9/25/2007
Cartoons, Jury Duty, Cardinals
A quick programming note: Weekend cartoons will be getting run up over on the Joe Sports Fan for the foreseeable future, be them either in The Absurd Times or just a Sunday Funnies.
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Jury Duty Week came and went with all the luster one would expect. While I had been hoping to watch a judge perform magic tricks, see a tall bald bailiff slap his own head, and be witness to John Larroquette lustfully hit on women, all I really saw was a bunch of ugly people (although John Larroquette was there hitting on chicks. Weird).
I knew I wouldn't get picked for a jury -- the defense wouldn't want me since I'm related to two cops and did a stint as a terrible military cop, and the state wouldn't want me since I have a criminal record and wouldn't convict a guy just for possession of marijuana -- but was looking forward to a week of non-third shift and getting some reading done. Which is exactly what I got. Booooooring.
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The Lady Friend and I went down to Busch for Sunday night's Cards-'Stro's match. We hung out in the Casino Queen Party Porch and downed some Boulevard Wheat's before heading up to our seats about half an hour before first pitch. Apparently, Sunday's game was free popsicle night and our seats and the ground below us were covered in red, sugary goodness from the fucking little brats sitting directly behind us. Fantastic.
Luckily, one of TLF's friends wasn't able to make it to the game and we used her seats, located annoyingly close to sign guy. Other than that common street whore, it was a fine game all around and one of the better Cards match we caught this season. I got to give a standing ovation to futureIntercontinental Champion Hall of Famer Craig Biggio, Pujols continued to own Lidge, and Ankiel had a walk off triple (those have got to be rare). The 80-something year old lady who tapped me on the shoulder to give me one of the weakest high fives ever capped the night off well. (Well, a bottle of wine and Superbad actually capped the night off; it did it well, too. Whatever.)
And while the game -- and the pregame tribute to Mike Shannon (Bob Uecker's tribute to Mike's coaching legacy with the Denver Broncos was pretty funny) -- were both winners, I believe the real winners Sunday night were us, the fans: No longer do we have to waste our money on sticky seats and crappy beer to watch the likes of Kip Wells, nice-guy-bad-pitcher Mike Maroth, or The Strangest Looking Man Ever give up 27 runs a game.
Heading into the offseason, I want the cards to do two things:
1) Trade for Edgar Renteria. Our sweet little Columbian has been gone for too long.
2) Acquire two of the following three pitchers: AJ Burnett, Cliff Lee, or Livan Hernadez.
Trading for a right handed outfield bat wouldn't hurt, either and I'd love to see Brian Barden get a chance to be the backup infielder (along with concentration camp survivor Brendan Ryan), replacing Aaron Fucking Miles. Actually, I'd love to see the fat kid from Salute Your Shorts on the Cards if it means no more Miles.
Ideally my lineup would be:
Renteria
Ankiel
Pujols
Duncan (or possible RH OFer)
Rolen
Edmonds
Molina
Pitcher
Kennedy (gack!)
w/ Ludwick, Spiezio, Ryan, Barden (or the Hoff), Terrible Backup Catcher #9, and Schumaker filling out the bench and Rasmus coming up from AAA when Edmonds goes on the DL with over-lined eyelashes in July.
and a rotation of:
Wainwright
Hernandez/Lee/Burnett
Hernandez/Lee/Burnett
Looper
Mulder/Thompson/Reyes/Me
(I'm not banking on Mark Mulder ever throwing a baseball well again and I don't think Reyes will be here next year, but I think Thompson and I can hold down the fort until Carpenter comes back. If, in fact, Mulder/Thompson/Reyes/Me are pitching well when Carp does come back, then have Carp take Loopers spot and send Looper back to the pen before his arm falls off in a unicycle accident.)
And a bullpen filled out by the normal scrubs.
That team, I think, wouldn't exactly run away with the NL Central in 2008. But they also wouldn't give up double digit runs in twenty fucking different games and would be sniffing both the Central leader and the Wild Card.
That is, of course, if the whole team doesn't die in a plane crash this week, which the way the seaon has gone, seems probable if not possible.
-------------------------
Jury Duty Week came and went with all the luster one would expect. While I had been hoping to watch a judge perform magic tricks, see a tall bald bailiff slap his own head, and be witness to John Larroquette lustfully hit on women, all I really saw was a bunch of ugly people (although John Larroquette was there hitting on chicks. Weird).
