Last Night - Blind Drunk

I was going to take it easy last night.

My head hurt, I had just watched a horrendous episode of "The O.C." where they introduced a new character named "Chilly" (in case anyone was wondering, "The O.C." officially jumped shark last night), and I just wanted to lie in the dark and watch a movie. Unfortunately, Roomate Matt wanted to get blind drunk. And I am somewhat easily convinceable. So blind drunk we got.

The evening started off tamely enough, with Matt, myself, and My Lady Friend meeting up with my Roomate Andy, Buddy Matt, and the rest of their home mortgage fraternity, team Wells Fargo. And, yes, they were Happy Hour Heroes to say the least -- A bunch of 20-something sales men out drinking bottled beers? Let's just say the over/under for most Vince Vaughn references in an hour (15) was completely and totally shattered -- but we had a pretty decent time with them.

Unfortunately, it was about 2 fucking degrees outside last night, so after sitting out in a beer garden for an hour and a half, Buddy Matt, TLF, and I took off for our local Irish Pub (read: warm and cozy.)

Things there were great until Matt and I both got IV's of New Castle. The next thing we knew it was 1 am and some china-man wanted to fight us because we told him to stop throwing lit cigarettes at people (real mature, buddy.) Once that gentlemen was escorted out of the bar (by my favorite bartender in all of Saint Louis, Justin from McGurk's...seriously, if this guy doesn't get voted for best bartender in Saint Louis, I have officially lost my faith in democracy) things turned back to normal. We drank a few dozen more pints (or so it felt like) and chatted with the band from Dublin for a little while.

Right around closing time, I decided I needed a breath of fresh air (drinking 3 Jack and cokes, a bloody mary, a dozen-or-so pints of New Castle and eating a pack of Camel Lights will have that affect on me.) Once outside, I stood against the building pondering how I was going to keep from vomiting. As an aside, I feel obligated to tell you that Anheuser Busch was baking a fresh batch of beer last night. Whenever they cook up a new batch, my neighborhood reeks like yeast and onion rolls. It's really hard not to throw up when you're sober and smell it, let alone when your completely fucking cocked.

So, I'm outside and I clearly have the classic Al Fritz Vomit Face going, just hoping things will get better. But, right on schedule, an opportunistic crack head walked by and waved his 16 OZ of Camo under my nose, offering me a drink. Even under the best of circumstances, just the thought of Camo makes me want to vomit, so taking a whiff of it when I'm already housed and looking to spew...yeah...that kind of pushed me over the edge...and I puked all over the place.

So I had that going for me...which was nice.

After a lengthy and hearty puking session, I went back inside of the bar, drank a beer to help clean my mouth out, and got the fuck out of there. A successful evening of getting blind drunk, I decided.

Unfortunately, when I returned home, I found out that my Roomate Andy had gotten blind drunk as well. And in his case, I mean by "getting blind drunk" that he had been drunk when he got jumped in the bathroom of a bar by a group of alpha male douche bags. And basically, he couldn't see out of his right eye. So that's as close to being "blind drunk" as one can ever really hope to get.

Once we sorted out the things which had happened leading up to Andy being viciously assaulted (I'm pretty sure we concluded the leader of the group was none other than the former professional wrestler known as Crush) we cleaned up some of the blood in Andy's room and called it a night.

It was then that I realized I had drank so much booze my penis wouldn't work correctly. So I couldn't even have sex. Then, after overcoming an urge to eat a shoe which for some reason I had covered in Velveeta cheese and microwaved, I passed the eff out.

So I sit here now, listening to "Sister Golden Hair" by America, and just wishing I was dead. Oh well. At least I'm not Italian, too. That would really suck.

(Have a good weekend.)

[UPDATE - 11:15 am. I just threw up. A lot. Again. Sweet.]



