The FYC

Labels: The 2006 Saint Louis Baseball Cardinals

Earlier this month, as the Cardinals looked to be sliding further and further in oblivion, I decided that I was going to make a concerted effort to watch more of the footballs in fall 2006. Why? Well, to be honest with you, I really need yet another reason to drink copious amounts of alcohol and gorge myself on chili and bratwursts each and every weekend. I somehow lost ten pounds this summer and I’m not very happy about it. Winter will be coming up fast and I need to get back up to 190 or else I may get a case of the chills once the mercury in the thermometer starts a droppin’. And I’m not in the mood for those.

I started psyching myself up for a glorious fall -- Beer, pigskin, bloodys, brats, sacks, chili, beer -- “Operation Al Fritz: More football in ’06” was a go.

Then I remembered that I was a Green Bay Packer fan. And I somewhat remember them sucking last year. No worries, though. They couldn’t be that bad, right? Umm…

I turned on the Pack v. Bengals contest last night to see just what kind of hand I was going to be dealt for this fall. And… Oh my. Oh sweet Jesus. No. Just… Oh no. They suuuuuuuuuuckkkkk.

Are you serious Green Bay? Ten years removed from a Championship, and things have gone simply horribly wrong. Just a God Shit terrible team. Samkon Gado? Get bent. If being on the wrong end of a 48-17 match up is going to be indicative of the upcoming season… well, then… just leave me the hell alone.

Watching a Packers game this year will probably increase the viewers’ likelihood of committing suicide/homicide by at least 800%. They are that painful to watch. Since I’m not really in much of a suicidey and/or homicidey mood, I’ll be sticking to just keeping track of my fantasy teams on Sundays. And drinking. And eating. Lots and lots of drinking and eating.

Luckily, with the downfall of one historic Midwestern football team comes the rise of another: The Notre Dame Fighting Irish. Bloody (non-virgin) Mary’s will be flowing like a 40oz of St Ides through a beer bong in Panama City Beach come Saturdays this fall in my abode, as the usual cast of characters watch a bunch of Catholic white guys (and Darius Walker!) pile up win after win after win.

Will they win a National Championship? Of course not. If you had been paying attention, you would have noticed that no team I like ever wins the whole spicy enchilada. Instead, they come excruciatingly close before simultaneously both pooping and peeing their pants in the big game (see “Cardinals, 2004” or “Fighting Illini, 2005” for more specific examples.)

Come this Saturday night, the Irish, much like the devil once did before them, head down to Georgia. Only instead of having some sort of fiddle-off against a hick named Johnny like Ol’ Beelzebub, they’ll be playing an American-style football game against Georgia Tech, hopefully getting a head start on the successful, yet anti-climatic season which I foresee, a run at respectable mediocrity for the ages.

Primetime Saturday night, live on ABC. And, I'll be in front of the TV, watching intently. Well, not really "intently" and not actually “watching” per se... I guess I should have said: “periodically checking the score on my cell phone, because I’ll be at a wedding."

At a wedding. On a Saturday night. Over Labor Day weekend.

Do you know who gets married on a holiday weekend? Selfish pricks and assholes. That’s who.

It’s one thing that I’ll be missing my buddy Vince’s bachelor party up in Milwaukee for the traveshamockery that is a holiday weekend wedding, but to have a Catholic wedding on Notre Dame’s season opener and not have the reception at a venue with a television? Straight heresy. I’m honestly not sure how they got a priest to sign off on this thing.

[Truthfully, not watching this Saturday’s game may very well be a good thing as I am fairly certain that ND is being way too built up (#2 ranking!?!) and will probably lose to the Bees anyway. And as you may or may not be able to sense, I am about one more disappointing sporting event away from slamming a liter of whiskey and unleashing a drunken tornado of hell, the likes of which have never been seen before, on the entire state of Missouri.]

So my hopes for a football laden fall will be off to a rather unspectacular opening weekend, as I sip bad house wine and use my cell phone to track the ND score; all the while hearing Kool N the Gang sing “Celebration” for the 17,034th time this summer and watching as The Lady Friend subtly scopes out the ballroom for someone (anyone!) less pathetic than I to go home with.

With this more than lackluster start, and factoring in my rather suspect record of following through with even the easiest of my commitments (still haven't finished that whole "college" thing), it is fair to say that I will probably stop watching football altogether on September 17th at 2:45pm.

Oh well. It will (probably) be a good run while it lasts.

