So It Has Come To This...
Lets just go ahead and get this shit over with...
For what seems like every new year of my adult life, I have had the same resolution: To play more golf. I plan on keeping this resolution around until I play at least nine holes every day for 365 straight days. Feasible? Of course not. But nothing in my life really is.
So along with “play more golf,” I have two more resolutions for 2K7:
1. Play (and win) the lottery
2. Ride in a hot air balloon.
Now, you may say to yourself “Play the lottery? That might just be the worst resolution ever! Would you like some of my wine?”
And you wouldn’t be wrong. It really isn’t that great of a resolution. However, I am fairly certain that I would be the best lottery winner in the history of lottery winners. Here are some of my rather compelling arguments as to why I should play (and win) the lottery (and yes, I would love some of your wine, thank you.):
- I would really like to be rich and I think I would be good at it. Honestly, I wouldn’t cause any trouble; I’d simply build a house on a lake in Southern Indiana and spend my days listening to baseball on the radio, drinking whiskey and ginger ales, and staring at the water. You would probably never hear from me again, but you’re more than welcome to stop by the lake any time you want and stay for as long as you’d like, there are more than enough beds. We’re serving tomato and cheddar cheese omelets in the morning.
- I’m pretty much the perfect lottery winner: A recently engaged, former Marine who is now working a rather mundane, typical, mid-level sysadmin job? That’s got “Fucking Lottery Winner” written all over it.
- The only thing I don’t have going for me (when it comes to “typical lottery winner”) is that I am not poor. But I am also not exactly rich, either, so hopefully it all balances out.
As for the “Ride in a hot air balloon” resolution, I have a new goal in life: To do something completely random and rather stupid every year and then write about it. In 2006, I got to be a bullpen catcher for a game (random) and did so without wearing a cup (completely and totally stupid).
In 2007, I would like to either ride in a hot air balloon or spend a month in a Japanese insane asylum. Since I don’t plan on going to Japan any time soon, hot air balloon it is.
And how do we get this new, lottery winning, hot air balloon riding year started? With a non-traditional NYE party, of course! The Lady Friend and I are tossing aside the strapping burdens of your bourgeois elaborate parties for the relaxed (albeit it rocking) atmosphere of a good old fashioned Dogtown kegger. No fancy pants and dress shirts this year for Al (hopefully no soggy apps and sharts like last year, either), just a pair of old jeans and a rousing match of Drinko; I expect to be half naked and hollowing at the moon by 11 o’clock.
(Although, truth be told, I am a little disappointed that I’m not going to this.)
Here’s hoping you and yours have a successful (perhaps black out?) NYE, Internets.
[have a great weekend, kids. don’t drink too much cold duck. or do. actually, that sounds like fun. correction: do drink too much cold duck.]
The FYC-zie Game of the Year: Cardinals v. Mets; Game 7, NLCS
1) That sounds like work.
2) I don’t really “pay attention” to “new things” enough to write one.
It’s not that I am afraid of change or new things, it’s that most new things suck. For example, if I were to write an album of the year post, it would look like this:
For the 11th straight year, nobody has made a better album than “The Bends,” so it wins again.
With apologies to: Exile on Main Street, Who’s Next, Dark Side of the Moon, Being There, and The Wild, the Innocent & the E Street Shuffle”
My favorite book is a constant struggle between “Catcher in the Rye” and “On the Road.” While I don’t doubt that some newer books are good, I can say with 99.9% certainity that they’re not going to throw Salinger or Kerouac off from the top of my list. And in today's modern times, with our frantic lives and porn addictions, who has time to read, anyway? Or, for some, even learn how to read?
Much like Floyd Gandolli, I know what I enjoy.
The one thing I do enjoy that changes (kind of) every year is sports. So, without further ado, I will name my award (I believe we agreed to call them FYC-zies once before, so we’ll roll with that again) for best game played:
The FYC-zie Game of the Year: Cardinals v. Mets; Game 7, NLCS
I did a lot of debating after the NLCS as to what the best Cardinals NLCS game has been in the last three years. Game 6 of the ’04 CS is a favorite of many, and Game 5 of the ’05 (when Albert Pujols unapologetically murdered Brad Lidge’s career) is the cats pajamas for others. Game 7 of the ’04 NLCS, however, was my number one. And I had previously assumed it would stay that way for a long time to come.