I'd Probably Be an Amesome Pitcher

As a youngster, I was a damn good pitcher. I never once played in a league where I didn't make an All Star game. And if you want to say I only made the All Star game because my dad was the coach, well, my dad was kicked out of the majority of my Little League games because he was drunk off of Crystal Lite and Vodka. So there.

However, there are three things which kept me from pitching in the Major Leagues:

1. I went to the wrong high school.

1994. The summer after my Eighth Grade year I played Pony League for the Peoria Notre Dame High School team. Fuck, I was 13 years old and Catholic...how could I not play for a Notre Dame team?

My team went on to win the Peoria City League Championship (not to brag, but the winning run was scored on a fielder's choice by yours truly.) After the game, the coach from Peoria High School talked to me and told me that I would be his #2 Varsity starter next season if I decided to go to Peoria High (by the way, at the time I had never seen "The Program" and knew little about shady recruitment policies or about James Cann.)

Instead of committing to go to Peoria High that evening, I went to Monical's Pizza and ate my own weight in pepperoni and cheese.

Yes, I was a chubby 13 year old. And, yes, I hade never kissed a girl at that time. Thanks.

2. I was good, but I wasn't left handed.

Honestly, I was pretty effing good. If a few tough breaks would have gone my way, I'd be pitching for the Saint Louis Cardinals this post season.

I remember my Freshman year in High School quite well. I was the Bob Tewksbury of Peoria, IL Junior Varsity Baseball, circa 1995. Nobody scored on me. Nobody. I ended the season with a 0.00 ERA. Also, I struck out a batter per inning. 9 K's per 9 IP's. Yeah, ladies, I was that good.

Since I had a late birthday for my class, I was allowed to play in Peoria's "Pony League" after my Freshman year of High School. Yeah, I might have been playing against a bunch of 13 year olds, and throwing from only 45 feet away, but my 68 Mile per Hour fastball made all of those little pansies wet themselves. Yeah, I was that good.

However, going into my Sophomore year, there were six right handed pitchers vieing for four starting pitchers spots. Two of the six were obviously better than the other four. That left Mike Broadhurst, Tim Arnett, Mike Lervaag , and myself (all Right Handers) to battle it out for the two final pitching spots. Once I realized that I was in no way more talented than any of the other pitchers I was competing against, I decided that I would have to exude more spunk to really show my spirit to the coaching staff. The next day, after rededicating myself to be a "leader" and a "team player" I was the first to hop inside of the batting practice cage. All guts and glory, I was.

"Hey Fritz, watch out, 'cause I'm not sure where this first one is a going," yelled Coach Cundiff, from behind the pitching machine.

"Bring it, coach," I said, full of piss and vinegar.

Two seconds later I followed that manly quote up with "Ohhhhhh....." Yeah, that's right...I had been hit with an 85 mile-per-hour curve. In fact, it hit me directly in the knee cap. While I was lying on the ground, withering in pain from a displaced patella, it dawned on me, "If I was left handed, I wouldn't even have to try out for a roster spot. I wish I was left handed. Also, someday I hope to get one of those 'blow jobs' that all of the Seniors have been talking about. They sound sweeeeet."

3. I forgot to learn how to throw faster than 68 miles-per-hour.

I had some nasty shit, man. Two seamer. Four seamer. Curve. Change. Knuckle Curve. Splitter.

You name the pitch and I can at least recreate the grip for the pitch, let alone throw it for a strike.

But a funny thing happened between throwing 278 pitches a day to my best friend "pitch back" and being open handed slapped by my father when I was off by a quarter inch over the plate with my curve ball (in his defense, again, he was drunk.) Unfortunately, my arm strength never actually developed after I was 15 years old.

I really don't know what I could have done differently, but I still throw a tennis ball at least 150 times a day against my neighbors garage hoping to be discovered by a scout and have a second career like Dennis Quaid did after he gave up acting to pitch for the Tampa Bay Devil Rays.

I wouldn't be surprised if I make the Majors some day. Sure, that Community College scholarship fell through, but this is baseball man...where dreams are made. Field of Dreams, baby.