Me: What is 'Something I never thought I would say, Alex?'"

Mr. Trebek: "Correct."

Me: "I'll take the rapists for $400."


[have a great weekend kids. Shooters Shootout!]

I have been working at my present job for about three months now. It’s a good job, can get a little boring from time to time, but I gotta stay on my toes for whenever all hells break loose. More importantly, it pays the bills. Right now, that’s all I really want. Well, that and a jet pack and an Italian sandwich from Quiznos. But you know what I mean.

Over the course of the last three months, I’ve probably met 50 to 60 people that I interact with at work. Now, I am absolutely horrible with remembering names to faces, but that doesn’t matter since I work nights and most of my interactions are over e-mail. Anti-social yet efficient; that’s fine by me.

There are, however, nine people that I work with daily on a face to face basis. And I know the names of all of them. Well, not all of them… eight of them. And eight out of nine isn’t that bad.

The problem here isn’t that I don’t know the one co-workers name (let’s call him “Carl” for now) it’s that I am running out of nicknames to call him. So far, I’ve gone through: Chief, boss, sir, man, dude, duder, buddy, comrade, and partner.

This morning, as I was walking out the door, “Carl” looked over and said “You out of here, Alex?”

I stuttered for a second before responding “You know it…… sport.”

This is probably where I should tell you that “Carl” is about forty years old, bald, and has a wife and three kids. I can guarantee you that he has not been called “sport” in thirty some odd years. That is, until this morning, when a 26 year old asshole ran out of witty nicknames and was forced to use it.

Smooth, Al. Reeeeeal smoooooooooth.

Now, it’s not that I don’t want to know “Carl’s” name. I’d love to. And he seems like a really nice guy. However, we were never really introduced to each other and since we’ve been having conversations for a few months now, dropping a “hey, what the devil is your name, anyway?” would probably lead to a few very awkward seconds of silence before I’d be forced to poop my pants to make up for how big of a douche I am.

I’ve started thinking about ways to find out his name without looking like too much of a weirdo, but all of the obvious trails I can think of lead to nowhere. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have an office with a name plate like the rest of us, he sits at a big desk with a bunch of computer stuff that does god knows what. He doesn’t have a name specific work e-mail, otherwise I’d ask him to shoot me an e-mail.

So, basically, I don’t know what to do. My hope is that one of you “smart” people out there can help me devise some sort of fiendishly clever idea to find out his real name. And I am not above wearing a mask or running a haunted amusement park to solve the mystery which is “Carl’s” name.

Because if I don’t, “Sport” will eventually deteriorate into “Champ” and everything will rapidly snowball downhill and the next thing you know I’m calling a grown man “Princess.”

You know, even if the guy wasn't known for at the very least simply wanting to fuck and murder a six year old girl, after seeing this video, I would already have put him in the top five creepiest men alive list.

Sweet holy godshit, that man needs help.

Ladies and gentlemen,

I have what this organization needs. No, it’s not consistent quality starting pitching. No, it’s not Jeff Gillooly taking out Timo Perez (what the hell is he doing on the team?) And no, it’s not a time machine to keep you from tearing down Busch II and replacing it with nothing more than a modern cookie cutter stadium (the irony of tearing down what was generally referred to as the last of the cookie cutter stadiums -- which would make it unique in that aspect -- for a carbon copy of what is in Phily/Cinci/Pitt/Det/etc. is simply stunning to me.)

No, it’s none of those all too obvious quick fixes. What this organization needs is a name change.

Name changes are something which the Cardinals fanbase is more than familiar with. From “Brown Stockings” to “Browns” to “Perfectos” (or, as some would lead you to believe, the “Fantasticos”) to “Cardinals,” the city of St. Louis has seen the team play under a variety of names. And, to be blunt, “Cardinals” is getting a little stale.

To maintain a lead over other mid-market baseball teams, this organization needs to stay on the cutting edge. Push the envelope just a little bit further than the boys down in Houston. Shake things up harder than they do it in Cleveland. In order to keep up with the rest of the league, this must be an organization based on progress and forward thinking. As Mz. Lindsey Neagle of Advanced Capital Ventures would say, a successful institution must be based on synergy and on the ability to be more dynamic than the competition (and selling books on how to cheat at bridge.)

With this in mind, I have come up with a name that not only all of St. Louis can rally around, but also the most dynamic and syner-tastic name in the history of names.

A name which screams “Winner!” and “Leadership!” and “Success!”

