Bleep The Mets

Posted on by Larry Bowa · Leave a comment

New York, New York: it’s my kinda herpes sore.  That’s right, Jethro Tull — lock your doors, drink your whiskey, and hide your grandmas, because L-Bow’s back with a deeeep bend for The City That Never Sleeps Without Bedbugs Crawling All Over Its F*cking Face.  In case you happened to miss the biggest f*cking sports story since Brett Fav-ruh decided to show his real comfortable dong to the latest and greatest set of Grade-F sideline funabgs, yours truly is all but ready to make the New York Metro-POLE-itans respect his g*ddamn authority!

That is, if the A/V club in charge of the Mets’ short bus I mean front office makes the right decision and hires my buddy Terry Collins as their new (and future World Championship-winning) manager.  It wouldn’t surprise me, though, if those bookworms couldn’t find a way to derive the square root of “leadership” divided by “player’s respect” to the power of “ruling the motherf*cking clubhouse with an iron f*cking fist.”  Knowing those morts, they’ll just bring on some spineless keyboard jockey to hold all their punchcards and dial up their modem, all while Oliver Perez slaps EL KICK-O EL ME-O signs on his back.  It’s too bad Tampa Bay’s soooo in love with that goofy hornrimmer of theirs; he’d probably fit into the Mets’ back*sswards algebra like the square root of my BALLS.  But I guess badmouthing your potential employers might be seen as bad etiquette; mea f*cking culpa.

So you may be asking yourself as you peel back the cellophane from yet another sad-as-sh*t TV dinner, who in the f*ck is Terry Collins & what’re his fancy-pants qualifications?  Well, how about the fact that he’s a g*ddamn man that won’t take any sh*t from some know-nothing milllionairess about PT or BP or XYZ or STFU? There’re rumors out there that he was getting cr*pped on by his players while working with the Los Angeles Angeles of Los Angeles in the City That’s Not The City of Stupid-*ss Angeles.  And you know what?  That’s a GOOD thing.  It’s called a job, for f*ck’s sake, not a frilly little imaginary tea party with Mr. Rumplemires and Little Bunny Hopperd*ck.

Newsflash to all you basement-living knob-washers out there: when you’re brought on as a Major League Baseball manager, you’re not there to be the players’ best friend.  You’re there to put a cleat right up into their championship-wanting *sses.  You’re there to make sure that the overpaid fatso with the RBIs actually gives himself a hernia running out a pop-up in a 20-3 blowout.  You’re there so that the oh-so-special nineteen-year-old phenom knows the burn that comes with throwing 140 pitchers through 6 tough-as-sh*t innings.  You’re there to make sure everyone stays in line: the beaners don’t take a siesta, the brothers don’t holla back wit gats & their posse (what WHAT), the rice-cookers leave their chopsticks at the dojo, and the honkies don’t hide their mutual fund statements in their playbook.  And you gotta do all this while keeping those mouthbreathing pre-school dropouts in the media from rubbing one out on your career during your press conference.  No offense to my good buddy TC, but if I had to pick a guy I’d want managing my team (that wasn’t me), it’d be Billy F*cking Martin.  The only sh*t that beautiful f*cker ever took was on a toilet.  But, since William wrapped his d*ck around a coffin a long *ss time ago, & no one has the stones to give yours truly another shot (chickensh*ts), TC is the next best thing.

Especially when he’s got a fiery little World Series winner in his back pocket.  (I mean me, sh*tbags.) In case you forgot, I’m the toughest son of a b*tch to ever put on that sissy little pink-red-striped Philly uni, and I’m part of the reason those cheesesteak-eating c*ckpunchers only had to wait twenty-plus years between World Series titles.  Sure, Schmitty had the dingers, and Carlton had the crazies, but I had the g*ddamn cojones to make those f*ckwits play as a team.  And even though I’m “only” going to be a third base coach — yeah, and Dick Cheney was “only” the Vice-President — I know what needs to be done in order to make the New York Mess a bona-fide contender.  At least, I know what I’d do if I had any control over who the f*ck I could play.

First of all, if you’re Canadian, then you’re not playing baseball for me or TC.  Jason Bay could turn into Jason F*cking Voorhees next year for all I don’t care; he can take his 40 HRs, and his 90 RBIs, and  sashay his poutine-loving *ss back up to Saskatchewan with all the other moosehumpers.  Try working the conversion rate on that, you f*cking Mountie. Speaking of being un-American, anyone south of the USA that doesn’t want anything to do with being a charitable piece of sh*t* can go take a burro ride back down to Taco Town.  I don’t care if you had prior engagements or cancer or if your fcking legs fell off while washing your g*ddamn truck.  If you’re gonna pretend you’re a *team* f*cking player, then you gotta do things with your f*cking *team. *And for all you hyper-sensitive little d*cktowels out there that think I’m being some racist piece of sh*t about all this: f*ck you and learn to read.  I don’t have a problem with you not being from America; I have a problem with you not *wanting* to be from America.  And if there’s something more American than giving your time to show some respect to the people that keep us safe from getting falafel’d, it’s gotta involve a grilled burger, an ice cold PBR, and a lit cherry bomb in my high school ex-girlfriend’s mailbox.  (Special delivery for Lisa “Loose Lips” Maretti!  Yeah, maybe you’ll suck on THAT!)

And while I don’t expect the front office to exit their server rooms long enough to talk to the little people down on the front lines about what should be done with the team roster (their f*cking loss), I do have one suggestion that they’d better f*cking heed: bring back The Natural. That’s right, I’m talking about my favorite MLB player that’s not David Wright or David Eckstein or some other dipsh*ts not named David — Jeff THE M*therfucking Francoeur.  And when (not if) he comes back to the blue and orange and whatever other ugly-*ss colors they want to throw in there, I’d make damn sure that TC played him 24-7-365. When you got a guy like Francoeur that wants to play so bad, why not just play the dumb son of a b*tch?  Given how many no-talent mopes take up roster space that don’t want to be out there on the field, you’d think teams with half a brain in their sack would be running over orphaned kids with cancer to get a little Francouer in their life.