I knew I wouldn't get picked for a jury -- the defense wouldn't want me since I'm related to two cops and did a stint as a terrible military cop, and the state wouldn't want me since I have a criminal record and wouldn't convict a guy just for possession of marijuana -- but was looking forward to a week of non-third shift and getting some reading done. Which is exactly what I got. Booooooring.
--------------------------
The Lady Friend and I went down to Busch for Sunday night's Cards-'Stro's match. We hung out in the Casino Queen Party Porch and downed some Boulevard Wheat's before heading up to our seats about half an hour before first pitch. Apparently, Sunday's game was free popsicle night and our seats and the ground below us were covered in red, sugary goodness from the fucking little brats sitting directly behind us. Fantastic.
Luckily, one of TLF's friends wasn't able to make it to the game and we used her seats, located annoyingly close to sign guy. Other than that common street whore, it was a fine game all around and one of the better Cards match we caught this season. I got to give a standing ovation to future
And while the game -- and the pregame tribute to Mike Shannon (Bob Uecker's tribute to Mike's coaching legacy with the Denver Broncos was pretty funny) -- were both winners, I believe the real winners Sunday night were us, the fans: No longer do we have to waste our money on sticky seats and crappy beer to watch the likes of Kip Wells, nice-guy-bad-pitcher Mike Maroth, or The Strangest Looking Man Ever give up 27 runs a game.
Heading into the offseason, I want the cards to do two things:
1) Trade for Edgar Renteria. Our sweet little Columbian has been gone for too long.
2) Acquire two of the following three pitchers: AJ Burnett, Cliff Lee, or Livan Hernadez.
Trading for a right handed outfield bat wouldn't hurt, either and I'd love to see Brian Barden get a chance to be the backup infielder (along with concentration camp survivor Brendan Ryan), replacing Aaron Fucking Miles. Actually, I'd love to see the fat kid from Salute Your Shorts on the Cards if it means no more Miles.
Ideally my lineup would be:
Renteria
Ankiel
Pujols
Duncan (or possible RH OFer)
Rolen
Edmonds
Molina
Pitcher
Kennedy (gack!)
w/ Ludwick, Spiezio, Ryan, Barden (or the Hoff), Terrible Backup Catcher #9, and Schumaker filling out the bench and Rasmus coming up from AAA when Edmonds goes on the DL with over-lined eyelashes in July.
and a rotation of:
Wainwright
Hernandez/Lee/Burnett
Hernandez/Lee/Burnett
Looper
Mulder/Thompson/Reyes/Me
(I'm not banking on Mark Mulder ever throwing a baseball well again and I don't think Reyes will be here next year, but I think Thompson and I can hold down the fort until Carpenter comes back. If, in fact, Mulder/Thompson/Reyes/Me are pitching well when Carp does come back, then have Carp take Loopers spot and send Looper back to the pen before his arm falls off in a unicycle accident.)
And a bullpen filled out by the normal scrubs.
That team, I think, wouldn't exactly run away with the NL Central in 2008. But they also wouldn't give up double digit runs in twenty fucking different games and would be sniffing both the Central leader and the Wild Card.
That is, of course, if the whole team doesn't die in a plane crash this week, which the way the seaon has gone, seems probable if not possible.
Labels: Dumb Cartoons, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About, The Crappy 2007 Baseball Cardinals
9/12/2007
How about you, sideburns?
You'll have to excuse the infrequent at best posting as of late. I have jury duty next week and the thought that some guy may get the chair because I was thinking about Quantum Leap and snoozing underneath my fake eye glasses is a little unnerving. (Question: "What in the world does having jury duty have to do with you not posting on your blog in a week and a half, Al?" Answer: "Shut up.")
Anyway, two things on the baseball front:
1) Barring a minor miracle taking place over the next five days, the 2007 Baseball Cardinals season is officially over. I can say without a smidgen of doubt, that this was the oddest season I have ever seen a baseball team go through.
Case in point: Your utility man (Scott Spiezio) goes into rehab. Three weeks later, he's rocking out on stage with REO Fucking Speedwagon out at Riverport. Meanwhile his team is playing baseball in Arizona. And that's maybe the 237th oddest thing to have happened this season.
Someone needs to write a book on this season. And it should include sex scenes.
2) Former Major League "baseball player" and "guy who don't write good" Mike Pagliarulo has a blog (or something; to call it a blog is almost disrespctful to bloggers everywhere).