A name which turns a common street whore into a nun simply by hearing it.

A name which, based on preliminary testing, may very well cure cancer.

“The Chris Duncans.”

And with this, I humbly request -- nay, I not-so-humbly demand! -- that the Cardinals should from here on out be known as the “St. Louis Chris Duncans.”

The time of the “St. Louis Cardinals” has passed. The time of the “St. Louis Chris Duncans” is now.

Embrace it.

Sincerely,
Alex Fritz, Esq.

PS. Think of how much money you’ll make when all the hoosiers (myself included) have to go buy brand new “Chris Duncans” jerseys. Yeah, you’re actually considering it now, aren’t you?

PPS. If you guys get swept at Wrigley again this weekend, you’re dead to me.

PSPS. I’m not really an Esquire. I don’t even know what it means.

[have a great late summer weekend, billy joel fans]

Labels: The 2006 Saint Louis Baseball Cardinals

My friends and I have a rather odd fascination about naming every remarkable moment in our lives. And it’s not just the really important times which gets named like “That time that Andy got hit by a Mack-truck and somehow lived” or “The night that Matt got blackout drunk and pooped on the kitchen floor, then molded his poop into the shape of a house (complete with a tiny chimney), and tried to blame it on the neighbor’s dog in the morning” or even “that time we popped all those Eddies and killed that homeless guy in Memphis.”

No, it’s not just the big moments. We tend to name everything. A glorious late-May day back in ’99 when eight of us ran through about ten 18-packs of Icehouse will forever be known as “Drunk Tuesday.” During the spring of 2001, my buddy Vince announced that he would be listening to nothing but Steely Dan during the summer, and “The Summer of the Dan” was born. A mischievous night on the Illinois-Iowa state line in August of 2001 is conveniently enough referred to as “Big Trouble in Little East Dubuque.” And a booze/Stevie Winwood filled weekend in the summer of ’04 is to this day called “The Feeling Alright Weekend.”

There are many, many more examples of this, but I’m tired of typing them and you’re tired of reading ‘em, so let’s move on.

Anyhoo, I’ve told you all that to tell you this: 1) My friends and I are tremendous dorks, and 2) Summer Ought-Six finally has a name.

Matt, my former roommate (whom I now live across the street from… Yes, I’m apparently stalking him) helped coin it on Sunday after the power went out in his apartment for no apparent reason and the Cardinals had been swept by the freaking Pittsburgh Pirates, also for no apparent reason. He gave me a call to see if there was room in my fridge to store his perishables. I said sure, and then I hopped online to see some of Ameren’s (our monopolistic power provider) stats. I noticed that out of the 14,000 cats that live in our area code, he was one of eight people without power.

With this news, his Italian blood started boiling like hearty pot of ragu. He was obviously fed up with this strange summer in the StL and let out a “God damn it! No power and the Cardinals suck. That’s all this summer is!”

“Yeah,” I said, “that about sums it up: ‘Summer 2006: Power Outages and Bad Baseball.’”

That’s all it has really been: “Power Outages and Bad Baseball.”

--------------------------------------------

Speaking of bad baseball, this year’s Cardinals squad has been one of the more frustrating teams which I have ever followed. They underachieve; they overachieve. They take six of six from the hottest second half team in the National League; they put together two separate eight game losing streaks.

On the field, they look like they’re just going through the motions. Yes, the Cards have played with a business-like work ethic for much of the Tony La Russa era. But that aura of confidence which pervaded from them for 205 wins over ’04-’05 was different from this. Those teams knew that they were going to win and they played like it. Now, they just seem to be… indifferent.

I don’t know what the indifference stems from, and I sure as hell don't know how to cure it (everybody running an obstacle course in the rain while "I Feel Good" plays in the background? A half naked cardboard cutout of Rachel Phelps in the locker room? Breaking the arm of that little shit from American Pie and putting him in the rotation?) But the indifference has been deafening (?) and it makes the team excruciating to watch some nights.

I still take in nearly every game, but if there’s a Tigers or White Sox game on, I’ll be doing some channel flipping, too. It would definitely help my blood pressure for me to give up on these Cardinals, but I can’t.

Are they going to make the playoffs? I’d say yeah, but probably only by default, since the rest of the NL is just flat out terrible.

Are they a World Series caliber team? Well, if the ‘04 squad wasn’t good enough to win it all, I don’t see how this team possibly could be.