In the meantime, you can find me at your local sports bar. I'll be bellied up to the bar, telling my girlfriend about the no hitter I threw in high school for the thirty-first time in nine months and second guessing whichever third base coach happens to be on TV.


(Editor's note - Although his stats were correct, it bears mentioning that Alex only pitched one inning in his High School Career. Also, he graduated as a virgin.)



Quick Thoughts : Al Fritz - Not a Good Blogger

"Jebus Al...Only a Monday and a Friday post this week?" you ask rhetorically. "How the hell do you expect me to waste my day away pretending to work?"

I don't know. Start drinking?

Anyhoo, I apologize. Now on with the show

My buddy Josh sent me this little e-mail today:

"October coming up again and it looks like the Red Birds are the best team in the land"

Yeah, it's true, October is quickly sneaking up on us. And you know how I get come October.

But here's what I'm thinking about for this year's October: If the Cardinals don't win the World Series, what's the fucking point.

I had fun last year. Making it to the Series was fun. But it's almost as if I still won't have full closure until the Cardinals win it all.

I'm trying to not get my hopes up too high, though. Yeah, if the Birds win it this year, the last two years probably rank pretty close to the top for back-to-back seasons by a Cardinals team. I still say this 5-year stretch is a better 5 year run than any Cardinals team has ever had, and all it's missing is a World Series win. (Yes, the current period is better than the gas house gang, better than the watered down 1940's, barely better than the late '60's, and definitely better than the '80's. And that's a fact, jack.)

I think what I'm getting at is that if (when?) the Cards make the Series, I don't think anyone is going to be "happy to be there." Myself included.

Less smiles around the StL. More Tony LaRussa faces.

Counting my chickens before they hatch? Yes. But I wouldn't be me if I didn't.


This week's McSweeney's fix. God I love that site. Genius.


Am I the only one who is expecting Al-Jazeera to release a video of Usama Bin Laden sitting in front of some sort of black and white TV with an old school nintendo controller taped to it acting as if he's controlling the hurricanes? Now THAT'S propaganda!


Wow. How did I not know about this site. I kind of miss Phish. I don't miss paying $3 for a grilled cheese sandwich, but I do miss the people.


The Lady Friend and I are headed up to Peoria this weekend (nothing like a road trip during a gas shortage, huh?) for a little festival. What kind of festival? St. Philomena's Fall Festival, of course!

Yes, my old grade school and neighborhood church is throwing their annual fall fest this weekend. There really is nothing like going back to the old neighborhood, maybe riding the tilt-a-whirl, listening to some live crap-rock, and settling in in front of the ol' beer tent.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: If you didn't grow up in a neighborhood and you're not Catholic, you're life sucks.


Have a good weekend.



Quick Thoughts: I Am A Dumbass

What I'm thinking about today (other than trying to remember what exactly I did to Daunte Culpepper to make him throw five interceptions and ruin my fantasy football team. Yes, I'm pretty sure he sucked just to spite me.)


Hot word of the week: Blog.

Best if used incorrectly and in a complete and totally inappropriate manner (ie. "We blogged like rabbits," or "I blogged in her ear," or "She blogged the blog out of that blogging donkey.")


Coldplay show last Saturday was, as expected, "G-rrrrrrr-eat!" Two quick thoughts from it:


Cardinals playoff tickets went on sale this morning. Unlike last year, you weren't able to get them at Busch Stadium. Instead, you had to try your luck getting through on the phone or via the Internet. I went the Internet route.

I was lucky enough to make it through the virtual waiting room and was ready to purchase two tickets to game one of the NLCS. However, I pressed the "Request Different Seats" button instead of the "Continue" button.

That was the wrong button. There were no other seats to request.

So back to the virtual waiting room I went.

20 minutes later, all playoff games were sold out and I didn't get a single ticket.

In conclusion, I am a dumbass.