Watching him over these last few years, with all his teams treating him like a f*cking goofy-looking child molester, it makes me wanna choke some motherf*ckers.  He’s the type that’s going to do his best when he’s out there day in and day out.  Francoeur’s not one of those “athletes” that just falls off the sh*tter hitting .350; he’s gotta get reps on a daily basis in order to get himself up to speed.  Get that kid moving, and he’ll be able to carry your team for days on end!  And the rocket arm on that f*ck!  Just give the kid some security with a long-term contract and a guaranteed spot in the starting line-up, and he’ll give you 162 of the best games you can ever hope to get from a guy with his set of skills.  And he’ll do it with a smile that’d make every dentist in the tri-state area pop a boner that’ll rip their f*cking pants clean off.  He even got to the World Series, for f*ck’s sake.  That’s more than most of the overpaid sh*tstains  on the Mets can say.  Postseason success like that doesn’t just grow on the underbelly of a f*cking whale.

So yeah, with a little bit of luck, and a whole lotta L-Bow, the Mets might actually not f*ck up their shot at making it to the post-season.  For once.  Of course, I’m still waiting to hear from those d*ckholes.  Yeah, don’t forget to carry the one when you’re adding zeroes to my offer sheet, Mr. Einstein.  Quality merch like me’s not going to be on the market for long, ladies.  Operators are standing by; give a guy a f*cking call already.  And maybe shake TC’s bush a little, too.

Longtime Yard Work / Jockish contributor Larry Bowa was once a finalist to compete on So You Think You’re Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?

Cow(herd)abunga!

Posted on by Jason Alexander · Leave a comment

First of all, congratulations to Colin Cowherd on his sitcom development deal with CBS.  I’ve never had the pleasure of listening to Colin on the radio for more than a few minutes at a time, but from what little I’ve caught of his endearing shtick, I’m sure he’s got the right attitude to be as successful in television as he’s been on the radio.

As some of you might know, I’ve been on both ends of the success spectrum when it comes to television, so I know what it’s like to be the talk of the town as well as the dick on the dial.  In addition, I had the pleasure, however fleeting it was, to play a real-life sports pundit personality of sorts in my star vehicle (coincidentally enough, a CBS show) Listen Up! It’s a shame that me and all those other wonderful and talented folks in the cast and crew weren’t able to fully do justice to the wit and wisdom of radio and print pundit supreme, Tony Kornheiser.  That said, I feel that experience gives me an insight into what Colin and his team of producers need to keep in mind to make their show as successful as other CBS staples like Bleep My Dad Says, Mike & Molly, and the upcoming reality smash Arranged Marriage. I honestly have more advice to dole out than I know what to do with, but since this is the internet, and I know you all have porn to surf (ha ha ha), here’s a quick and dirty three-bie to mull over.

1) How do you get to the top of the Nielsen ratings? Catchphrase, catchphrase, catchphrase!

It might seem a little crass, but it’s more than a little true.  After all the Emmys get put away in storage, and after the DVD boxset residuals dwindle to a pittance, and after Hollywood stops stunt-casting you as hackneyed versions of your most famous character, your catchphrase will live on.  If I had a dollar for every time I thought I heard someone yelling, “Serenity now!” or “George is getting upset!” at me from across the street or from the other side of a restaurant, I would be too busy dealing with my stock broker to bother writing this blog for a mere twenty-five cents a word.  That rhere’s even a Catchphrase section (though a somewhat skint one, all things considered) on the Wikipedia page for Bob Patterson, another short-lived sitcom of mine, says more than I can about the power of the well-chosen word.

If you want to stick to the ribs of John Q. Channel-Changer, you have to come up with a pithy catchphrase or twelve that will keep those itchy clicker fingers at bay.  In Colin’s case, given his show’s based around sports talk radio and his family life, something related to athletics and the homestead would probably be appropriate: “I’ve got your touchdown right here, [insert wife nickname here];” “Nothing but the back of my hand;” “As cool as the other side of our pre-nuptual agreement.”  The possibilities are endless.  And given Colin’s play-on-words for his real-life radio show (The Herd), another similar bit of wordplay in naming its fictional counterpart could open up all sorts of possibilities.  I’m partial to The Dude Ranch, as history’s proven time and again that cowboy metaphors are always a comedic goldmine.  Along similar lines: The Bro-down Hoe-down, The Bucking Stops Here, Barn-Burners, and so on. These are just suggestions, of course. As with any artistic endeavor, you have to go with your gut (and depending on who’s in charge, the whims of some know-nothing focus group that won’t let you do succeed as anything besides being George Costanza every time you walk out in front of the camera like some sort of performing monkey waiting for the old man to turn the crank and say, “Let’s go, monkey! Time to dance for your peanuts! I said DANCE, you stupid monkey! SHAKE WHAT YOUR MOTHER GAVE YOU, COCO!”)

(But I digress.)

2) You say “controversy,” I say “cha-ching!”

In today’s world of streaming webcasts and pixelated phone pics, it’s not enough to be funny and charming and photogenic.  You have to have a quality about you, a certain “je ne sais quoi” that no one else has.  In other words, as Derek Jeter says in those car commercials, you need an edge.  CBS is known for airing shows with an edge, from the gritty forensics of the CSI franchise and their countless other cop dramas, to the extra-curricular shenanigans of Two and a Half Men co-star Charlie Sheen.  A quick click of the Google machine shows that Colin’s no stranger to controversy; after all, it’s hard to thrive on the radio if you’re not willing to mix it up, even if it means sounding like you have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about at all.  As most folks in show business know, sometimes a foot in the mouth is worth its weight in gold, and having this sort of real-world material to cull from will undoubtedly help the showrunners get things off on the right foot.  I can see a show where Colin’s stand-in — let’s call him Steve Stallion — is a sports-savvy Archie Bunker, a no-holds-barred man’s man that’s not afraid to speak his mind on anything and everything,  whether it’s what the President should be doing to privatize Social Security or who should be the New York Giants’ starting quarterback.  (Of course, I have to imagine that CBS will do everything in its power to use the show as a platform to promote the NFL; as a wise man once told me, if you got it, beat it into the ground like it owes you money.)

3) It’s  a small world after all, so cast carefully.

It never fails: so much work goes into fine-tuning the concept of a show, tweaking its set design, polishing its writing, and picking the perfect leading man, that the rest of the cast is filled merely as an afterthought.  As you might imagine, shows like these suffer as a result.  Believe you me, I know whereof I speak.  I’m guessing Colin and friends are leaning towards a more traditional-looking cast for this sports-centric chuckle hut.  And as you might have guessed, when I use the word “traditional,” I mean “attractive,” and I mean “white.”  Yes, it helps draw in a certain desired demographic if you cast some fetching young buxom things as Steve Stallion’s spunky and rebellious teenage daughters, and include a slightly older doppelganger as Steve’s equally fetching wife.  And this might work, for a while.  But you have to remember that we are living in a global community nowadays.  The distance between Bangor, Maine and Bangladesh is only as far as a tiny move of your computer mouse. You might grab a few more 20 to 30 year olds in Middle America if you cast your Lisa Kudrows or your Loni Andersons, but you’re missing out on bigger, and spicier, pieces of the pie.