But here’s the catch: Maybe, just maybe, come October, Cardinal Nation’s hopes will be rewarded. I’m not saying it will happen, but every year there is some stupid fucking storyline for a team in the World Series; be it the 2005 Astros who had been left for dead in the regular season or the 2004 Red Sox who had been left for dead in the ALCS; or the overachieving Marlins in ’03 and Angels in ’02.

That’s the rub: That if this struggling Cards squad could put it all together at the right time, get all of their pistons firing and get hot, they could very well make a run to the Series. And it would be right in FOX's wheelhouse.

It would be that stupid fucking storyline that the rest of the country gets sick of by the second day.

That could be us, Cards fans... Annoying the whole lot of America!

So, um… Go Cardinals!

--------------------------------------------

Also, with a heavy heart The FYC says goodbye to screen legend Bruno Kirby. For some reason, whenever I hear him scream “I buried one fucking wife, I can bury another!” in Sleepers, I start to giggle. I don’t know why.

For over 30 years, from The Godfather II to Donnie Brasco, City Slickers to Entourage; if you were looking for a stocky Italian-American to be a character actor in your movie and/or television show, Bruno Kirby was the first guy you called.

You shall be missed, Bruno. You shall be missed.

Tommy Pischedda: Excuse me... are you reading "Yes I Can"?
Groupie: Yeah, have you read it?
Tommy Pischedda: Yeah, by Sammy Davis Jr.?
Groupie: Yeah.
Tommy Pischedda: You know what the title of that book should be? "Yes I Can, if Frank Sinatra Says it's Okay". Cause Frank calls the shots for all of those guys . Did you get to the part yet where uh...Sammy is coming out of the Copa... it's about 3:00 in the morning and uh...he sees Frank? Frank's walking down Broadway by himself....

(Limo window raised by Nigel)

Tommy Pischedda: Fuckin' limeys.

Labels: The 2006 Saint Louis Baseball Cardinals

Since 2000, I have done my best to get at least one new Cardinals jersey for every season (this is why I have no problem with myself or a lot of other people I know using the term “we” while discussing the Cardinals. When you invest the type of money that my friends and I do into a franchise, you have every right to use the royal we.)

The jersey collection is something which I enjoy tremendously, as it gives me a wide range of clothing choices when attending a game. However, over the past calendar year a bad trend has begun to develop.

A really bad trend. Terrible, even.

Every single player whose jersey I own has struggled. And I have no reason not to blame myself.

In 2000 I got a Jim Edmonds jersey. He was new to the team and his style of play was intoxicating to watch. Jim not winning the MVP that season was a tragic disappointment in the eyes of a 20 year old Al Fritz. JimE in 2006? A slight drop off in production (which I don’t really mind) but now a public battle with the Cardinals ownership (whom I do mind) over his future status with the home team has divided a lot of Cardinal Nation’s regards of Jimmy Baseball. (Also, it's one of those stupid jerseys from the craptacular era when the Cards didn't have numbers on the front of their shirts. I hate those jerseys anyway, as they look like pajama tops.)

I spent most of 2001 at the beach and topless. Much like Phil Collins and jackets, jerseys were not required.

In 2002 I bought a game worn 1988 St Petersburg Cardinals Geronimo Pena jersey (still my personal favorite.) Where is Geronimo in 2006? Rotting away in a jail cell in Ecuador.*

In 2003 I got a Pujols jersey. Luckily I left it at an ex-girlfriends place and Albert has not had to pay for my bad Karma.

For whatever reason, in 2004 I decided Jason Marquis was my guy. Maybe it was because he was the youngest pitcher on the staff and had a nasty sinker and a cocksure attitude. Maybe it was nothing more than his east coast swagger, but I saw something in Jason. So I went out and got his jersey. The authentic one, even. At the time, it was easily the best $250 I had ever spent. In 2006? The investment does not seem nearly as wise. I still see something in him, but that thing rhymes with “shit.” No… wait. It is shit. He is chock full of shit. (Prove me wrong, Jason. Prove me wrong!)

I doubled up in 2005 and purchased both a Mike Shannon jersey and a Matt Morris one. Now Mike Shannon’s wife has cancer and Matt Morris is the youngest guy on the Giants by a good 26 years and has to share a locker room with Shea Hillenbrand.

2006 has been a big year for jerseys and Al Fritz. I found a sweet little circa-’87 mesh BP jersey at Value Village during the spring and had it done up right w/ a “Laga 35” on the back. And what happened to Mr. Mike Laga this year? He died. **

I also picked up a Chris Carpenter top. Carp, while showing flashes of his brilliance this year still hasn’t pitched like the Cy Young winner that he is. And I blame myself.