What does this have to do with anything? As always, it doesn't. However, for one of the more entertaining reads on the internets, check out the skewering over at the always enjoyable Fire Joe Morgan.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a big weekend of doing nothing* at the lake planned to gear up for this jury duty thing next week (which, hopefully, will actually give me something to write about).
*Nothing = Drinking and watching sports
Anyway, two things on the baseball front:
1) Barring a minor miracle taking place over the next five days, the 2007 Baseball Cardinals season is officially over. I can say without a smidgen of doubt, that this was the oddest season I have ever seen a baseball team go through.
Case in point: Your utility man (Scott Spiezio) goes into rehab. Three weeks later, he's rocking out on stage with REO Fucking Speedwagon out at Riverport. Meanwhile his team is playing baseball in Arizona. And that's maybe the 237th oddest thing to have happened this season.
Someone needs to write a book on this season. And it should include sex scenes.
2) Former Major League "baseball player" and "guy who don't write good" Mike Pagliarulo has a blog (or something; to call it a blog is almost disrespctful to bloggers everywhere).
What does this have to do with anything? As always, it doesn't. However, for one of the more entertaining reads on the internets, check out the skewering over at the always enjoyable Fire Joe Morgan.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a big weekend of doing nothing* at the lake planned to gear up for this jury duty thing next week (which, hopefully, will actually give me something to write about).
*Nothing = Drinking and watching sports
Labels: Stuff You Probably Don't Care About, The Crappy 2007 Baseball Cardinals
8/17/2007
Four Nights and/or Days in August
Last night in Forest Park, in my softball leagues championship game, I was playing third base with my team holding a 10-3 lead, with two outs in the top of the sixth inning, I caught a liner to end the inning (more, commas, please,). I jogged off the field and into the dugout. A few moments later, the game was called on account of darkness. We won, and I had caught the final out.
I just checked with the good folks at Elias Sports Bureau, and it was officially the most anti-climatic championship of all time.
Speaking of bad championships, the tallest midget contest which is the race to win the NL Central heats up this weekend in Chicago. After pronouncing the Cardinals dead not even a month ago, I gots to wondering why weren't actually dead yet, Larry noticed the team may or may not actually be zombies, and some (odd looking) kids came on up, and all of a sudden, don't you know it, we got ourselves a pennant race.
(I apparently wrote that last paragraph with a strong country accent. What the fuck?)
May the most mediocre win!
Anyway, if all goes according to plan, the Cards will be in first come Tuesday. Of course, since God hates plans and Mexicans, the Cards will get swept. Either way, I get to get drunk, eat brats, and watch meaningful baseball this weekend.
In the dark. By myself. Without any pants on.
That's all I can really ask for.
[have a great weekend kids. remember, todays game is floppy hat day at wrigley! because everyone likes looking like a douche!]
I just checked with the good folks at Elias Sports Bureau, and it was officially the most anti-climatic championship of all time.
Speaking of bad championships, the tallest midget contest which is the race to win the NL Central heats up this weekend in Chicago. After pronouncing the Cardinals dead not even a month ago, I gots to wondering why weren't actually dead yet, Larry noticed the team may or may not actually be zombies, and some (odd looking) kids came on up, and all of a sudden, don't you know it, we got ourselves a pennant race.
(I apparently wrote that last paragraph with a strong country accent. What the fuck?)
May the most mediocre win!
Anyway, if all goes according to plan, the Cards will be in first come Tuesday. Of course, since God hates plans and Mexicans, the Cards will get swept. Either way, I get to get drunk, eat brats, and watch meaningful baseball this weekend.
In the dark. By myself. Without any pants on.
That's all I can really ask for.
[have a great weekend kids. remember, todays game is floppy hat day at wrigley! because everyone likes looking like a douche!]
Labels: Stuff You Probably Don't Care About, The Crappy 2007 Baseball Cardinals
8/14/2007
Since I Need to Write Some Crap Before I'm Overrun by Blog Squatters or Something:
Looooong weekend of baseball a few days back. A handful of thoughts:
1. The return of Rick Ankiel. For the first time since last October, Busch Stadium was electric again over the weekend. This has been a long season, ridiculously so actually, and it's nice to have something to cheer for again without having the looming fear that some guy named Kip is about to give up 19 runs or remembering that one of the relief pitchers fucking died not four months ago. This season has dragggggged; It has seemed to torture just about everyone involved: players, media, fants, et al.