I was wrong.
This years Game 7, for many Cardinals fans, will go down as the most dramatic and unlikely game we will ever see. (And yes, I realize that there will probably be a more exciting game in the next year or two, and that the previous sentence may seem like nothing more than hyperbole to you, but some of us plan on dying in a freak warehouse fire somewhere outside of Helena, Arkansas next May, thus making my claim true.)
The first five frames were back-and-forth, tightly pitched innings by Jeff Suppan and Oliver Perez (that about covers the unlikely part already), and with the score knotted up at one, we headed into the sixth inning. With one out and Jim Edmonds on first, Scott Rolen came to the plate.
Perez had begun to struggle in the fifth, but Mets manager Willie Randolph decided to stick with him then and he got Pujols to pop up and end the inning. With the slumping Rolen stepping into the batters box, Randolph decided to stick with Perez again. It was a risky decision to say the least; with shades of the Grady Little – Pedro Martinez fiasco from the ’03 ALCS all over Shea Stadium.
And Scott Rolen got his groove back, crushing a ball deep to left field; only to have Endy Chavez come out of nowhere and make a leaping, snow cone grab to take a two run home run away. He fired the ball back into the infield and doubled up Edmonds at first to end the top of the sixth. The Cards rally was effectively put to rest.
In the bottom of the sixth, Chavez came up to the plate with two outs and the bases loaded. With a highlight reel, game (nay, series) defining, two run saving double play just a few minutes earlier, Chavez (already somewhat of a cult hero with Mets fans) was all set to become the hero on a cold, rainy New York night. With the moment set -- Endy was getting a hit there; I knew, you knew it, it was going to happen. A Phil Collins moment, if you will: it was in the air, and you could feel it calling -- Suppan did what he does best (use his defense) and got Chavez to fly out to Edmonds. Inning over.
We’ll skip through the seventh and eighth innings (I’m pretty sure I blacked out and missed them, anyway) and head into the ninth.
With one runner on, Yadier Molina, the rocket armed, light hitting Cardinals catcher, came to the plate facing Mets "reliever" Aaron Heilman. Yadi, a lifetime .238 hitter with a mere 16 homeruns in his young Major League career (and only 6 in 2006), took a rip on a first pitch "changeup" by Heilman and... well, you know what he did. I could only spoil it by putting it into words -- It was, and remains to be, virtually impossible to correctly describe. The best attempt at it which I remember reading was by Dan of Get Up Baby, who wrote afterward: “(Yadi) grinned like Charlie Brown after sex”
In the bottom of the ninth, de facto closer Adam Wainwright, the skinny rookie with both a beard and curveball that could destroy lesser mortals, came into the game to finish it off. He immediately channeled his inner Isringhausen and gave up back-to-back singles to Jose Valentin and Chavez. The Wainer looked, to say the least, rattled.
This was not going to be easy.
With runners on first and second, nobody out, and the pitchers slot coming up, Randolph was in perfect position to have a pinch hitter sacrifice the runners over. Instead, he wanted a Kirk Gibson moment and sent up his injured slugger Cliff Floyd.
He struck out.
(Looking back, Randolph really did lose this game for the Mets, didn’t he?)
And we come to two on, one out for Jose Reyes, the dancing Muppet who annoys everyone in the entire world (but man I’d love to have him on the Cards). As chants of “JOSE, JOSE, JOSE, JOSE!” rang throughout Shea, Reyes stepped into the box and ripped a frozen rope to center field, where the ever present Jim Edmonds was there to record the second out.
Two on, two out for Mets catcher Paul LoDuca. Sensing that there wasn't quite enough drama already, The Wainer walks him, bringing up...
The Cardinals postseason nemesis.
The man who went toe-to-toe with Pujols in a slugging match during the ’04 CS and nearly carried the Houston Astros past the Cards that year, even though he was essentially their only offensive weapon.
He doesn’t just own the Cards in the postseason; he sells them to other people and then buys them back at a greater rate, just because he can.
He was, without a doubt, the last man in the world any Cardinals fan wanted to see at that particular moment.
And the self loathing and doubt began:
“He’s going to get a hit and win this. Fuck.”
Change, strike one.
“We were lucky to even make the playoffs, though. It was a good run.”
Curve, fouled off for strike two.