Why not have Steve be married to a feisty and exciting African American woman named Shantelle?  Why can’t Steve adopt a wide-eyed Turkish orphan with the love of American sports? Why not have Steve’s next door neighbor be a fun-loving devout Muslim? These minor little tweaks open the doors to so many places, both in the world and in the writer’s room; the jokes with Sanjeet or little Fyvush trying to pronounce athlete’s names just write themselves!  And I’m not just talking out of my Jenny Craig-ercized backside on this United Colors of Benneton jive: on Listen Up!, the amazing and talented Malcolm Jamal-Warner was cast as my ex-athlete radio-show co-host.  I’m sure that, if the show lasted more than one season, Malcolm’s ethnicity (coupled with his Cosby Show cred, as well as the Jerry Maguire Malcolm and I were cultivating) would have been a boon for the show’s continued success across all color barriers, including that most important of colors: green.

But enough about me, and enough about my advice.  I could go on and on about what I’ve learned through my long and storied career as an actor and entertainer.  But if there’s one more tip I could share, whether you’re an up-and-coming media mogul like Colin or just a regular guy working the 9-to-5 to make ends meet, it’s this: always land on your feet, even when you fall flat on your face. Until we meet again, America!

Actor / producer / entertainer Jason Alexander is currently looking for a publisher for the sequel to his first book, Act Without Acting, entitled Act Live Without Living Acting.

Another Open Letter From Billy Wagner

Posted on by Billy Wagner · Leave a comment

Hard to believe it’s been nearly a year since my last open letter.  A lot’s happened since then, including exactly what I said would happen to the Mets after I went to the DL.  Just like in 2007, they got chumped by the Phillies.  Again.  Then they signed K-Rod and even traded for that J.J. Putz to try and replace what I bring to the table.  And everyone knows what happened next.  I guess it’s good that the Mets decided to just give up before the summer finished.  Gives their fans something better to do with their time.  I’m not saying that New York (and their paychecks) wasn’t good to me, but going to an actual contender with a legitimate shot at a World Series?  The Shake Shack ain’t that great, know what I mean?

So let me set some things straight while I’m here.  First of all, thanks to Jonathan Papelbon for getting his head on straight on what me coming to the Red Sox means.  And “thanks” for being willing to help with my “transition” to the American League, but I’ve been pitching longer than you’ve been stupid, Paps.  Only help I’ll need is in finding the clubhouse and the post-game spread.  Unless something’s changed in the past 10 months, the mounds are the same, and the distance to the plate is the same.  The strike zone might be changed, but that’s because umpires don’t know the black of the plate from my black ass.  This AL / NL thing is just nonsense — ain’t no one that can hit a high 90s fastball if you know where to put it, I don’t care which league you’re in or what you got yourself pumped up on.  If anyone’s gotta adjust, it’s the Junior Circuit to good old Billy Wags.

As for all you comedians trying to compare me to Eric Gagne, there’s ain’t nothing to compare.  I am 100% pure red-blooded American through and through, like Johnny Cash or Lee Greenwood.  And everyone knows that limey turd Gagne was 100% juiced-up overrated French Canadian candyass.  Ain’t no surprise that his saves went down and his ERA went up as soon as MLB started to police that steroid nonsense.  Knowing that slapshot-loving clown has a ring despite pitching like a fat Oliver Perez, while all sorts of players actually worth one goddamn (including myself) ain’t got a damn thing just … well, it just pisses me off, is what.  If you so-called fans got out of your mom’s basement and knew anything about anything, you’d know that I’m gonna give all that I got and then some when Tito gives me the ball.

Some of you might be worried because of my rep as an outspoken clubhouse type, and how that’s gonna unsettle the Boston clubhouse.  Well, excuse me for having a goddamn opinion.  And correct me if I’m wrong, but I vaguely remember a similar sort of outspoke type coming to Boston about five years ago.  And all he did while speaking his mind and calling a spade a spade was win you folks two world championships.  Now tell me who in Red Sox Nation has a problem with Curt Schilling?  Yeah, I might put my foot in my mouth once in a while, but that’s only because I like kicking ass!  And this ain’t some namby-pamby game of Go Fish we’re talking about here — this is baseball, where you gotta kick some ass to get what you want.

Do I want to be the closer instead of a set-up guy?  Hell yeah — that’s what I’ve done all my life, and getting demoted sucks.  Lemme ask all you 40-hour work week folk the same question. Let’s say you’re forced to leave your current job, go somewhere else, and take a paycut.  You wouldn’t be happy with that, right?  Well, it’s like that with me.  Except without the paycut.  And my job’s about the same.  But that ain’t the point!  The point is that it’s hard to change, and you gotta want to do it.  I’m willing to do what it takes to get Boston another World Series, and as long as no one screws it up for me, then everyone’s gonna get along just fine.

Boston Red Sox non-closer Billy Wagner hates the Facebook Farmville app.  Hey, it’s on his Wiki page, so it has to be true, right?

Is Signing Your Fancy-Pants Draft Pick Something You Might Be Interested In?

Posted on by Hollywood Agent Bob Ryan · Leave a comment

Let me set the scene for you.  You’re an up and coming sports franchise that’s coming off an awful, terrible year.  Flop after flop after flop.  Maybe not flops as bad as Popeye or Ishtar, but close enough to give you some palpitations and night sweats — something like Jade or Silver, let’s say.  Real stinkeroos.

But you have one consolation to keep you warm through those awful off-season nights: a high-ranking draft pick in your upcoming amateur draft.  A top 5 pick.  Maybe even the number 1 pick overall.  If only there was a draft in Hollywood after you crapped your pants!  “Sorry you couldn’t get Vinnie Chase for your Ramones biopic, Bob.  You can have Rachel Weisz and Kate Winslet for your Henry & June remake, though!  Good luck, and give my best to the missus!”

So now you’re thinking big, with your fancy high draft pick.  You’re thinking about some hotshot kid coming out of the cornfields with Bob Feller’s fastball and Don Drysdale’s bedside manner, or some seven-footer from the projects with the hands of Nathaniel “Sweetwater” Clifton handle and speed of Walt “Clyde” Frazier.  Did I tell you that I set up Walt Frazier with both Pam Grier and Peggy Lipton after the New York premier of Deep Throat?  True story.  Hell of a three-way, from what I heard.  Through the walls, that is.  Peggy asked if I wanted to tag along, but you know what they say.