All of a sudden, there's something to cheer for. There is some life in the room.
It's easy to hearken Rick's return to the bolt of energy Larry Walker put into the team in '04, but that team was already good, and Larry Walker kind of stunk (for Larry Walker, at least) down the stretch. But hell, he was like 87 years old and roamed the outfield on a lil' rascle. No, Ankiels return is reminding me of one Will Clark (his play down the stretch that year still nearly gives me a boner). Of course that acquisition propelled the Cardinals into the playoffs, where Rick Ankiel promptly threw his career to the proverbial backstop, thus completing the circle. Creepy, huh?
(Also, the irony that Ankiel was called up to replace a guy who had to go to rehab with a coke addiction is surprisingly tasty, thank you very much.)
2. With Ankiel getting the call up, the Cardinals rotation all of a sudden deciding to become stable-to-good, Adam from accounts receivable somehow developing a good case of the bad knee, andBo Hart Brendan Ryan being recalled from Memphis, this team is starting to take shape. While they still may be craptastic, the NL Central is, at best, craptacular. Is it improbable for this team to make a push? Yes. Is it impossible? No. Nothing is impossible (except for dinosaurs).
At the very least, they've kept me tuned in. Stranger things, no?
3. While I normally enjoy cursing and vulgarity (hell, I cuss like a 27 year old former Marine with asubstantial slight substance abuse problem), this weekend in the bleachers I sat next to a man who may have made me change my stance; he scared me straight. To paint the picture:
Shortly before the first pitch The Lady Friend and I sat in our bleacher seats, sweated profusely (great weather, St Louis!), and enjoyed some bad hot dogs and luke warm, shitty beers. Two gentlemen, both wearing jorts, sleeveless t-shirts and bandannas proceeded to sit down next to us (I just assume they're friends with this guy). The one sitting directly next to me (lets call him Mrs Buttworth, shall we) had been in his seat for approximately five seconds before -- you guessed it -- he went skins. So now I have a large, sweaty, shirtless man sitting next to me. Mrs Buttworth then proceeds to drink about eight beers, knocking over all of them before they are finished. Awesome.
By the seventh inning Mrs Butterworth was greased. Fuckingly so. I had noticed he did not have the most expansive of vocabularies earlier ("I GOT ME A HAT!" exclaimed Mrs Buttworth in the first inning; this man was clearly a few cocks shy of an orgy), but shortly after the seventh inning stretch, he let out one of the longest string of vulgar hate speech I (and, I presume, the many children around me) had ever heard. To paraphrase: "What the fuck do I care. He's just some fucking fagot who gets off but fucking other fagots. God damn queers are ruining this fucking place. Fucking fagots and butt fucking queers..."
This went on for quite some time.
(He also mentioned knocking over a little girl to get a foul ball during batting practice. He cursed a lot during that story, too.)
I sat there, prety much stunned. Here I was trying to watch a good ol' faashioned pitchers duel and allowing my man crush on Adam Wainwright to reach terrifying heights, and I had to listen to this fuckwad. I would have told him to shut up, but he was, as I mentioned, lubed. And about 285 pounds. And I am nothing if not a giant non-confrontational vagina. He left a few minutes later (they stopped selling beer), so the whole thing kind of resolved itself anyway.
I was, in a way, sorry to see him go. Such a pleasant chap.
4. The power at my apartment (I think I'm going to start calling it a flat) has been going on and off for the last week or so now. I would kindly like to request God and/or Ameren to cut it out. This summer was supposed to be about whiskey and NES; We already did this last summer and nobody likes reuns.
-------------
Links:
Just 'cause I can:
That show stunk.
That's it. See you assholes in a month or so.
1. The return of Rick Ankiel. For the first time since last October, Busch Stadium was electric again over the weekend. This has been a long season, ridiculously so actually, and it's nice to have something to cheer for again without having the looming fear that some guy named Kip is about to give up 19 runs or remembering that one of the relief pitchers fucking died not four months ago. This season has dragggggged; It has seemed to torture just about everyone involved: players, media, fants, et al.
All of a sudden, there's something to cheer for. There is some life in the room.