“Wait a second... wait just one god damn second...”
Curveball, strike three.
[*I take off my pants and start making out with a lamp*]
And I like to think that somewhere, in a parallel universe perhaps, Beltran is still standing there, bat on shoulder, knees buckled, wondering to himself how in the world he was supposed to hit that freaking pitch.
I said after the game that if the Cards went on to win the Series it would then, and only then, become my new #1 game of all time. Looking back, I think that may have been a bit disingenuous and most definitely unfair to the game itself. The only thing that ‘04’s Game 7 had over ‘06’s is that it was played at Busch, and it’s always more fun to win at home (witness: ’06 World Series).
But the way this year's Game 7 played out: Shea Stadium, in the words of Joe Buck “literally shaking” (I find that a bit hard to believe, Joe), the cold, the rain, Endy’s grab, Supp’s balls, Yadi’s scream, Wainwright’s hook...
There it was: The perfect game.
With apologies to: Bradley over Kansas, Bradley over Pitt, Albert Pujols’ Easter Miracle, Illinois over Mizzou, Texas over USC, Drinko, and Illinois over Arizona in the '05 Elite Eight (a game which could win this award virtually every year).
A Day of Mourning
He was eaten by wolves.
Off the Market
Happy Saint Swiggins Day, Aunt Hellga!
Today's first clip is of Darlene Love performing "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)" on Letterman, circa 1995. To me, this is the greatest Christmas song ever made by a producer who is currently free on $1 million bail after, um, murdering someone. What I would love to do is bring you the clip from "Goodfellas" where all the guys are at the bar and Jimmy Conway starts freaking out because Fat Louie bought a Cadillac and that fucking wop Carbone went out and got his wife a fur coat for Christmas (when they were supposed to be laying low and not spending any of their "loot"), but apparently it's not out on the Ebays yet. Anyway, this song is playing in the background of that scene, and someday when I'm older and connected to the mob and Italian, I hope to spend Christmas at a bar, intimidating my friends who just helped me steal millions of dollars (nothing like the Holidays, you know?) and this song will be playing on the jukeboxen:
Up next is some Peanuts action, "O Tannenbaum" performed by the Vince Guaraldi Trio.
I picked up this soundtrack earlier this month and it's balls. Makes me want to sip whiskey and wear fancy hats:
Here's some sort of Scrubs/Charlie Brown Christmas mash-up. It, like virtually every mash-up ever made, both intrigues and scares me. Also, I have to go to the bathroom:
This next one is my favorite SNL skit of all time. It probably has nothing to do with Christmas as far as you're concerned, but it reminds me of when my cousins and I used to get all hopped up on 'ludes Christmas night, then go down to the mission to help feed the drifters. We would then kill them in order to get erections:
Sticking with SNL, this time with a more traditional Christmas theme, here's the lost ending to "It's A Wonderful Life":
"Why, you're nothing but a fraud! You're not even a cripple!"
There you are folks, a holiday video spectacular! Now get off the computer, find some misletoe, and go make out with everything you see.
[Have a great long weekend, everybody. Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah, Rockin' Ramadan, Krazy Kwanzaa, and Kick Ass Whatever the Hell Else you weirdos celebrate (fucking Pagans and Baptists.) If you still haven't gotten that special someone in your life that special something that they deserve, might I suggest you do what I do: Tie a bow around your wang.]
Happy Winter Solstice
As a child I was a stubborn (read: dumb) little kid. I had an attitude that unless something was practical, I had no intention of learning it. That’s why I never paid attention in science class or washed my hands after I went to the bathroom. What’s the damn point?
In grade school, when my friends all started learning how to roller-skate (Yes, skate; Peoria didn’t receive their first shipment of rollerblades until 1993), I said “Hmmm... I have a bike and not only is it faster than those roller-skates, it’s also a lot less gay... except for the tassels on my handlebars. My mom says they’re cool but I’m just not quite sold on them.”
A few years later, after mastering roller-skates, my friends took up ice skating. Since I didn’t foresee a future where the earth had become not only covered in ice, but also uniformly flat, I couldn’t come up with one damn reason to learn to ice skate. So I didn’t.