Happy three year annivesary to one of the saddest chapters (also, one of my favorite chapters) in sports history: Kansas City Royal's coach Tom Gamboa being attacked by the South Side of Chicago's finest, the shirtless Mr. William Ligue and his son during a game in Chicago.

"He got what he deserved," the elder Ligue said.

Sure he did, buddy. Sure he did.


Really weird Google referral of the week: fuck what did roberto alomar do to contribute the north american.

No comment on that one.



Songs To Bat To (And Songs Not To Bat To)

A few weeks ago, during those dog days of August, I had grown tired of watching the Cardinals demolish the National League Central and I was in need of a distraction. Since I was out of vodka and there were no episodes of Night Court or Doby Gillis to be found on the TV, I decided to send out a mass e-mail survey to my friends.

I asked them two simple questions: If you were a Major League Baseball player, what would be the best possible song to have play every time you go up to bat and, conversely, what would be the worst possible song?

After much deliberation, I narrowed our findings down to what I determined were the six best and six worst songs to go up to bat to. These are the final results:

Best Songs:

"Sledgehammer" by Peter Gabriel - Best used if you a giant, slow, slugging first baseman or designated hitter (in the mold of Bob Horner, Cecil Fielder, or Mo Vaughn), "Sledgehammer" would be incredibly intimidating if the batter walked to the plate carrying an actual sledgehammer with him. Yes, I'm suggesting that Major League Baseball should start using props like the WWF. I'm sure I'll be getting a scathing e-mail from Bob Costas any minute now.

"Goldfinger" by Shirley Bessey - Honestly, any James Bond movie song would make for some great batting music (with the obvious exception of that horrendous Madonna song "Die Another Day") but "Goldfinger" edges out Guns 'n Roses cover of "Live and Let Die." Why? Because it's my effing list. Get your own. (Bonus points if the batter can lip-sync all of the words to "Goldfinger" while walking up to the plate. Now THAT'S awesome.)

"Hit 'Em Up" by Tupac Shakur - If any ballpark in America ever lets me in their sound booth, I will knock out the sound guy and throw a conveniently placed copy of "2Pac's Greatest Hits" into the CD player. Immediately after the next batter is announced, the crowd will hear the following: "I ain't got no mutha fuckin friends...That's why I fucked your bitch...You fat mutha-fucka." I'm sure I will be arrested shortly thereafter, but hopefully they have TiVo in prison and I'll be able to watch highlights of that moment over and over. Also, hopefully I'm not ass-raped while in prison.

"The Heat Is On" by Glenn Frey - I love the 80's. Maybe not as much as Hal Sparks or Michael Ian Black, but I love them none the less. Unfortunately, many of the songs which were popular that decade simply suck now. However, some songs have done nothing but get better with age. "The H is O" is one of these songs. Something about this song just makes me want to go do some coke, lay down a perfect bunt on the AstroTurf, and start tearing up the base paths.

"Rock you like a Hurricane" by The Scorpions - I am a man who lives by few rules in life. 1) Always get at least 12 hours of sleep a night. 2) Never touch another man's french fries. 3) Every musical list ever compiled MUST include at least one song by The Scorpions. Since "Wind of Change" would be a horribly wussy batting song, "Hurricane" gets the nod here. Although it seems to be an obvious choice for any player nicknamed "Hurricane," I've been told Rex Hudler became addicted to quaaludes while trying to determine whether or not to come up to bat to The Scorps or "Hurricane" by Bob Dylan.

"Eminence Front" by The Who - "Sometimes I feel like I could run through a brick wall after listening to this song" - My buddy Sean, who sums up probably all of mankind's feeling about this song. I have nothing else to add to his description.

"Love Man" by Otis Redding - While this song would be an excellent choice for any player to walk up to the plate to, if that someone happened to be...oh...I don't know...maybe Steve Garvey...well, that would just be fucking aces. If (or should I say when) someone chooses to use this excellent choice as his batting music, it would probably be a good idea for him to stride to the plate in an extremely sexual and highly suggestive manner, ala Val Venis from the old WWF.