Anyway, so you’re hot to trot over the next big thing, and Draft Day comes, and you get your man!  Or your woman, if that’s the way you swing — it’s the 21st century, folks , I don’t discriminate.  You’re ready to start printing commemorative jerseys with their name emblazoned on the back, and championship tickets and bobblehead dolls and all sorts of high-priced low-cost memorabilia.  But there’s one thing standing between you and your dreams: The Motherfucking Agent.

Though, as you might have guessed by some of my anecdotes, most of my expertise is in the field of film making, I can say without any doubt that sports agents are cut from the same shit-stained money-grubbing cloth as their counterparts in the entertainment industry.  But that doesn’t mean they’re difficult to deal with, if you know what you’re doing. What if I could tell you that I have three easy to remember tips on how to deal with these agents that will get you everything you want and next to nothing they or their clients want?  Is that something I could interest you in?

First lesson, and sometimes the most important: it’s OK to play hard-to-get.  Think of all the times you had a girl you were sweet on gave you the cold shoulder or, even worse, hit the breaks right when you were getting to the good parts.  Believe it or not, sex and business go hand in hand, and not just because you’re bound to get fucked eventually!  If you show too much interest in whoever you’re pursuing, that person’s bound to use that to their advantage. But if you pretend you’re not interested, and are pursuing other options, that might prick up their ears and give you the upper hand.  I came this close to getting Harrison Ford on board for a series of Remo Williams films using this strategy, and it would’ve worked if it wasn’t for that cocksucker Spielberg and that other son of a bitch Lucas.  But I digress — George and Steve are great guys, and Raiders turned out to be an alright popcorn flick.  If you like that sort of thing.

My second piece of advice: never budge.  This might sound similar to the “play hard to get” advice I just gave in the last paragraph, but it’s not!  When I say “never budge,” I’m talking about when the negotiations are getting down and dirty, and the sweat starts flying, and the guy on the other side of the table is trying to tell you that his guy is worth about ten times more than you’re willing to pay.  Look at what just happened with the Washington Nationals and the kid they drafted, this Stephen Strasburg.  (What is it with Steves being pains in the tuckus?)  Correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t they talking about Strasburg getting FIFTY MILLION DOLLARS just a few months ago?  And then folks were all up in arms about how they’re not willing to sign the kid?  And now they get him for only fifteen million?  That’s a thirty-five million dollar savings, which is coincidentally what I would’ve brought Hudson Hawk in for, back when it was MY baby.  Did I tell you I taught Joel Silver everything he forgot?

My final piece of advice: don’t be afraid to walk away.  If the going gets tough, and nothing’s happening, then make something happen by doing the opposite of what they expect you to do!  Think about it!  When you have, juast as an example, some European kid that’s unwilling to “slum it” in the best country in the world and instead wants to play for some Spanish team until he’s old enough to vote, then you do what Robert DeNiro says in that movie about the mob — you fuck ’em where they breathe!  You have some stuck-up football player wanting more than he’s worth?  Leave him on the sidelines and see how much his worth depreciates!  Let ’em screw up their career — this only gives you leverage for when they come crawling back to you, asking for another chance.  And then you fuck ’em again!  Show them what’s what!  Take those rat bastards to school and give them the old brown eye!  So to speak, of course.

Now it should go without saying that maybe if you follow my advice, you’ll find yourself on the ass end of an endless stream of ridicule from fans and media personalities, and some disgruntled mumblings from your superiors.  But that’s the way things go.  It takes a while for true genius and bravery to be recognized for the madness it looked like but actually wasn’t.  People thought Michael Cimino was an egomaniacal loon!  And maybe he was!  But what if I told you that this lunatic recluse with delusions of grandeur was responsible for some of the best cinema that Hollywood’s ever seen, and that you could be the sports world’s answer to him?  Is that something you could be intersted in?  Do I even need to ask the question?

Esteemed Hollywood producer Bob Ryan is currently developing a movie based on the popular Tumblr, Look At This Fucking Hipster.

Why My Dad Is Brett Favre, My Hero

Posted on by Breleigh Favre · Leave a comment

My dad is a world famous Super Bowl Quarterback.  His name is Brett Favre.  A lot of people like to make fun of my dad for all sorts of reasons.  They like to make fun of the way he spells his name because it doesn’t look like it sounds.  They also like to make fun of him for being a good football player.  But my dad is more than a good football player with a funny spelled name.  He is a Super Bowl Quarterback and he is the best that has ever played the game of football.  According to the Internet he has a lot of records including consecutive starts by a quaterback, career touchdowns, career interceptions, career playoff interceptions, and career playoff losses.  Those are a lot of records that might never be broken.  And this is one of the reason my dad Brett Favre is my hero.

For most of his career, he played for a team in Wisconsin called the Green Bay Packers.  They like lots of cheese and beer in Green Bay, Wisconsin.  They also liked my dad a lot when he was playing there.  I was really little when he played for them for most of the time, but when I got older I learned from him about how good he was.  He won a Super Bowl with the Green Bay Packers when I was not even one year old, and this year he will win another one.  And maybe he can win more!  Heroes like my dad like to win lots of things like Super Bowls because that is what heroes should do.

Last year my dad played for the New York Jets.  They were not a good team according to my dad, but my dad helped them try to win a Super Bowl.  My dad tries really hard when he goes out on the field of battle.  Sometimes I have to watch between my fingers when he throws the ball because it’s so scary watching him play!  He likes to run around and make people miss him and then he throws the ball a long way.  Sometimes he has to get up and tackle people on the other team because they catch his ball which they shouldn’t do.  That’s also pretty scary!  A lot of people want to hurt my dad, because that is how you play football and win the Super Bowl.  When I get upset because people pick on me or I do bad on a math test my dad tells me that this is the way the world works and I need to pretend like it’s 4th down and the whole game is on the line and I need to air it out down field.  I’m not sure what this means but I know it’s really important.  This is one of the many important things my dad has taught me.

And now this year my dad will win a Super Bowl for the Minnesota Vikings.  I like their uniform the best out of all the uniforms I saw my dad in because I don’t like green too much.  Purple is a fun color because that is the color of grape popsicles and dried bird doo-doo.   I heard from some people that my dad once played for that team in Atlanta that had the guy that killed all the dogs who went to jail.  But he left there without winning a Super Bowl which is OK with me.  I don’t want my dad to win anything for a team that likes dog killers.  I don’t understand how you can want to kill a dog!  They’re so cute and furry!