Last weekend, as a birthday present, The Lady Friend got me the Scott Rolen jersey which I had been pining for. Three days later, Scotty Ballgame’s back goes out on him. Ah, Christ.

This is where I reach my latest conundrum. I have a fresh, budding, quasi-platonic love affair with one Chris Duncan. A player both on and off the field (or so I’ve heard), Young Dunc is a monster. And I want his jersey.

But what will the cost be of such a thing? Monetarily, probably $20 or so… but what if my bad Karma carries over to yet another Redbird? If I get the jersey and Young Dunc chokes to death on his own tobacco burrito while rounding third base the next game, do I have anyone to blame but myself?

Can I risk taking that chance?

Yes. Yes I can.

(Also, at least I’m not my buddy Mozzy who got an authentic Hector Luna jersey one month before he was traded (Luna, not Mozzy) for Ronnie Belliard. And to add insult to, well, further insult, Belliard took Luna’s old #7, too. Sorry Mozzy.)

[have a good weekend, kiddos. vote quimby.]

*This is not true. He is actually managing a baseball team in Cartagena, Venezuela. ***
**No he didn’t.
*** This too is not true. I have no idea what he’s doing.

Labels: The 2006 Saint Louis Baseball Cardinals

This is one of the best, yet most disturbing sports pieces I have ever read. And it came from our dear friends at ESPN. See, you guys have potential. You're good when you want to be. That's why people get so upset when they see a fake news conference w/ Steve Phillips or read anything written by Skip Bayless or Scoop Jackson.

Also, I now have a new favorite saying for before I hit "the vodka."

The big jerk.

I turned 26 on Saturday.

Not that you should care. Honestly, I don’t really care, either. I find most everything about birthday’s to be extremely narcissistic and in another (less correct) way, seemingly arbitrary. Seriously, who the fuck is society to tell you how old you are? Society made fucking Third Eye Blind popular and elected William Howard Taft president. Society is a bunch of morons.

So I approach my birthday with more of a half assed spirit than anything else. I’ve had a few good ones with plenty of drunken debauchery (birthday weekend in Myrtle in ’03 comes to mind, but that was more of a “thank god we didn’t die during that whole ‘war’ thing, now let’s go drink our faces off at the beach for a few days… Oh? It’s Al’s birthday, too? Kick ass. More chocolate cake shots, barkeep!”) but I prefer to keep things a little more low key. A few friends and a bunch of booze, now that's right up my alley.

My favorite b-day was during my minimalist summer of ’02 when I gave up having a cell phone and AC in my car and crashed at my buddy Rob’s apartment right off of the beach in Emerald Isle, NC. It was a glorious summer. Nothing but body boarding, reading, drinking, and sunning (eh, and some playstation. Hey, I was pretending to be a minimalist, not a sadist.)

Anyway, I'm pretty sure I spent that day standing in front of an office building in the hot ass Carolina sun, holding a rifle and with 20 pounds of gear on my person, guarding it from... well, I'm not sure what we we're guarding it from (Rednecks?), so I was unable to check my e-mail at my normal work and never received any of my birthday wishes from my family. By that evening, I had completely forgotten that it was even my birthday until Rob got home and asked if I wanted to head down to The Royal Gargoyle (RIP... great bar) for some pints to celebrate the big deuce-deuce. Flabbergasted by my own shoddy memory, yet always up for pints (let alone birthday pints), I said sure.

The surprise birthday -- That one takes the proverbial cake.

Where am I going with all this? Besides hell, I’m really not sure. If it wasn’t for the fact that I had to get a new drivers license, this year's birthday would probably have been as unremarkable (read: the way I like them) as many of the past.

Except for one other part: I am now 1/3 of the way to my optimal death age.

I don’t really want to live to see 80. That sounds scary. My grandpa is coming up on 80, and I think the amount of change he has seen in his lifetime would have killed me somewhere near the disco era

He was born in the roaring 20’s, raised during the Depression, and fought in the Pacific. He came back to the states, got a degree, got a job, got married, and had four kids. He watched two of them die. He’s gone from radio to TV to Beta to VHS to an ill-fated flirtation with laser discs to DVDs. He went from raising two newborns in a tiny basement apartment in a sketchy area of Chicago to owning three different homes across America so he and my grandma could travel at will.