Worst Songs:

"All Star" by Smash Mouth - The lyrics to this song should officially be changed to "Hey now, you're a douchebag...Get your game on, away from me." And that's all I have to say about that.

"It's Raining Men" by The Weather Girls - This song should be played whenever Mike Piazza comes to the plate while the Met's are on the road. Just to annoy him. Damn him and his non threatening good looks and unbelievably white teeth.

"Party All The Time" by Eddie Murphy - As I mentioned earlier, I love the 80's. And for every song which has become "cheesily good," some have remained "fucking awful." "Party All The Time" remains in the latter of those two categories. The only time "Party" should be played is when Charlie Murphy's cell phone rings (Am I the only one that assumes that "Party" is Charlie's ring tone? Just to drive Eddie nuts.)

"Take Me Home Tonight" by Eddie Money - Any batter who selected Eddie Money to be his batting music would probably be found in the clubhouse, curled up in the fetal position after his name was announced. Hearing 40,000 people laugh at your musical taste will have that effect on some people. Especially sensitive men who love "Take Me Home Tonight."

"Milkshake" by Kelis - "Milkshake" makes it on this list by default. It is, after all, the worst song of all time (followed up closely by Eminem's "Just Lose It" and The Ying Yang Twin's "Whisper In Ya Ear", a song whose lyrics are so vulgar it actually offends a degenerate like me.)

"Angel Eyes" by The Jeff Healey Band - "Even the fact that TBS airs Roadhouse four times per month could never make The Jeff Healey Band cool." - Also my buddy Sean, again summing up a song with amazing accuracy.

(note - both "You Give Love A Bad Name" by Bon Jovi and "We've Got Tonight" by Bob Seger were left off of this list because I could not figure out if they were so bad they were sweet, or so sweet they were bad. Thank you.)

That's what we came up with. What all do you have?



Awards and an Anniversary

Well, it's not quite the Pulitzer that I really deserve, but I have finally been recognized for all of my hard work (hard work = lot's of boozing and looking at girl's boobies on the internet, apparently.)

That's right! The FYC is the Saint Louis Riverfront Times Blog O' The Week! (scroll to the bottom to see the mini-write-up.)

Perhaps this award will atract some new readers. Perhaps not, though. Anyhoo, if you have been directed here from the RFT, I think that you should be made aware of two things:

1) Don't get your hopes up,


2) If you play your cards right, I will e-mail you a picture of me when I was topless and 17 years old (I'm standing on the beach. It's romantic.)

Welcome aboard!

Also, did the RFT really have to use the post where it is apparent that my only concern about Hurricane Katrina was how it would effect Brett Favre's play?

Good lord, I'm an asshole.

Also, today marks the 19th anniversary of "The Mike Laga Game." In recognition, The Phat Phree has published an updated and slightly altered version of my take on Mr. Laga and his "feat."

Please, check it out if you've got the time.

Or don't. What do I care. I am a minor local fucking celebrity! I am as recognozible as the guy who does the afternoon traffic reports on KMOX!

(Sorry, ego trip over. I promise.)



To My Loyal Readers

Four Things:

1)Shouldn't you have better things to do than read what I have to say?

2)No? You don't? Allright then...head on over the The Phat Phree and see what's going on. It's a collection of extremely talented comedy writers (and me) who do a lot of funny and actually really good work (except me. I only write if I've been drinking and it is rarely, if ever, "good.")

3)There might be some big changes around here at the FYC. I'm not willing to say if these changes will be good or bad, but I am willing to say that this is all your fault.

4) Today's motivation.



Your StL Cardinal's Jersey: Crappy or Cool?

I love Busch Stadium. The sights. The sounds. The smells (well, not so much the smells. That food court behind the bleachers reeks of vomit and hot dogs.) But what I love most about going to Cardinals games is the people. My people. And their jerseys.

