Previewing the NL Central, Part VIII
September 22nd, 2007: After clinching another division title, Tony La Russa celebrates with a long night of banging boilermakers and rock and ryes with Joe Petini. Later that night, he mistakenly takes a drunken poop in Dave Duncan's toilet, becoming the third manager in baseball history to literally poop on a twenty game winner.*
*The last being Johnny Keane mistakingly sharting on Bob Gibson during an autograph convention in 1967. Gibson then killed him.
[And big ups (cool kids still saying that?) to Pat Imig for planting the idea in my head that Dave Duncan's toilet could win twenty games. Who would have thought it would eventually lead to me drawing a crude pencil sketch of a half naked 62 year old man dropping the kids off at the pool? Me, for one.]
[have a great opening day weekend, everybody. if you have any spare tickets for sundays game, i will give you this here half eaten blt for them. oh, and go read this. will nailed it, like bob vila. (you thought i was going to make a whore joke there, didn't you? nope; it's all late 80's PBS humor, all the time.)]
Previewing the NL Central, Part VII
August 5th, 2007: Chris Duncan crashes through the wall at RFK and dies, forcing Cardinals manager Wilford Brimley (played by Tony La Russa) to start old rookie Rick Ankiel in left field for the rest of the year. He hits the cover off of the ball.
Previewing the NL Central, Part VI
September 20th, 2007: Amazingly, Dave Duncan's toilet wins it's twentieth game of the season.
Previewing the NL Central, Part V
April 4th, 2007: After throwing one inning of perfect baseball, Braden Looper's arm falls off.
After weighing his options as to who should be the new #5 starter, Dave Duncan decides "Fuck it. I'm Dave Fucking Duncan. My toilet could win 20 games!"
April 10th, 2007: Dave Duncan's toilet makes it's first start of the year.
Previewing the NL Central, Part IV
May 6, 2007: The game between the Pirates and the Brewers is canceled when first basemen Brad Eldred, Prince Fielder, and umpire Bruce Froemming kill and eat Freddy Sanchez during the third inning.
Previewing the NL Central, Part III
May 29th, 2007: In an effort to make Minute Maid Park (quote) more ridiculous (end quote), the Astros have a ferris wheel installed in right-center field.
[have a great weekend, folks. if you need me, i'll be at a sausage fest. no, not the kind that dominated my social life through the age of twenty-two; the real kind.]
Previewing the NL Central, Part II
May 17th, 2007: After a game of Connect Four goes horribly awry, Carlos Zambrano and Ted Lilly fight to the death.
[update] "High as a kite, everyone... Goofballs!"
Found passed out at a red light. How did he keep his foot on the brake? Did he just throw it in park and take a snooze?
And now the debate should become... What is Tony's drink of choice. Like any good wop, I'm sure he enjoys drinking a chewy red wine out of a tiny glass, but I could see him knocking back one or eight martinis as well.
Or, as Jim suggested, does he go to the keggers and chase skirts with the Dunc and TJ? Maybe this is all part of his new, tattoo-ed, bad-boy image?
Was he on a Del Taco run when this happened?
Previewing the NL Central, Part I
April 9, 2007: Alfonso Soriano is hit by a bus while walking to his first game at Wrigley Field. He dies.
You know what I miss?
You know what else I miss? Smoking at baseball games. Well, no more of that. My position on this matter (smoking bans in general) still stands -- but since they're a private enterprise it is their right; it's my right to not like it, though. But really, when did it be okay for us to all be a bunch of sissies? Whatever happened to smoking a pack of Reds, slamming some boiler-makers and getting in fist fights?
Somewhere along the way we stopped carrying our lunches in metal pails, cursing at children and beating our wives and started being gigantic wimps that moisturize our skin and let the non-smokers push us around.
For shame, men of America. For fucking shame.
St Madness Weekend
It’s a different conference, to be sure. And it sure as shit ain’t pretties (much like this sentence). Here's the dealie-yo (kids still saying that?): there is surprisingly very little turnover in the Big Ten (hell, Brian Cook and Frankie Williams were both at Illinois for over nine years and Mateen Cleaves was at Michigan State for twelve) -– with the exception of a group of five guys who got together in Ann Arbor fifteen years ago (which, if I remember correctly, never actually happened) and this year’s tOSU squad, freshman dominated teams rarely make waves in the Big Ten –- which means that these guys don’t just play each other two or three times a year; by the time they’re seniors, they’ve played against the same guys upwards of ten times, they know everything about everyone of their moves. Hence, lots of D, lot's of 53-48 scores. It isn’t pretty, but it isn’t bad either. It’s just different.
And I will now stop defending my retarded little brother of a conference.
Good enough to beat Duke, obviously. And it may have fucked up one finger of my bracket, but I don’t care. Duke lost, God smiles.
Also, VCU to the Sweet Sixteen. You heard me.