When I was in high school, our school would organize ski trips to the world famous slopes of Southern Wisconsin. Since I had never learned to ski [aside from having to become some sort of super bad ass ski soldier (which, like Bigfoot and Jermaine Dupri, I’m pretty sure don’t really exist) I couldn’t think of a single reason why someone from Central Illinois would ever really need to know how to ski], I never went on said ski trips. I always assumed they were a blast; full of hot chocolate, schnapps and half naked ski bunny coeds, but I can’t prove it. At the time, I was kind of sad that I was missing out on all the fun, but then I’d steal my sister’s Cosmo magazines and cheer myself (and my penis) up in the bathroom.
Long (and boring) story short, I don’t know how to ski. That does not, however, keep me from judging this video, which arrived in my inbox yesterday (thanks, cuz), the greatest ski jump the world has ever seen:
Braggin' Rights, Lessons Learned
1) Shaun Pruitt = Manbeast
2) Magnet:Metal :: Brian Randle:Foul trouble
3) After seeing my first ever Rights game in person, as God is my witness, I will never watch this game on TV again. Just a tremendous all around environment. I obviously forgot how much better basketball is in person -- What an event. Top times.
4) Keep on Braggin', Illinois boys: WE GOT RIGHTS!
Busch Braggin' Rights: The Most Wonderful Night of the Year
For me, Christmas means Busch heavy gold tops, orange tees, and profanities. Busch Braggin’ Rights, baby. The Tuesday before Christmas, like clockwork, allows the rednecks from Illinois and Missouri to get blackout drunk and cheer their respective asses off, rooting for a school which they more than likely did not go to. It is, without a doubt, my favorite day of the holiday season. It’s the most wonderful night of the year.
And while there may be a little bit of hyperbole and delusions of grandeur in that last paragraph, it is mostly true. A lot of my favorite holiday memories have come from the Braggin’ Rights game, whether it was in 2002 when bad travel planning on my part had me not flying home until two days after the Rights, and I spent one of the most exciting contests in this storied rivalry’s history in North Carolina, drinking heavily and alternatively yelling at myself and into my cell; or watching my buddy Joe stand up on the bar and demand a round of Busch for everyone watching the game at Donnelly’s in 2003 (in hindsight, I’m not even sure if they serve Busch at Donnelly’s). Sure, they’re not “traditional” or “healthy” holiday memories, but they’re there and I treasure them as my own.
And we’re all set for another round of memories to be made tonight. The Rights game is finally here.
After last years 32 point Illini thrashing, we may even have a contest this year. Most of the talent from Illinois’ 2004-05 monster squad is gone (although Dick McBride and Warren Carter, in what must respectively be their 9th and 12th years of eligibility, are inexplicably still on the team); and while I wouldn’t classify Mizzou as being “good,” they are definitely better under Mike Anderson than they were last year under Quin Snyder (less coked up, too).
While I most certainly miss watching players as talented as Deron Williams, Dee Brown, Luther Head, James Augustine, and Roger Powell, following this years Illini squad is enjoyable simply because the guys on the court all remind me of Illini players of old:
Shaun Pruitt, Marcus Griffin. Chester Frazier, Dee Brown. Jamar Smith, Sean Harrington. Warren Carter, Lucas Johnson (not really. I just wanted to mention Lucas Johnson. I miss that guy.) Marcus Arnold, Victor Chukwudebe. Brian Randle, Damir Krupalija (again, not really. Krupalija is just fun to say.) Thankfully, there isn't a Nick Smith in the bunch, but to be honest, I could use a Robert Archibald. Gigantic Scotts are always fun.
Sure, this years Illini squad isn’t as “good” as some years past, but some times the teams without all the talent in the world are just as fun to follow, if only for the ability to name said ham-and-eggers years later in drunken bar room arguments.
So the Illini aren’t quite up to par and Anderson’s “40 minutes of
Now, I’m not saying that Mizzou will win their first Right game in (literally) this millennium, but it should be close. In the end, I would like three things to happen: Bruce Weber to get his 100th win with Illinois, to not get punched in the face by a Mizzou fan, and to get rip roaring drunk.
After all, that’s what Braggin’ Rights are all about.
[It should be noted that I will be attending my first ever Rights game this year with noted Mizzou apologist and good time Jones
Anyway, I’m still gearing up for a six-month evaluation at work, tentatively scheduled for this morning. I should probably actually start gearing up for it instead of doing what I am currently doing [which is trying to find out how oysters mate (I'm still not sure -- it really sounds like a lot of stuff all has to happen at the right time, which, I guess, isn't that far off from how us humans get into each other's pants either)], but this is how I’m pretty sure it will go:
Boss: Alex, hi! Please come in. Have a seat.