From youngsters in baby Pujols jerseys, to ironic hipster 20-somethings wearing their vintage Andy Benes t-shirts, to dolled up teeny boppers wearing their pink jerseys, to 80 year old ladies pulling out their Stan the Man #6's, nearly everyone who is there is sporting a Cards jersey.

Granted, the majority of them are #'s 5, 15, 27, or 33 (Pujols, Edmonds, Rolen, and Walker) and Brock, Gibson, Ozzie, Willie, and Musial get a lot of love with the throwbacks, but there are always some random shirts being worn out there.

The following are the randoms that I have seen over this season, and my thoughts on whether or not the people wearing them need new shirts.

#28 - Pedro Guerrero - I almost respect this jersey. Pedey came up with the Dodgers and was an absolute prodigy. Four All Star Game appearances and a World Series MVP out in L.A. In 1988 he was traded to the Cardinals for John Tudor.

Not knowing that he was filling such a wide hole in the Cardinals organization at first base, Pedey was surprised by the pressure at his new job. He made the All Star team in 1989, but his production began to go down hill. Not horrible, per se, but not the All Star that he once was. Then the injuries started piling up. By the end of 1992, he was out of baseball.

A once promising career cut short by injuries. Not necessarily a bad career, but you have to think that he should have done better. Then he found something to make him feel better about himself: Cocaine.

Then he got in trouble. But he got out of it because people like him (and because he has an IQ of 70.) Then he did coke with OJ Simpson's girlfriend.

Nowadays, no respectable person should be wearing a Pedey Guerrero jersey. Get a new shirt, pal.

#44 - Cris Carpenter - No, not future Cy Young Award Winner Chris Carpenter. He wears #29. #44 was Cris Carpenter the First. A first round draft pick out of the University of Georgia, he had a mildly successful but unremarkable career. The guy who was wearing his jersey may have been very confused by what year it was. Or he might just have a great jersey and a good sense of humor. Verdict: Nice Shirt!

#10 - Rex Hudler - I know for a fact that I'm in the minority here, but I really wasn't a huge fan of "Hurricane" Hudler. Yeah, he hustled, but so did Stubby Clapp and Luis Alicia. And neither of them were any good. If you're hell bent on supporting small white guys who love to hustle, I'd rather see you in a Joe McEwing #47. But just so I don't get lynched by every Rex "Wonder Dog" Hudler (yeah, he's got two nicknames...I don't care for that, either) in Saint Louis, which is basically every fucking person in Saint Louis, I'll go ahead and say it: Top notch top, governor!

#7 - JD Drew - There is no excuse for wearing this shirt.

A quick JD Drew story: An ex-girlfriend and I went to a Cardinals game two years back. She wanted to get a Cards t-shirt jersey before the game, so we went on over to the Cardinals Clubhouse. She was looking around for a little while before she grabbed a #7 Drew.

I immediately told her "You can't get that one. He's a giant pussy."

Instantly, a female employee of the store who had not yet seen the jersey in question popped out from around the corner and said, "Who? Drew? Yeah, you shouldn't get that. Huge pussy."

Truer words, Ms. Employee. Truer words. Verdict: Get a new shirt before your body gets confused about who you are and accidentally gives you a leg injury.

#5 - Ron Gant - Besides Mark McGwire, Ron Gant is probably the former Cardinal most easily identifiable as a steroid user. Remember that dude's pipes? Yeah, he wasn't juicing. Psyche.

Anyway, a shit load of people still wear the #25 McGwire to the ballpark, so why shouldn't we allow a Ron "Pipes" Gant in there as well? Love the shirt, pal. Now go do some curls and make your hero proud.

#18 - Mike Shannon - You, sir, are an awesome man. You're strong, smart, and really have a way with the ladies. You finally got it: The perfect jersey. Someone should give this man $1,000,000 and a blowjob because his shirt is just that cool. Also, this is my shirt.