Something else I like about my dad is that he likes to have fun.  When we play around in our ranch in Mississippi he likes to throw balls and roll around in the dirt and do lots of fun things.  One time his friend Peter King of Sports Illustrated was at the ranch and they were having fun together.  Peter King likes to give me copies of his books that he wrote when he comes over.  One of these days I’ll read them when I’m old enough!  Peter King and my dad usually go out to play some golf or hunt then when they get back my dad gave Peter King a noogie and a purple nurple!  See I told you purple was a fun color!  Then they laugh about it and had some beers afterwards.  I like giving my dad purple nurples and wet willies but he doesn’t do that to me because I’m a girl.

Finally I am happy that my dad is going back to win a Super Bowl but I was not crying like my dad said I was. What really happened is that my dad was planning on coming back the whole time everyone said he was retiring because of his shoulder.  And he told me that he was going to play a trick on everyone and tell them that it was my idea because it would be fun and he could get out of going to camp.  It would be like a big purple nurple to the world he said and I said OK.  I understand that.  I don’t like camp much either.  It’s always wet and cold and you have to sleep in a tent in a sleeping bag.  Tents are gross.

Sometimes my dad says it’s OK to lie about things when it makes other people happy.  And I actually lied a little too with my dad because even though Brett Favre is my dad and I love him I like it when my dad isn’t around all the time.  I get to watch Spongebob and iCarly on the TV because my dad isn’t around watching the NFL channel or ESPN or Spike.  And I get to call my friends on the phone because my dad isn’t hogging the phone talking to his friends like Peter King of Sports Illustrated about the Super Bowl and football.  And I can get my homework done without my dad wanting to play Nerf catch or XBox football all the time.  But I still love my dad because he’s my dad.  And that is why he is my hero.  Yay Dad!

Breleigh Favre is ten years old.  Her favorite football play is the one where you throw while falling down and the ball goes to the opposite side of the field and everyone on both teams try to catch it.

Let’s Get Ready To Not Rumble

Posted on by Bert Sugar · Leave a comment

It wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t long.  It was barely even a fight.  But when Red Sox slugger Kevin Youkilis took a pitch from Detroit Tiger wunderkind Rick Porcello between the two and the zero on the back of his jersey, I swear I heard a bell ring.  This meeting of the minds and other body parts was nothing more than a couple of professional athletes coming together over a slight misunderstanding based on some misplaced tosses from both pitchers, including one on the wrist of Tigers superstar Miguel Cabrera that knocked him out of the game in the middle of an at-bat.  This incontrovertible fact, however, wouldn’t prevent a promoter from boxing’s heyday from having a field day promoting this bout between two drastically dissimilar individuals.  Kevin “The Killer” Youkilis versus “Pretty” Rick Porcello.  The Cincinnati Creep versus The Morristown Mauler.  Frankenstein versus the matinee idol.  Chubby mouse versus kiddie mouse, scrapping over who gets to be big cheese.  Stranger bedfellows couldn’t be had if you found an MIT professor and a Hooters waitress stress-testing a Holiday Inn mattress.

Charging the mound was Youkilis, a ballplayer that, until recently, was known more for his less-than-svelte physique than his punch at the plate.  Prior to joining the Red Sox major league roster, he was best known as the white whale chased, and never caught, by the Oakland A’s front office in Michael Lewis’ Moneyball. And even when he made the big club, there were questions as to what kind of player he could be, if he even was a player.  But as he’s done throughout his playing career, Youkilis made critics eat their words with a side of crow,  helping the Red Sox to a World Series championship in 2007, and becoming one of the most feared and loathed hitters in the American League.  Befitting the fiery red-ass reputation that’s made him the face of the Boston franchise, Youkilis paused briefly to remove his helmet and hurl it at his assailant before continuing on his way towards the inevitable showdown.

At the other end of this exchange, nimbly dodging the plastic red projectlie, was young Porcello, a man just two years removed from his high school graduation.  Where Youkilis had to overcome both scouts and science to achieve the success he’s realized, Porcello’s path to the Major Leagues has been as gold-plated as any walkway outside of Oz.  A lights-out hurler in prep school, the highest-paid high school pitcher ever drafted, up with the big club after only one year toiling in the minor leagues, and now one of the key components of a first place club.  Porcello might be too young to buy himself a beer, but age ain’t nothing but a number when it comes to getting your clock cleaned.

Sadly for fans of the sweet science, no punches were thrown, though Greco-Roman wrestling fans might have been satified with the skirmish.  Youkilis quickly pounced on Porcello after missing with the helmet, and while fans of their respective teams might question who brought who down, there’s no question that both men took a tumble.  Shortly after touchdown came their respective teammates running in from all sides of the field, both to pull the two men apart and to perhaps settle their own scores.  But only fellow Tigers pitcher Edwin Jackson, bearing a not-so-passing resemblance to Lou Frazier as he tried to muscle his way through the crowd, looked eager to throw down.  The only other confrontation of note occurred between the two managers, and what happened between Jim Leyland and Terry Francona was completely verbal, and free of any animosity.

So is there much in this to-do, or is it all just a whole lot of nothing?  Mostly the latter — Red Sox fans might like to think that this skirmish is a harbinger similar to the tussle that happened between their team and the Yankees back in 2004, but it’s much too early to say that for sure.  No one was hurt in the fight, thankfully, except potentially for some players’ and managers’ wallets, if that.  As they say, the game goes on, and though the game remembers many notable skirmishes — the scalp massage Nolan Ryan administered to a young Robin Ventura, for one, or Chan Ho Park letting his feet do the talking against Tim Belcher, or that tawdry affair between Juan Marichal, John Roseboro, and a baseball bat — it will go on to forget this little donnybrook.  So move along, folks.  Nothing to see here except some baseball, if you want it.

Boxing guru Bert Sugar was elected to the International Boxing Hall of Fame in January 2005, wrote a whole lot of books, and smoked a whole lot of cigars.

Welcome To Chicago, Jay Cutler! Hope You Survive The Experience!

Posted on by Staff · Leave a comment

Remember when the Denver Broncos traded Jay Cutler to the Chicago Bears?  And everyone thought he was really immature and a headcase?  And maybe they still think that, and wonder what the hell Chicago’s thinking?  Yeah!  Now that the NFL season’s about to start, the fine folks here at Jockish thought it’d be great to see what advice and thoughts some former Chicago QBs from the past ten years had to offer as the Bears enter this brave new world!  So here you go!  Don’t hurt yourself!