Me: Hey, good morning!
Boss: Well, lets get things started…Tell me what you have been working on this month.
Me: I’m putting together a double mix cd. The first disc will have sad, whiskey drinking music. The second disc will have fun, whiskey drinking music. It will be called “Fuck./FUCK!”
Boss: I see. From the looks of it, you’ve spent most of your time shopping on Amazon.com
Me: That is correct.
Boss: And that applies to your work how, exactly?
Me: Well, it does and it doesn’t.
Boss: Um... Tell me about any improvements you’ve made this year.
Me: Well... I started wearing tennis shoes instead of boots. I find them more comfortable.
Boss: I see. When is the last time you showered?
Me: I don’t see what that has to do with anything.
Boss: Well, you kind of, um, stink.
Me: You stink.
Boss: Well, that’s uncalled for.
Me: You’re uncalled for.
Boss: Stop it.
Me: Sorry. I'm thirsty. You got any grape soda?
Boss: No. Tell me abou—
Me: I fucking love grape soda.
Boss: Okay… Tell me about what you be---
Me: FUCK! I want a grape soda so fucking bad now. Can we take a break? I want to run down to the cafeteria. Maybe get a grape soda. You want a grape soda?
Boss: No. And quit saying grape soda. Anyhoo... I think we’re about done here... But can you tell me what you think your biggest accomplishment has been since you started here?
Me: I have not jerked off once while at work.
Boss: I see. Well, here’s a 10% raise. Have a nice weekend.
Me: You are a gentleman and a lady. I like it!
Boss: (scratches head) What the hell just happened here?
Wish me luck.
[have a great, boring weekend everybody. BOOOORING.]
[Also, I feel like I should point you towards this news worthy article from the weirdest city ever, Peoria. While I do feel bad about the female-mail-man's headache, the whole scene (at least as it plays out in my mind) sounds like the funniest damn thing ever.]
Oh, I'll Kill Myself if Portugal Doesn't win
Here's some Simpsons to tide you over:
"Surely you can't put a price on your family's lives!"
"I didn't think so either, but here we are."
Down With OK, Up With KY
Generally, it means “an endorsement” or “satisfactory.” It can also be used to end a sentence, in which case it means (essentially) “do you understand?” While I don’t really care for either of the first two uses (what is okay, anyway? Good? Bad? Give me something here. I’m not looking for indifference in description) it’s the question form which really grinds my gears. Especially when it’s written (non-verbal), as in “Okay?” or, more specifically, “OK?”
In deciding whether or not I officially dislike the word “okay” (can you tell my job affords me some down time?), I sought the help of noted (by me, now) linguist, blogger, and Cardinals/Illini fan Liam, from over at Hey... Listen!.
Apropos of absolutely nothing, I left the following comment for Liam yesterday:
To which Liam responded with:
Oll korrect? Sounds like either a villain from a Dickens novel or something my grandpa would use to fix a ceiling fan. Either way, I’m not happy with it.
A quick googeling of “Oll korrect” sent me to the lovable bastion of usefulness that is wikipedia, and a nice little run down of the history of this rather fractured little phrase:
So now we have Boston to blame for not only Dan Shaughnessy, Aerosmith, and, well… Boston, but also for the deliberate misspelling of the phrase “All correct,” leading to what we have today: “OK.” This all means that if those tea party having bastards wouldn’t have been so down with misspellin’, we’d be using the phrase “AC” in everyday life, which, in turn, would make me think about “Saved by the Bell” and Mario Lopez’s magnificent Jheri-curl.
And I would be a much happier man.
Thanks for nothing, Boston. (In fairness, it is a lovely town and they do make some mean chowder. But that does nothing to make up for Aerosmith.)
Unofficially, I have decided to quit using “okay” in my daily life. Since I’ve been getting by the last eight years using only five positive (beautiful, phenomenal, extravagant, marvelous and awesome) and five negative (sucks, blows, bites, fucking sucks, and fucking blows) descriptive words, cutting OK shouldn’t be too much of a task. Plus, I already like to use “luke” when describing feeling (be them physical or psychological) of a mediocre nature. Later, okay!