#23 - Bernard Gilkey - Good god, that early 90's Cardinals outfield had some serious potential. Two sport star Brain Jordan, a Ray Lankford who wasn't 270 pounds and actually hustled, and Bernard Gilkey. When he came up, Gilkey looked like he would bat right around .300 every year. In 1995 he was traded to the Mets for three people who might as well be made up (their names are Erik Hiljus, Eric Ludwick, and Yudith Orozio. Seriously.) He had one good year in New York before being bit by that damn injury bug time and time again. Damn bug.

Little known fact: Gilkey was signed as a free agent by the Cardinals in 2001, but was cut during Spring Training. That signing went along with Walt Jocketty's plan to have an old outfielder on every team, hoping that Gilkey would join the likes of Eric Davis, Shawon Dunston, Bobby Bonilla, Greg Vaughn, and Fat Ray Lankford.

Although he was one of my favorite players as a adolescent, I think the only way you can wear a Gilkey jersey is if you love disappointment. Verdict: Get a new shirt (I recommend a Cesar Cedeno, circa 1985.)
Remember, folks, there are a lot of jersey's out there. Some good, some bad. Some generic, some original (I saw a Dizzy Dean jersey at a game last weekend, which I thought was kind of cool.) I'm sure I've missed some beauties from around Busch this season, but I was busy drinking beer and watching baseball. So suck it.

If you own a jersey which I have made fun of, I suggest you paraphrase Will Smith and say, "I go to Busch for baseball, not for a fashion show."

Unless you still own a JD Drew jersey. Then you need to go ahead and punch yourself in the groin.



Quick Toughts: Weekend Round Up

Summer's dwindlin' down, folks. Get out there and enjoy your weekend! Or stay in and nurse that wicked hangover of yours (Half a bottle of Goldschlager, a four pack of B to the e, six shots of gin with a potato soup and vodka chaser, and 7 Hamms? What were you thinking last night?)

Some things to get you through your day:

Through people I have known, loved, and feared over the years, I have acquired tickets to attend a Cardinals game on Saturday. But, you see, this is no ordinary game. I will not be sitting in my usual spots (ie., either in the bleachers or unbelievably high up in the upper deck.) No sir. I will be in a luxury box, with my nose turned upwards in disgust at the masses below.

Commoners. Degenerates. Ham-and-eggers.

However, there is one problem. The pitching match up: Jeff Suppan v. Steve Traschel.

If Jeff Suppan = Tylenol PM, Steve Traschel might as well = NyQuil.

This is quite a lethal combination. The outcome of this game (which may very well take 7 hours to complete) will likely be determined by which ever team's defense does not literally fall asleep while on the field.

This has "Most Boring Baseball Game Ever Played" written all over it.

Alas, ce la vi.

And, cheers, because I guess I'll just have to drink a shit load of free booze and entertain myself. *sigh*




Well, folks, I hate to say it, but it's a scientific fact: It's literally impossible to watch Kris Benson pitch without thinking about his wife and how much sex they have.

I just hope they tip whomever has to clean the clubhouse after this weekend's series pretty well.



Hard Hittin' Mark Whiten!

Happy 12th anniversary to one of my favorite childhood memories: Mark Whiten hitting 4 homers and tallying up 12 RBI's against the Cinicinnati Reds on September 7th, 1993.

That day was a double header between the Cards and the Reds. The Reds won the opener (* ridiculously high, perhaps steroids altered scoring alert*) 14 to 13 and lost the second game, 15 to 2. Ironically, Whiten was the only Cardinals to go hitless in the first game, although he did contribute with an RBI (giving him 13 for the two games, tying a record for most RBIs in a double header.)

Whiten, who had not hit a home run in a month, went absolutely Laga on the Reds pitching staff in game 2. He pounded a grand slam in the first, a three run shot in the sixth, and another three run bomb in the seventh.

