberry in hand - venture out and get whacked by a taxi. It was horrifying and gratifying at the same time. I felt vindicated because not only did this douche learn a painful lesson, but also his suit got dirty! And his shoes flew off, which I believe is a whole phenomenon on its own.
So, what do these two stories have in common? Well, nothing, really, they're just two things you should never do, under any circumstances. And I'd like to relay the message to Rick Peterson, who is a likely candidate to become the Texas Rangers' new pitching coach. It sounds weird - pitching coach, Texas Rangers - I always assumed they had a garbage can decorated with a uniform and a hand-drawn smiley face.
I guess if you have the itch, you'll take work anywhere. And when/if Rick takes the job and walks into the clubhouse to find out his future rotation is basically a pile of dirty diapers that can throw mediocre cutters, then he will then be wishing he listened to my advice. Because he will have already gone to Mexico, and he will have already drank the water and got hit by a speeding taxi.
One more game. Just. One. More. Fucking. Game.
What does this sentence mean to me? A whole lot, my friends, a whole lot.
It means they'll be no more talk about a dynasty, no more of shit-chin Josh Beckett's fat face, no more Curt Schilling (hopefully ever), no more dick-riding by writers all over the world, no more stupid girls in pink Red Sox hats in the bars clapping and screaming like idiots acting like they know the first thing about fucking baseball (tip - ask them what OBP means, then spit in their drink when they're not looking), no more Bill Simmons writing championship columns and making references that were funny 6 years ago but are now staler than a bum's underwear, no more Kevin Youkilis and his inane annoying whining at the plate, no more fat-fuck female fans missing teeth holding up "Jacoby, will you marry me?" signs even though the parking attendant wouldn't even let them blow him, no more Jonathan Papelbon who I hope gets drugged at a Boston saloon and ends up getting railroaded on the top of a pinball machine a la Jodie Foster in The Accused, no more "What's wrong with Big Papi?" shit from the announcers (hint - HE DOESN'T HAVE FUCKING MANNY RAMIREZ BATTING BEHIND HIM YOU FUCKING IDIOTS, I THOUGHT YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE A FUCKING PROFESSIONAL?), no more unoriginal "Red Sox Nation" banners draping Fenway even though they are the beholders only set of white sheets, no more Dust Pedroia and his Benjamin Button super-aging appearance (seriously, the guy looks fucking 40), no more Mike Timlin's gigantic head, no more of Paul Byrd's stupid windup, no more of Mike Lowell's meticulously groomed goatee...
I could keep going on and on, but why sound bitter? Oh, I do already? Well, fuck it, I am, and hopefully all this nonsense is finished and put to rest after tomorrow night. But if I jinx it, I'll be sure to post my address so you can come by and brain me with a fire axe.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
After a last night's route of the sputtering Red Sox, I figure it's time for another Rays comparison. After all, this is their time in the spotlight, is it not? Fans might as well enjoy it too, because I'm sure we are in for an off-season filled with arbitration disagreements, cocky spending, and maybe even some overpaying for career-year relief pitching. But enough about that now, let's talk about Shane Mosley.
When Shane Mosley was in his prime, I didn't think anyone could beat him. Seriously, he was up there with the best from the last decade. Oscar de la Hoya? Fuck off, he had nothing on Sugar Shane. And until Mosley was upset by Vernon Forrest, he looked like he could string off 50 wins in a row.
But sadly, many of you don't know much about this man, do you? Because you prefer MMA, right? You like seeing men roll around on the floor for 20 minutes, interrupted only for the occasional exchange of blows, before returning to the ground. Can you smell the bitterness wafting from my pores? I hate MMA. I just can't get into it. I'll be the first to admit, I loved the UFC back in the 90's, it was a nice break from boxing. But now? Forget it. I'd rather watch kite-flying on ESPN 2. Two guys hammer-fisting each other in the eye while in a missionary position just doesn't do it for me.
And these sentiments translate fluently to how I feel about Carl Crawford. Alone and abandoned amidst the hoopla surrounding the 2008 Rays, Crawford's lost. This is the former face of the franchise. Now he's stuck in Evan Longoria's shadow even though he's endured 7 years of wrist-slitting seasons in Tampa Bay already. So much for loyalty. So much for being the good player on a team comprised of shit-bags.
Friday, October 10, 2008
I've never been a fan of Joe Buck. I think he's an asshole. The commercials with him and Holiday Inn Express sucked. People who laughed at them probably laugh at people running down the street on fire. They're soulless bastards. Just like Joe Buck. I'd love to make the same comment about Tim McCarver, but you can't blame a retarded person for being stupid.
And speaking of retarded - on the left is Kevin Dillon, less successful younger brother of Matt Dillon. He plays Johnny Drama on HBO's "Entourage". I personally lost interest in the show when it became a "Sex and The City" for guys. No group of guys hugs and pats each other on the back as much as they do. If my friend gets canned, I laugh in his face. Maybe next time he wont try and start a drunken make-out session with the boss's wife. If my friend falls in love with a girl and acts like a little bitch after she dumps him, I do not try and cheer him up. I tell him to grow-the-fuck-up. They should do more of that on the show, instead of trying to center episodes around that fat fucking loser Turtle and de-balling Ari. Then maybe I'll return as an avid viewer. Until that happens, go share a fucking Cosmo with one of those ugly pigs from "Sex and the City" and fuck off.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Who doesn't love Braveheart? And I mean seriously, who do you know that's seen this movie and told you it sucked? If you have and issue with it, well, then you're gay. Yes, that's right, I fucking said it. And you know why you are gay? Because this movie has everything you could ever want in a film. It has pre-Jew hating Mel Gibson, extreme violence, witty dialogue, some nudity, a whole lot of English killing, and a throat swelling ending.
Why am I discussing Braveheart, you ask? What does it have to do with MLB playoffs? Well, if you look carefully, that creepy old fuck on the left side of the picture is the geriatric molester who tells William Wallace's secret wife that she "reminds him of his daughter". He then proceeds to try and rape her. Oh, those charming Brits. And we all know how the rest of the story goes.
On the right, is Paul Byrd, a waiver pick-up by the Red Sox. Byrd has the same wind up as the asshole in your softball league that wears high, striped socks and takes everything a little too seriously. He also looks like he should be working at a Pep Boys in Virginia. Or trying to rape pretty young lasses in the late 1200's. Either one, either one is a fine connection.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Ok, granted I don't hold a candle to Doc's photoshop prowess, but hey, I did my best. And given the comparison, I don't think it's going to take a gigantic leap of faith to see where I'm going with this. On the left is 1st round playoff grand slam hero, Alexei Ramirez. They say the sky is the limit for this young Cuban defector, and now we all know why...because he's from the sky. Well, Mars, to be more precise. On the right is his brother Zelnex. Zelnex is a flame throwing lefty reliever for the Mars national team, seen here wearing one of his bro's hats. It's always nice to see family together again.