Kyle Orton (2005-2008; currently on the Denver Broncos)
It’s tough starting over in a new place.  And I should know, becuase I’m doing the same thing.  But it’s like life — things change, nothing’s forever, and you gotta roll with the punches and get to what’s real.  Just, you know, hang in there.  Keep your head on straight, and keep your eyes on the prize.  Leave it out on the field.  You play to win the game.  All of that stuff. Chicago’s a great place to play, but it ain’t an easy place, that’s for sure.  They expect a lot from you out there, and it’s up to you to deliver it.  And if you don’t deliver, boy, they’re gonna let you know.  But it’s so great when you actually do deliver, it’s like those other twenty or thirty times when you didn’t deliver don’t even matter anymore.  Except when you don’t come through again, and then it’s, you know, like that Madonna song — what have you done for me lately?  So, yeah, it’s great when you’re great, and not so great when you’re not so great.  But it’s Chicago, right?  So it’s great.  I mean, it’s not like Denver, which is great, but it’s still pretty great.  Yeah.

Rex Grossman (2003-2008; currently on the Houston Texans)
No offense, but Chicago can lick my Polish sausage. And I’m sure as heck not Polish, if you catch my drift.  I got ripped when I dumped the ball off, I got ripped when I threw the ball downfield, I got ripped when the pocket collapsed and I lost 30 yards on a fumble, and I got ripped sitting on the bench watching someone else get sacked.  I’m probably getting ripped right now, and I don’t even know it.  Look: if you fat sacks want Jim McMahon, then get him out of his wheelchair, slap on that dopey visor helmet of his, and have at it.  He wouldn’t with a gosh darn thing with the trash I had to throw and hand off to.  Not a gosh darn thing.  When you’ve got a rocket arm like mine at the wheel, you don’t buy a mid-sized compact that gets good mileage to get the job done, right?  And you don’t drive twenty miles under the speed limit, either!  That’s what I thought.

Luke McCown (N/A; currently on the Tampa Bay Buccaneers)
So,yeah, I guess since you guys couldn’t reach former Bear “great” Cade McNown, you thought it’d be “funny” to talk to me instead?  Because our last names sound the same?  Yeah, ha ha ha, real funny, Deadspin.  “Duuuuuh, I’m Cade McNown!  Me try to steal pretty stripper from Tim Couch!  Then old man Hugh Hefner get mad and make me go home sad in my pee-pee!  I like shaving points! Cheating fun! Derpy derpy doo! Oops! I fumble the magic round thing again!  Sorry Mr. Defense!  Here you go!”  Whatever — I have work to do, unlike some people.

Kordell Stewart (2003; currently contemplating return to NFL)
I am really sad that my time in Chicago didn’t work out as well as I had hoped.  It certainly wasn’t as awesome as my time with Colorado, that’s for sure! But it was an experience I will treasure throughout my career!  I had a lot of fun playing there, and I love to visit whenever I’m in town, too!  Walking the streets of Chicago was almost as exciting as setting up under center during a National Football League game!  Whether it’s looking at the exhibits in the Hard Rock Hotel Chicago and eating at their expensive Chinese restaurant, taking the L train all over the city, or going to the South Side of Chicago to catch up on Major League Baseball’s Chicago Cubs, there was never a lack of excitement to be had!  I remember when the Cubs had me visit the broadcast booth right after I became a Chicago Bear!  When I got to sing the National Anthem during the 7th inning, I will admit that was probably the highlight of my career with the Bears!  If I had to give Jay Cutler advice he embarks on his NFL career, it would be this: good luck!  And try Harry Caray’s restaurant!

Brian Griese (2006-2007; released by Tampa Bay on July 13th, 2009)
OK, so there’s this great little hole-in-the-wall speakeasy place, right?  You gotta know the right folks to find it.  Very exclusive.  Forget what it’s called, Soft Nipple or Le Douche or some shit.  It’s like somewhere in the city, off some street — whatever, look it up on YT, not MT.  So on the outside, it’s like all ghetto and gully and whatnot, real hardcore.  And then you go in through this door that looks like it’s not even there!  It was crazy!  And then you have to wait in this cramped little hallway while people come and go in their evening wear.  And the dude that sits everyone, after you sit around for like a half hour or some shit, he’s like all mysterious, saying “come with me” or something like he’s some butler?  And then WHOA it’s like you walked onto some really posh porn set or something with the lighting and the furniture, the whole nine yards!  Like Jackie Treehorn’s joint in that flick with Lebowski!  Total class.  And the menu’s fancy as fuck, with all this stuff in cursive about the history of like BOURBON like what the hell you are totally blowing my mind!?

So me and my boys are sitting there drinking our cocktails, pinky fingers up in the air like medieval times, eating these like little lamb puffs or some shit?  And my girl sends me a text.  Some co-ed piece I met a few months before at some bar, we did body shots, she sucked me off, you know the deal.  So I whip it out (haha!) to text her back like WASSAP HOTTIE I AM HAVING FANCY DRINKS WITH MY CREW WHER U AT?  And then the staff hard-ass comes over and is all like, “Excuse me, sir, but we don’t allow the use of cell phones in our establimentarianism.”  And I’m like, you better believe you’re talking to an NFL superstar, sweet cheeks.  Your tits are nice, but they ain’t that nice, you feelin’ me, dog?  I got Hall of Fame blood in my veins!  I touched John Elway!  And I paid my $50 for watered-down Mad Dog and lamb pizza rolls, so kindly STFU and enjoy the aura of my celebrity, bitch!  But maybe I’ll break you off a little somethin’ if you gimme your digits, right?  And then some big-ass dude TOTALLY on the juice — I’m telling you, he was ripped like a goddamn fart! — he actually grabbed me by the shirt collar and escorted me and my boys the fuck out!  Fucking stretched the fuck out my brand new Affliction tee, fucking punkass.  If the cops weren’t parked across the street, I totally would’ve taken that Chuck Lidell-looking clown oh you tee OUT!  Suplex you like Thunderlips BABLOW!

So, yeah, fuck that place.

Cleveland (Is On The) Rocks!

Posted on by Floyd · Leave a comment

floydLIZ LEMON! What’s up chicken butt? ;)  And if you don’t know, now you know — it’s the Floydster!  Do the dap!