It's easy to hearken Rick's return to the bolt of energy Larry Walker put into the team in '04, but that team was already good, and Larry Walker kind of stunk (for Larry Walker, at least) down the stretch. But hell, he was like 87 years old and roamed the outfield on a lil' rascle. No, Ankiels return is reminding me of one Will Clark (his play down the stretch that year still nearly gives me a boner). Of course that acquisition propelled the Cardinals into the playoffs, where Rick Ankiel promptly threw his career to the proverbial backstop, thus completing the circle. Creepy, huh?
(Also, the irony that Ankiel was called up to replace a guy who had to go to rehab with a coke addiction is surprisingly tasty, thank you very much.)
2. With Ankiel getting the call up, the Cardinals rotation all of a sudden deciding to become stable-to-good, Adam from accounts receivable somehow developing a good case of the bad knee, and
At the very least, they've kept me tuned in. Stranger things, no?
3. While I normally enjoy cursing and vulgarity (hell, I cuss like a 27 year old former Marine with a
Shortly before the first pitch The Lady Friend and I sat in our bleacher seats, sweated profusely (great weather, St Louis!), and enjoyed some bad hot dogs and luke warm, shitty beers. Two gentlemen, both wearing jorts, sleeveless t-shirts and bandannas proceeded to sit down next to us (I just assume they're friends with this guy). The one sitting directly next to me (lets call him Mrs Buttworth, shall we) had been in his seat for approximately five seconds before -- you guessed it -- he went skins. So now I have a large, sweaty, shirtless man sitting next to me. Mrs Buttworth then proceeds to drink about eight beers, knocking over all of them before they are finished. Awesome.
By the seventh inning Mrs Butterworth was greased. Fuckingly so. I had noticed he did not have the most expansive of vocabularies earlier ("I GOT ME A HAT!" exclaimed Mrs Buttworth in the first inning; this man was clearly a few cocks shy of an orgy), but shortly after the seventh inning stretch, he let out one of the longest string of vulgar hate speech I (and, I presume, the many children around me) had ever heard. To paraphrase: "What the fuck do I care. He's just some fucking fagot who gets off but fucking other fagots. God damn queers are ruining this fucking place. Fucking fagots and butt fucking queers..."
This went on for quite some time.
(He also mentioned knocking over a little girl to get a foul ball during batting practice. He cursed a lot during that story, too.)
I sat there, prety much stunned. Here I was trying to watch a good ol' faashioned pitchers duel and allowing my man crush on Adam Wainwright to reach terrifying heights, and I had to listen to this fuckwad. I would have told him to shut up, but he was, as I mentioned, lubed. And about 285 pounds. And I am nothing if not a giant non-confrontational vagina. He left a few minutes later (they stopped selling beer), so the whole thing kind of resolved itself anyway.
I was, in a way, sorry to see him go. Such a pleasant chap.
4. The power at my apartment (I think I'm going to start calling it a flat) has been going on and off for the last week or so now. I would kindly like to request God and/or Ameren to cut it out. This summer was supposed to be about whiskey and NES; We already did this last summer and nobody likes reuns.
-------------
Links:
- Dan's got some pictures.
- Will enjoyed his time as well.
- If Juan leaves, I will miss him. This pic still cracks me up and he may or may not have made out with my friend Cathy.
- One of my favorite wrestlers as a kid died.
- We're all fucked! And not in the good way.
- I'm pretty sure I enjoy the few weeks where I am all pumped up to watch a new college football season more than I do the actual college football season. Oh, hell, thats not true -- I just love Bloodys and wings too much to say such a thing -- but EDSBS helps to get me so.
Just 'cause I can:
That show stunk.
That's it. See you assholes in a month or so.
Labels: Links, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About, The Crappy 2007 Baseball Cardinals
8/09/2007
Dear Brewers and/or Cubs
Please win some games so I can stop having hope that the Cardinals will somehow miraculously win the division with this inconsistent, bad (actually, they're quite good at being inconsistent) fuckawful pitching staff / lineup. Also, would you mind trading for Aaron Miles and David Eckstein? That would be great.
Thanks,
Al
Thanks,
Al
Labels: The Crappy 2007 Baseball Cardinals
7/18/2007
You know what...
The Cardinals may suck right now, but they'll never take this away from us:
I still can't believe he humped the fucking World Series trophy.
I still can't believe he humped the fucking World Series trophy.
Labels: Awesomness, Chris Duncan, The 2006 Saint Louis Baseball Cardinals, The Crappy 2007 Baseball Cardinals