But as one phrase leaves, one must come in. (I'd like to equate this somehow to "Highlander" but I'm not sure how. Feel free to do it for yourself, though.) Hence, I will now begin a new campaign: to bring back "K.Y."
That’s right, I’m bring it back. Unfortunately, I have no freaking idea what in the living hell it is supposed to mean. Then I wandered across this fantastic article by Karl-Erik Tallmo and found out that it is a rather deliberate misspelling of “No use.” As in: “I have no use for that TV show.”
Which means that the new way of describing, say, anything by Michael Rapaport, would be to say “I got KY for that shit.”
Which will lead to whomever you are speaking with to say “What?”
And you’ll say “Never mind.”
And then you’ll start to wonder to yourself why in the hell you read this entire post.
You Can Stuff Your Sorries in a Sack, Mister!
I was planning on regaling the Interwebs today with fantastic photos from a fantastically ugly ugly sweater party, but I accidentally got fantastically drunk at said party and forgot to take very many pictures. Fantastic!
Instead, I will do two things:
1) Say goodbye to my fantasy football team: “Touchdown My Pants.”
Some lessons learned during yet another 7th place finish in fantasy football:
A) Drafting Sweet Shaun Alexander #2 overall? Ouch.
B) Getting Matt Hasselballs in round two? Double ouch.
C) Chris Chambers? You will never be drafted by I again.
D) Bears D? You’re cool, if only to infuriate all of the Bears fans who are in my league. The fact that a Packers fan snagged the Bears D out from under them upset them to no end.
5) Laverneous Coles? Solid pick, but I have a really hard time spelling your name correctly. You should change it to Steve.
F) Todd Heap and Private First Class Winslow? My strategy of drafting two TEs helped once Alexander went down; unfortunately, I only got Cadillac Williams and Clock Killin’ Corey Dillon for Heap. Still, I’m sticking with my guns for next year.
R) Marty Booker? Hilarious name + Ginormous hands = solid pick.
H) Randy Moss, Willis McGahee, Eddie Kennison, Wali Lundy, and Joe Horn? While I don’t necessarily wish ill upon any of you, I would not be devastated if, say, a tree fell on your parked car.
The overall lesson I learned this year? Do NOT pick last years’ MVP in the first round, especially if said stud is sans a left tackle. Which leads me to leaving this note for next years fantasy owners – DON’T TAKE TOMLINSON. And if you do take LT (truthfully, I would too if given the chance, but I never do learn, do I?) please, for the love of all things Adam Wainwright, do not take Phillip Rivers, too. Having a QB-RB real life combo on your fantasy squad = nightmare.
I would sooner be ass raped by Marty Booker’s giant hands then go through the weekly hell which was having an Alexander/Hasselbeck combo on the same fanteezy squad (and yes, Marty Booker was my highest scoring non-Bears player and that’s why he gets
two three mentions on the FYC today. That is how bad my squad was.)
Actually the real overall lesson here, learned for the sixth year in a row: I suck harder at Fantasy Football than Michael Bolton does at the gift of song. I should probably just stick to Fanteezy baseball (I sport which I actually follow), but I won’t. My addiction is blossoming into that all too familiar large cobra, and not only am I playing some fantasy NBA (yet another sport which I don’t follow), but I am gearing up for a year of fantasy golf (a sport that I really don’t follow).
In conclusion: Goodnight, Touchdown My Pants. At the very, very least, I chuckled whenever I told someone the name of my team. They, in turn, did not chuckle. But I did, and I’m all about number one here.
Suck it, bitches.
2) I keep forgetting this (not really) but the Cardinals just won the World Series. To remind you of the good times, here’s the recap of one of my favorite games: September 12th’s 6-5 win over the Astros. (click the link, then click on the Pujols' walk-off double button. It’s goose bump inducing.)
It was the game which drove the final nail into Poor Brad Lidge’s career (I’m fairly sure that Brad Lidge had his name changes to Poor Brad Lidge, so I’m going to roll with that from now on) and gave me hope for the month to come.
A hope which, if I remember correctly, was rewarded.
PS - Bonus points if you can figure out how today's post title corresponds with today's post. Points may be redeemed at your local Lee's Chicken.