Whiten added his fourth jack of the day in the ninth, a two run shot off of Rob Dibble (who seems like he's a real prick, so I'm glad he gave up a home run 12 years ago.)

Also, Bob Tewksbury picked up his 16th win of the year that game. I only mention that because I have never mentioned Bob Tewksbury on this site before.

And that's just not right (Sorry, Bob.)



The H is O

With all due apologies to Mr. Mulgrew, I present you with perhaps the best referal to this site that I have ever witnessed: StL Cardinals Ring Tone.

I'm truely sorry that I couldn't help whomever was on this quest through the internet, but I do wonder what the ideal Cardinals Ring Tone possibly could be.


1)"Celebration" by Kool and The Gang

2)"The Heat is On" by Glenn Frey

3)Any of the following quotes by Mike Shannon:

That's really all I can think of. Let me know if you think I have missed any.


sidenote - this entire post was basically just an excuse to list my favorite Mike Shannon-isms.



"I Can Turn Invisible If I Really Try Hard!" (Quick Thoughts on Life, Love and a Black Keyboard Player)

"So I gave this seagull a french fry, but as it turns out...he wanted my Whopper. I didn't know how badly he wanted it until it was too late."- My buddy Boley, circa 2002, explaining a large cut on his forehead.

Cingular keeps pressuring me to change my opinion on this one, but chances are high that I will never get sick of hearing "The Weight" by The Band.

How to lose a high paying and well respected job, part I.

To anyone who may be reading this in Alaska:

I used to support you. I did. I wanted you to keep your pristine wildlife. And, if things were different, I probably still would. But things are different.

And your wildlife has got to go.

So, if you're up there reading this...I will give you $20 (American) if you put an oil derrick in your backyard and personally send me just 1 barrel of oil a week.

Twenty bucks! It could all be yours.

Okay, I'll admit it...I don't necessarily hate karaoke.

In fact, if you preface every single song you sing by saying "This next song I wrote after I killed a drifter to get an erection," I down right love karaoke.

My buddy Boley, on a 12 year old boy who had just walked by him, "I wonder what he's like in the sack."

Why isn't the word "looms" ever used in a positive context? As in: "Tonight, me lady...fish tacos and white wine looms in the distance."

Yes, I am the same person who once sat on the USS Ashland as it went across the Atlantic Ocean crabby, cranky, and scared of pirates, but after looking at the data, it's official:

We need more pirates.

And this is coming from a man who once sat in a chow hall on a Navy boat and figured that a memorial sword kept in a case of glass was missing a sign which read "In Case of Pirates, Break Glass."

God, I despise pirates. Although, that may just be all of the Lariam talking.

How to lose a high paying and well respected job, part II.

Am I the only one who thinks that Tony LaRussa should let Scott Seabol bat more?

Twenty more poor AB's ending in a strikeout by Mr. Seabol will probably cause Cardinals Hitting Coach Hal McRae to once again strip down to his underwear, toss a few ash-trays around the clubhouse, and yell "There! Now put that in your fucking pipes and smoke it!"

Lets make this happen.

If there is a more addicting TV show than Pimp My Ride, I haven't seen it.

Now, I really like college football.

Granted, it's got it's downsides: Corrupt programs, an asinine polling system, and no playoffs.

But if you can look past all of that, it now has what everyone wants, but nobody else can get:
Nick Lachey.

Happy Labor Day Weekend, everyone. While you're out at the BBQ's this weekend drinking, carousing, and raising hell...try to remember what this weekend is all about:

That our countries unions were once so strong that they were able to pressure the Federal Government into creating a holiday at the end of the summer so that they would be able to go to BBQ's, drink, carouse, and raise hell!

And try to keep everyone down south in your thoughts...if you have access to the Internet right now, it's obvious that your life could be a helluva lot worse.


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"I'll be dead in the cold, cold ground before I recognize the state of Missouri."