He once bought a Cadillac at an auction on a whim.

When I compare where I am in my life to where he was at 26, I seem to fall a little flat. At 26, he had helped save the civilized world from tyranny and oppression and was already well on his way to a having a successful career and raising a loving family. Me? I was in one of the most ridiculous and unnecessary wars in human history, I finally got a real job just this summer, and I live in sin with The Lady Friend. My most recent accomplishment is accurately quoting fifteen continuous minutes from Back to the Future.

So… ummm… yeah.

Point being (besides the fact that I suck) is that I would like to die at 78. I want to still be healthy enough to play a game of tennis and not yet crapping myself on a daily basis. And that’s where Monday’s news comes into play.

My grandpa has accepted that death is coming right up on him. He and my grandma joke about it all the time. I find that to be extremely honest, refreshing, and healthy. We’re all going to die, so you might as well come to grips with it and embrace it. Hell, the worst thing that could happen is that this is the end of the whole crazy ride and there’s nothing left afterwards, on that other side.

Personally, that is the only thing that spooks me about dying: The possibility that death is nothing but nothingness.

And if it is, I’m going to be seriously pissed (but yet, I won’t be…)

Anyway, on Monday, my grandpa came very close to dying. Drowning, to be more precise. In a tractor accident.

Drowning in a fucking tractor accident. Yup.

Luckily, the tractor pinned him down in a part of the lake that was extremely shallow. Knowing my grandpa, I doubt he would want to go that way (again, being drowned during a fucking tractor accident), but, hey who knows? Maybe when he was 26, he said to himself, “I hope I die when I’m 78 in a tractor accident. And drowning in said tractor accident would be perferable.”

And maybe, when his wish was ultimately fulfilled, he decided “screw this! Let’s keep going!”

And he’s still with us, ‘til whenever. Hopefully for one more Green Bay Packers championship, although that may be a ways off.

I decided over the weekend that not only do I want to go when I’m 78, but I’d like it to be from a hippopotamus.

And I would like that hippo to eat me right after I hit a hole in one.

So that means I have now officially hit my 1/3 mark here in this lifetime. So there’s a lot of living left to go. Will my life be as full as my grandpa’s by then? Probably not in my eyes, but I doubt he thinks his life was as full as his grandpa’s, either.

Thus it happens with the wondrous romanticizing which comes over the years. Someday, our kids and grandkids will look back on these trivial times in which we live, where people get upset about Mel Gibson hating Jews and Paris Hilton being a skank, and with enough time, those things will be gone. The wars will still be. And some socio-economic changes to. And maybe some sports. But most of the bull shit will be gone.

And then, with the bull shit wiped away, the important things that we’re probably not even noticing right now will come to light. Friends. Family. Events so mundane that they mean next to nothing to you at the time but punch into your memory ten years later with an intensity that can be frightening.

Through those time-tinted glasses, we’ll look like we lived through the most interesting and important times in history, if only in the eyes of a few generations or so.

And that will be what that will be, on and on...

And if I hit a hole in one when I’m 78, will I be on the lookout for a hungry, hungry hippo?

Yep.

I'm pretty sure I won't be the only person to take this headline the wrong way:

Don't it make their brown eyes orange?

Yikes.

I applaud who ever snuck that one through. Well played, sirs.

Well played.

You know what's sad? Seeing that Ken Griffey Jr is in his 18th season in the majors makes me feel old. Really old. When I was 9, his 1989 Upper Deck card was the absolute epitome of cool. That and the Frank Thomas 1991 Upper Deck remain the two greatest baseball cards of my childhood.

18 years later, he’s still playing baseball and I’m just some jackass that makes bad wisecracks and borderline racially offensive jokes on the Internets and happens to drinks too much.

Way to go, Al. Nice life.

But... You know what's not sad? The Cardinals 13-1 manhandeling of the Reds last night.

But you know what is sad? Your baby puppy, Mr. Spraybutter McSillybritches, being killed by the barehands of one Adolph Hitler.

[What? Too soon?]

Labels: The 2006 Saint Louis Baseball Cardinals

Labels: The 2006 Saint Louis Baseball Cardinals

I will not let the Cardinals ruin my summer. So I will mock them.

(And all apologies to Word Up Thome for stealing their style, but it's a good style and I'm nothing more than a dirty, dirty thief.)




<- And watch out for this guy.






[and have a good weekend, dunder mifflin employees]

Labels: The 2006 Saint Louis Baseball Cardinals