[have a great weekend, everybody. tune in next week to see pics of me dressed as an old-timey irish cop, beating ethnics.]
Still Feel Old, If Not Gone
While my childhood becomes more and more antiquated by the week [with my listening to baseball on a scratchy AM radio, riding around in giant station wagons and non-mini-vans, pedaling my Huffy to watch awesome movies at a theatre which hasn't existed in so long that if it were a person, it's ghost would be at the age of consent (now that doesn't make a lick of sense), and remembering how cool (if not worthless) my first cell phone was (fuck, even that was twelve years ago!)]; I had long been holding out hope that at least my music was still cool.
And to me, it is still cool, however, knowing that Tom Cochrane's "Life is a Highway" was a huge hit while this album was being recorded, well, it depresses me, just a little.
And so, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go sip some Beam and listen to some Tupelo.
Good day, sir.
Anyhoo, Josh and I were g-chatting yesterday and in between racial slurs and talk of jerking it while drinking bourbon, we decided that this tourney is one of the weakest fields in years. I can't call anything bold like last year's Bradley picks -- the only real upset I'm calling is Winthrop over ND, but, hell, EVERYONE is calling that one. Old Dominican and the Dirtbags could both pull of some upsets, maybe VCU, too, but I'm just not 100% sold. Just a shit ton of parity (if not mediocrity) in the mix.
The two things I am looking forward to:
1) An Illinois v. Southern Illinois match up in the "thrilling thirty-two", which may end with a score of 14 to 9. It's also scheduled to go at around 1:30 on Sunday; which, post St Pats day, will be the perfect excuse to mosey down to the pub and drown my hangover in pints and wings.
2) The ever enjoyable first time this conversation happens (and it happens every year):
Someone: "Al, how's your brackets?"
Me:(sorrowful)"Busted. (tuba impersonation) whaaaaat-whaaaat-whaaaa"
Someone: "You're such a douche."
Anyway, here's how I see this whole thing turning out:
Agree? Disagree? Let it be known. But either way, I don't care.
To Hell With Purple People
Sunlight, Glorious Sunlight
Just don’t forget to set those clocks of yours forward before hitting the sacks Saturday night. In what has to be the best move by those clowns in congress since they took down Albert Fall (that son of a bitch!) in the Teapot Dome scandal, we’re getting a few extra weeks of sunlight this year.
Those Washington fat cats finally got something right: The More BBQs in ’07 Amendment. I vote yay.
[have a great weekend, everybody. remember, you don’t mow another guys yard.]
It all started last Friday when I fell in the bathroom, because I'm a big fat idiot.
I landed on my back, and it hurt.
So, I got some painkillers and I popped them.But these painkillers upset my stomach and make me barf.
(I have really good aim.)
I was in a bit of a pickle. Either my back could hurt me and my stomach would feel fine, or my back would be fine and I'd be all Barfy, like the dog in Family Circus.
So, I called up an old freind, the wisest man I know.
And he told me...
So, if you need me, I'll be in bed, drinking white soda and watching Head of the Class.
Ten year reunion next summer is going to rock!
Bake McBride it is!
1. Bake McBride 33 34%
2. Tito Landrum 16 17%
3. Curt Flood 29 30%
4. Shawon Dunston 18 19%
Thanks , internets!
The Cards gave the Spiez nine options for his facial grooming. Serendipitously, I was able to intercept the list of styles:
- The Douchebag (aka Chinstrap)
- The Handlebar
- The Molestache
- A Civil War Beard
- The Jim Neidhart
- A Fu-Man-Chu
- An Ahmish
- The Abe Lincoln
- A Mullet (not really facial hair, but I digress)
So now I leave it up to you, Cards fans. Myself, I'm partial to the handlebar (he looks like a perfect vaudeville era villain, no?) but a few others would work pretty dang well. You decide what look you'd like to see this summer, and I'll be sure to pass the votes on to my man Walt.
Cast your votes and let the world know which ridiculous style of facial hair you want Scott forcing on the National League in 2007!
[have a great arch madness weekend, kids. go
rico hill aaron zobrist!]
I Hate Yard Signs
This issue has led to a slogan which just sounds almost perfect: “Our Parks Are Not For Sale!” You can almost hear it being chanted, no? Which, eventually, lead to this:
This is the sign in our neighbor’s front yard.
It’s nearly a fucking billboard.
It angers me, every day, that it’s the first thing I see when I walk out my front door. It angers me even more, every fucking day, when it’s the last thing I see before I walk back in my front door.
(Also, they’re not your fucking parks. And they are for sale. Progress and all that.)
And so, in two weeks, come St Patrick’s Day, I am going to get blackout drunk and run through it, like a sprinter running through a finish line, smashing it into thousands of little self-riotous pieces. I can’t wait.
(And in case you were wondering, no, I truly have nothing to write about this week. It blows.)