I know we haven’t talked much since that, um, incident in the airport with the key and the schadenfreude, so I’m trying out this AWESOME new technology that’s all the craze with the kids and their parole officers. It’s called “electronic mail delivery,” and I’m pretty sure that this is going to be as hot as Pet Rocks or DJ Jazzy Jeff or that American / Mexican flair-happy fusion restaurant idea we had called Oi Me Stomago. Get in on the ground floor before that ‘vator goes all Willy Wonka on you Liz Lemon! (BTW, I have a meeting this week with one of the Lachey brothers about investing in Stomago — so stoked!  Hope it’s the cute one!)

Anyway, with summer about to head south in the Jewel of the Buckeye State known only as CLE, a young and attractive law stylist’s thoughts obviously turn to that most traditional of all American traditions. That’s right, I’m talking about adultery! I mean baseball! I have to admit, I wasn’t all that up on the old pepper squad back when I was rocking training wheels and a spit-up bib, and if you had a team festooned with gallant goofuses like Cory Snyder and Rafael Belliard, you wouldn’t be either! (Oh wait, you know what I’m talking about — you have the the Mets! My condolensces to Keith & his moustache. :p)

So, yeah, between that and my burgeoning sexuality blossoming just as the team actually decided to not suck anymore, me and Chief Wahoo were like two ships passing in the night. Except I was getting some — BOOYAH. But now that I’m a successful professional whozits back in the greatest city in the world, me and the Chief, we were getting it on all night long. Or at least when there’s a game on the television. What I’m trying to say is that the Indians are awesome and are TOTALLY gonna swarm all over the American League like Canadian soldiers on the fat neck of some over-hyped crybaby pitching prospect. (Ya burnt, Joba!)

I mean, they would if they didn’t totally suck ass again.  It’s like Joey Belle never stopped hitting fans in the chest!  Their best pitcher — gone for the 2nd year in a row.  One of the best catchers in the AL — gone.  Garko Milicic — buh-bye.  That snooty sense of big-city superiority that Indians fans treasure — le poof.  My man-crush on manager Eric The Wedge — gonzo like the Muppets taking Manhattan.  I’ll miss daydreaming about his rugged barrel chest and oddly square chin.  But at least we still have the awkward racist mascot, tho!  Redskins Schmedskins, sez me!

And on top of it all, we got the owner crying poverty like he’s auditioning for a Major League remake!  Wow, you really think that attendance will decrease after you trade away the team’s best players?  What gave you that idea — common freakin’ sense??? I guess the only reason he hasn’t flipped Grady Sizemore is that his wife would divorce him.  (Seriously, though, I’d get divorced if Grady left town.  Not that I’m married.  Seriously.  I’m not.  I mean, maybe eventually.  To someone special.  That likes snack foods flavored with bull semen.  And wanted to move to a really cool happenin’ burg housing the reigning NBA MVP and the place with the cheapest PBR tallboys this side of the Hoover Dam.  I mean, we got a Hall of Fame for Rock AND Roll.  Just saying.)

At any rate, I dunno, I think I might just give the old baseball squad a little rest.  We need some time apart.  Also, she’s getting a little heavy around the midriff area.  (That’s a metaphor, son, you’re supposed to laugh!)  Maybe I’ll take up the Browns, or ritual suicide.  I don’t know, it’s such a tough choice!  Really, tho, what I need to do is stop picking up Indians on my damn fantasy team.  Who has two thumbs and drafted Jhonny Peralta with his 2nd round pick?  I don’t know, but you might’ve engaged in a little Ronin cosplay with him, Liz Lemon!

(By the way, we were TOTALLY on the Ronin bandwagon before those Apatow lamers hopped on board with their bromance and pink-eye jokes. TOTALLY. Draw it again! I just took you out with a cup of coffee! Fucking Mamet, man. Total classic. Remember to tell me to not tell you about my fantasy involving Natasha McElhone, fried eggs, and a She-Ra brazier.)

Anyway, I could go on and on like a Twilight fan at Comicon (what?), but I should probably go back to pretending that I have work to do.  Gotta maintain a certain level of morale in the office environs.  But you know all about that, don’t you, Liz?  WINK WINK  And I didn’t even get to share with you the Pine / Quinto Heroes / Star Trek slash I wrote last night!  Maybe next time.  Give Jackie Boy & any other 30 Rockers that give one (1) fig my best.  And if you happen hook up with Dennis Duffy again, make sure to hose him down with some Lysol first.  And, hell, give him a purple nurple from me!

Love, peace, and pizza grease,
yr Floyd.

Floyd has a last name, but if he told it to you, you would have to die.  Or you’d make fun of him.  So, yeah, you’d have to die.

Are Ks OK?

Posted on by Joe Morgan · Leave a comment

We are in a very interesting time in the history of baseball, thanks to steroids. With the decline of performance in many superstars that admitted to taking steroids (like Boston’s David Ortiz and Manny Ramirez), we have proof that The Steroid Era is finally over. But as with anything that has a lasting impact, we are far from over. Writers and fans will be arguing for years on what we should do about players using these sorts of illegal nutritional supplements, and the stats they ended up creating. But something that hasn’t been noticed is the impact that is happening right now to how the game is being played out on the field.

Contrary to what people might think of me, I know lots of things about the internet. And one thing I know is Baseball Reference, a website that’s dedicated to giving fans up-to-the-minute stats on what’s going on in baseball. One day, while I was clicking around, or "browsing," I found this page that lists the league leaders for strikeouts with hitters. And I was surprised at what I saw here. Namely that hitters seem to be striking out a lot more than they used to.

Back in the 1950s and 1960s, people would see a great Hall of Famer like Mickey Mantle leading the league in Ks with 120 or so, and they’d want to run him out of town! And this is back in the day when a player like Mantle would have to go against other Hall of Famers like Juan Marichal and Sandy Koufax. But look at what’s happened since then! Last year, both the AL and NL hitter strikeout single-season records were broken, by Mark Reynolds and Jack Cust, respectively. Cust is one of Billy Beane’s Moneyball players, so seeing he struck out 197 times isn’t a suprise at all — I bet you he walked just as much! But when a National League player Ks over 200 times in one season, something wrong is happening.

The answer, of course, is steroids. When players started developing these big, strong muscles, they started moving away from the little things that make baseball great. Speed and defense didn’t matter as much, and they started hitting lots of home runs. As any slugger can tell you, home runs lead to strikeouts, because you don’t have control of the bat when you swing for the fences. Big swings are a hit-or-miss proposition, and they miss a lot more than they hit. This is why players like Adam Dunn and Jose Hernandez racked up so many Ks — when all you can do is hit home runs, you’re going to also strikeout. Think about that one year where Mark McGwire hit more home runs than singles, and you’ll understand what I’m talking about.