Anything less would be a disservice to Preston, Yadi, So, Larry Bigbie, Jorge Sosa, and the rest of our World Champion Cardinals.
Then, yesterday, while grabbing some groceries at Schnucks, I found it: The most ridiculous piece of championship memorable produced.
Needless to say, I now own one piece of Cardinals 2006 World Series Championship gear.
A ban I can get behind? No cell phones allowed at Avantis restaurant in Peoria, IL. Now not only does Avanti's have the greatest sandi in the world (the Gondola), but they have a policy which I wholeheartedly support. If they start to let their customers bludgeon anyone using a Bluetooth while eating with a loaf of bread, I would think about franchising one myself.
Now, I'm not saying that "Who do you think you are? Fucking Nelly?" isn't the funniest thing you could say before robbing a priest of his gold crucifix, but it's not not the funniest thing you could say.
Speaking of the most dangerous city in America....
Look who's the "Blog 'O The Week" in St. Louis this week!
I could not be happier that the blog post they decided to quote contained the phrase "God Shit." If this helps to put "God Shit" out onto the streets and into the American lexicon, I think I will be high in the running for "Man of the Year."
Also, It's official: American culture has hit a new all-time low.
The Lady Friend and I are hosting an Ugly Sweater / Wine Fest / Drinko Tourney at our casa this Saturday night, and I can't believe I didn't think of this before, but I am afraid that I will be spending the majority of my time at the party in constant fear of being shocked by static electricity.*
40-some-odd people, all wearing sweaters, crammed into my apartment, all chest bumping each other from time to time (our friends are really into chest bumps. Don't ask.)? Thank God we have hardwood floors.
This party + Carpet = Disaster.
[have a great weekend everybody. do your best to keep warm. even if it means lots and lots of vodka and casual sex.**]
*Note - The majority of my time Saturday night will actually be spent pantsless in the bathtub, passed out in a tub full of sweedish meatballs.
**Casual sex with hobos*** counts, too.
***Note - I said "hobos," you creep.
All Time Drinkin' Buddies
1. Ted Williams
2. Dean Martin
3. Mike Shannon
4. Frank Sinatra
5. Christopher Hewett
One through four of those are all killer choices. Number five, however, is where I choked. I couldn’t come up with a name fast enough [I’m not sure if you notice, but when writing this virtual bird cage liner, if I can’t think of something to write within five seconds, I just say something about drinking or penises (or penises drinking). This time, for whatever reason, I turned to the rock* who helped make me the man** I am today: Mr Belvedere.] so I just went ahead and used the guy who played that loveable, pompous butler: Christopher Hewett, because that was the easiest quasi-joke I could come up with in less than five seconds.
But I got to thinking today... who would be my real number five? ("real" of course still being fantasy. Whatever.) The short list would include: James K. Polk, Tommie Smith, Jesus (or, if he's unavailable, Apollo Creed), Joe Kennedy, Jack Kerouac, Bob Marley,and Bob
All pretty damn decent choices.But I decided on the winner while stumbling across ESPN 2 Tuesday night. Former President Gerald Ford was on discussing how intense the rivalry between Michigan - Ohio State is. I started thinking to myself -- "This is a man who used to lead the free world (kind of)... and now he's on TV talking about football? That's just all kinds of awesome, right there."
Truthfully, I may not be able to express how cool it was to see this, so I'll let Al Hrabosky do it for me. Take it away, Al!
"See, here's a guy, he's a former President of the United States. Not only that, but he was a football player in college as well as being the President of the United States. As President of the American, he was a former college football player and and and for him to come out and talk about the rivalry between Ohies State and Michicamp not only says leaps and bounds about why he was President, but also that he was a football player in college before becoming Mayor McCheese. And 'member, when you hear "Al Hrabosky's Ballpark Saloon", think about good times, great drinks, and John Rodriguez in a poorly buttoned green silk shirt!"
I think that's my new #5. I should have figured it out after his "cameo" on "The Simpsons" but Gerald Ford, myself, and a few delectable pints of Sam Adams Winter Lager would go together like a spoon of sour cream on top of a slice of pepperoni pizza.
(Sweet fuck that sounds good.)
So that's the end of my top 5 all time drinkin' buddies list. Who's on your list?
*In this case, “rock” means “fat, condescending television character butler.”
** Where in the hell do I get off calling myself a man?
Non-Christmas Christmas Songs Quandry
1. Ted Williams
2. Dean Martin
3. Mike Shannon
4. Frank Sinatra
5. Christopher Hewett
Two fellas on the list are baseball players, two are bad ass crooners, and one is an Englishman who took America and their love of clichéd, stereotypical butlers by storm in the mid 1980's.
I share this list with you today to demonstrate something: I really like the Rat Pack.
(Also, I have way too much free time on my hands.)
(And I think my lazy eye is getting worse.)
I also have a tremendous amount of zeal towards Christmas music. So when the wallet sucker of a website known as Amazon.com suggested that I may enjoy "Christmas with the Rat Pack" I, per my usual handling with all things Amazon (which for whatever reason makes me think that I'm using monopoly money and not real cash, since I never have to take anything out of my wallet -- that and itunes may end up being the death of me) bought, sight unseen.
It arrived in the mail yesterday, and I gave it a spin while sitting beside the ol' tannenbaum. I was more than happy through the first three tracks. Cut number four, however, bothered me. As did number five.
#4 - "What Kind Of Fool Am I" by Sammy "Yes I Can, if Frank Sinatra Says it's Okay" Davis Jr.
#5 - "Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend" by Marilyn Monroe
Now, I'm not saying either are bad songs (I am actually rather Switzerland about both), but how in the hell are these Christmas songs? I could see maybe "Diamonds" --even if it does nothing but reinforce the worst aspects about Christmas (why not just ask for a Lexus with a stupid fucking bow on the top of it, you pretentious bitch?) -- but "What Kind of Fool am I?" That makes zero sense.
Here are some sample lyrics:
An empty shell
A lonely cell in which
An empty heart must dwell"
Yeah.... Merry Effing Christmas, right there. Really getting me into the holiday spirit, Sammy.
I realize (or at least hope) that it was probably intended to be neither a Christmas nor Chanukah song (unless I am super uninformed and Chanukah is actually a depressing holiday which deals with not being able to find a love to share your life with), but it is probably a song -- by a Rat Packer -- which reminds one of the producers of the album of the Holidays.
This is a phenomenon I can understand. Certain songs -- "Turn to Stone" by ELO, "Crystal Village" by Pete Yorn, "What is Life" by George Harrison -- remind me of Christmas, too.
But if I was producing a mass-marketed Holiday-mix CD, would I put them on the play list? No, because that would be insane. But it doesn’t mean that I still wouldn't associate said songs with the Holidays – it means that I don’t expect others to make the same association.
The root of the problem (“Non-Christmas songs on a Christmas CD? What a pickel!”) lies in the completely arbitrary fashion of it all. What is there to keep someone who thinks of Christmas whenever they hear “Easy Lover” by Phil Collins & Phillip Bailey [in my scenario, the association is made because the protagonist – we’ll call him “Steve” (because in my scenario everyone in the entire world is named Steve) -- gave his girlfriend (also named “Steve” – which was awkward when their relationship started, but they slowly warmed to it and by the time our story takes place they both greatly enjoyed sharing the same name; oblivious of course to the fact that everyone else in that entire world of theirs was also named “Steve”) a copy of Phillip “Steve” Bailey’s Chinese Wall on vinyl for Christmas in 1984 and got a killer beej from Steve (confused yet?) while sitting next to the Christmas tree and listening to the album] to put “Easy Lover” on a Christmas mix.
Where am I going with all of this? Nowhere. Fast.
And what was my point? None, really.
But I hope I just helped you waste two minutes.
If you would like to waste more time, drop a comment of below and let the whole world know about any non-holiday songs which do, in fact, remind you of the holidays. Why? Because I need a rocking ass play list for my holiday party this weekend, and I fear that if we hear "Baby Please Come Home" more than three times, people will start murdering.
And that (all the murdering) would kind of be a downer on the whole party, so help a brother out for once in your life, will ya?
First, a little reminder to leave your boots out Tuesday night. St. Nick's day is here already!
Next, read up on what is sure to be all the rage at the Holiday parties this year (even if I have to bring it back myself), the drink of the year for 2006.
And with that, start hitting the Random Article link and let wikipedia fill your unproductive Friday with semi-facts and half truths. Nothing better to do, right?
[have a tasty weekend, everybody. good luck picking out your trees.