But now we see that steroids are a thing of the past — only Manny Ramirez was caught on the juice in the past year, and he served his time. The game is relatively clean, except for a few cases here and there. But if the game is clean, which it is, then why aren’t the strikeout numbers going down? Simple — it’s because people don’t know how to go back to doing the little things anymore. They still think they can grab a bat and take big cuts and hit a ball 500 feet like they did when everyone was on the juice. And that’s clearly not the case anymore — no one has hit over 60 homeruns in nearly 8 years, and it’s probably not going to happen any time soon. And when it does happen, it will be a surprise, like it should be!

It will take a while for players to figure this out and get back to the basic fundamentals, but I’m pretty sure it will happen soon. Think of it like Darwin’s evolution: it took millions of years for humans to develop from the fish that crawled out on land for the first time. In a similar fashion, it could take a couple of decades for baseball players to get back to thinking inside the lines instead of outside of the ballpark. But maybe it will happen sooner than later — with the way technology is advancing, people could realize what’s happening, and make their adjustments a lot quicker. All that’s for sure is, until this happens, we can expect a lot of swings, and a lot more misses.

ESPN broadcaster Joe Morgan is looking forward to Louis CK’s appearance on the upcoming season of NBC’s Parks & Recreation, a sitcom written by a former blogger that he knows nothing about.

Let Phreedom Ring

Posted on by Terrence Hammersmith · Leave a comment

hammersIt is a shame when the court of public opinion turns upon and unfairly passes judgement on our fellow man, as was the case a few years ago with my prospective client and St. Louis Cardinal star outfielder Rick Ankiel. It is even a greater shame when these missed opportunities force the shuttering of such a promising law firm as I helped co-found with Hammersmith, Grinchfibbins, & Loller, LLC. But these sorts of shame pale in comparison to the shame that I feel for our species as a whole when a professional organization with more money and fame that anyone can dare imagine goes out of its way to discriminate against a man literally because of the clothes on his back.

I speak, of course, about the tribulations that young Reed Frazier, a student at St. John’s University, experienced at the new home of the New York Mets, Citi Field. Frazier, a camera operator for St. John’s Office of Athletic Communications, was working the stadium’s inaugural game, a baseball match between St. John’s and Georgetown. Because of the inclement weather, it was recommended that all OAC personnel wear some sort of jacket. Frazier chose to wear his league-sanctioned Philadelphia Phillies jacket. The Phillies, of course, were the team that have noticably overtaken the New York Mets these past two baseball campaigns in the race for a playoff seed. Frazier’s gesture was a brazen and laudatory show of fandom. It also ufortunately proved to be a bone of contention that many at the park, including co-workers and his supervisor, found hard to swallow. Eventually, Frazier was given an ultimatum most likely by the Mets via his OAC supervisor: take off the jacket or leave the stadium. As any good American should, Frazier stood by his principles, and and a result suffered for his upstanding moral fiber.

Where do I begin? First of all, this is clearly a Freedom of Speech issue compounded by shows of extreme prejudice. This is something we in the law professional like to call “double jeopardy.” Mr. Frazier’s right to wear a Phillies jacket while working this game is clearly guaranteed by either the Constitution or the Bill of Rights. And I’m sure, given the time to research these matters, there are some torts or statutes I can unearth that deal with this thorny issue as well. It is an expression of his individuality, and to let this expressionism be thwarted by the petty tyranny of employers and other authority figures that Frazier answers to is, in short, letting the terrorists win. While Frazier’s supervisor had every right to ask Frazier to remove his Phillies jacket, he had no right to expect Frazier to heed that request. Would that all our requests in life were answered so eagerly and readily! We’d be living in a magical fairy land, where women knew how to drive and the elderly could handle automated check-out scanners in the grocery store without professional assistance and “crap” music never existed to corrupt our children.

But to live in a free country, which the United States is on a good day, we have to live with these sorts of inconveniences. That includes people having the right to do and say what they want, which clearly covers not impugning the right of someone to wear a Phillies jacket in the Mets home stadium. This is not an issue of a subordinate ignoring a request from a superior and carrying himself in a seemingly thoughtless and unprofessional manner. This is about the Mets, and their spineless lackeys, forcing an upstanding young man to choose between the envious ideals of his homeland and the short-sighted will of his corporate overlords. And to offer a St. John’s jacket in exchange for removing the offensive apparrel is just the sordid cherry on top of this sundae of unjust turpitude. It is prima facie (translation: “in your face”) proof of the temerity and bulging cojones (translation: “huevos”) possessed by the would-be defendants (or plaintiffs, depending on how you approach this case — I’m a more traditional practitioner of law, but your mileage may vary).

While it pains me to say what I’m about to suggest, given I have many friends that are of different ethnic backgrounds and less fortunate than me, I can’t help but think that the color of Mr. Frazier’s skin played a not-unimportant role in this cat-and-mouse game. Because Mr. Frazier happens to be Caucasian, the powers-that-be at this game felt it was OK to enforce their will upon the hapless co-ed — after all, they were undoubtedly thinking, he’s white, so who cares. But were he of a darker complexion, there is no way they would dare undertake such a gambit, for fear of incurring the wrath of Jesse Jackson or Oprah or Deepak Chopra or some other “alternate lifestyle” standard bearer. Once upon a time, a feared political entity used these same sorts of logistical mindgames and double-standards to oppress a people for their religious beliefs, and nearly laid waste to modern civilization as we know it. And even though the machinations of the Branch Davidians were ended by the courageous actions of our own Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, this incident proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that their influence still looms large over the American landscape.

Mr. Frazier, with me as your legal counsel, I can guarantee beyond a shadow of a doubt that I and my associates will try as much as we can to take every person and organization involved in this matter to the cleaners for a good white-washing. Your supervisor, your co-workers, the fans in the stands and around the park that commented on your jacket, the entire staff at Citi Field, The New York Mets, St. John’s University, Georgetown University, Major League Baseball, the NCAA, even former employees of all these supposedly austere institutions — this could be huge, both for your wallet and the United States of America. We could even take this to the Supreme Court, if we get lucky enough or throw out of other courts! Think about this, think about your patriotic duty, and please contact our offices to learn more about our affordable installment payment plan & check garnishment options. Together, we can make this world a better place, both for lawyers and the people they lawyer.

Terrence R. Hammersmith, Esq. is a former Privileged Inner Circle member of the American Lawyers Association of the United States of America, and a junior associate at Gonzalez, Fielding, and Hutz.