Playing Favre-rits

Posted on by Peter King · Leave a comment

It’s like watching the great Rodin sculpt his masterpiece statue The Thinker.  Brett Favre barks out the snap count, takes the ball from beneath the center’s meaty sweat-stained haunches, glides back three steps with a gazelle’s effortless lope, deftly rolls towards the sidelines like a Stealth bomber in Baghdad, and with child-like abandon lets fly with one of his patented rocket-fueled bullets.  That he’s throwing off his back foot against his body downfield 50 yards into triple coverage is nothing new.  That he’s doing it in Gang Green gear, however, is.  That’s right — in case you missed it, the most anonymous superstar in the country’s (and soon the world’s) most popular sport is now entering the largest media market in the entire world.  Better late than never, I guess.  But, boy, how late it is.

Up until recently, the greatness that is Brett Favre has been Wisconsin’s best kept secret, the sort of cheesy beer-soaked morsel Packers fans would prefer to have stayed hidden beneath their foam hunks of Swiss.  Favre was — heck, he is — a warrior amongst warriors, an old-fashioned gunslinger in a world of remote-controlled missiles, an ego-free anomaly in an age where even wet-eared rookies have someone on the payroll telling them how great they are.  As lesser players hogged the spotlight and made their outrageous demands, Favre simply stood back and left the light alone.  Throughout all the touchdowns, all the wins, the three MVP awards, even his improbable Super Bowl victory against those soon-to-be dynastic Patriots, the fortune and fame that other NFL players seemingly stumble into on a regular basis managed to evade this modest Mississippian.  To John Stockbroker and Polly Babyburper, Brett Favre was just another nobody.  That’s just the way Brett Favre liked it.

This man-child with the golden arm, picked up for a first-round song from the clueless Atlanta Falcons all the way back in 1992, became one of football’s most respected field generals and one of its most unsung record breakers.  On every given Sunday — that’s right, every Sunday; pain was for the non-Favre — you could see #4 in his green-and-gold colors eviscerate enemy secondaries like he was sitting in front of his parents’ home burning unsuspecting ants with a magnifying glass.  He would canter and careen through and around the defenses’ onslaught like a pale-skinned Barry Sanders, only to stop on a dime and unleash throws that would incur the jealous wrath of Zeus himself.  And he would do it with a smile on his face and a song in his heart.  Even hobbled and hurt, Favre never lost sight that, hey, this is a kid’s game I’m playing right now.  I should be having fun.  Well, he had fun all over the faces of every player in the NFC North for 15 years.  And just like that, without so much as a gold watch and a cheap farewell lunch, the Green Bay Packers decided they didn’t need the best quarterback no one’s ever heard of.  It took all of Favre’s intestinal fortitude to fight them every step of the way and allow him a shot at QBing another hopeful team.

While this obviously isn’t an MMQB column (to heck with paragraph breaks, I say!), but there is one Thing I Think I Know that I’d like to offer right now: I think I didn’t do enough to get Brett’s story out there.  You’d think that with a player of Favre’s talent and undeniable animal charisma, there’d be cameras and reporters around him 24-7, tracking his every thought and movement.  And even if that did exist, would that still be enough to fully encapsulate everything that is Brett Favre?  I don’t think so.  And I don’t think I tried hard enough as a journalist, as a fan of football — heck, as a fan of Favre — to get his face out there so everyone knows how amazing and special this quarterback truly is.  And as Favre finally enters the spotlight he deserves after toiling in obscurity for nearly two decades, there’s no one I can blame for this turn of events but me.  I’m sorry, Brett.  I let you down.  And I let the world down as a result.

As I sat a few yards behind Favre during this scrimmage, watching him run a lithe hand through his pepper-gray head of hair (still as full and lustrous as it was during his rookie year in Atlanta) following an ill-opportune interception, I couldn’t help but get caught up in his youthful essence.  What the French call joie de vivre.  As a journalist, one strives for impartiality, but even journalists have a fan’s heart beating beneath their professional exteriors.  I cheered, “You’ll get ’em next time, champ,” as Favre skulked to the sidelines, wearing the failure of that interception over his sturdy shoulders like a superhero’s powerful responsibility.  I couldn’t help myself.  I hooted and hollered.  I stomped and clapped.  I even tried to start a “here we go, Brett Favre, here we go” chant amongst my fellow stand-dwellers (to no avail).  All with the hope that, for just one brief shining moment, I could see that enthusiastic twinkle return to Favre’s haunting world-weary eyes.  I was no longer the decorated reporter that’s spent countless hours and days with Favre and his beautiful family.  I was no longer a co-host on NBC’s well-respected Sunday night football pre- and post-game show.  I was now Peter King, fan of Brett Favre.

Suddenly, Favre turned towards the stands, looked up in my general direction, gave what looked to be a wink, then returned to shouting at an anonymous receiver for not getting enough seperation from his defender.  And I got something in my eye.  Something called Brett Favre.  This is what that kid must have felt when Mean Joe Greene threw him that towel, I thought.  What a player he is.  No, scratch that — what a man.  What a man’s man.  Godspeed, Brett Lorenzo Favre.

Peter King is a columnist for Brett Favre and Sports Illustrated.

Kevin Garnett (Or: An NBA Championship Realized)

Posted on by Samuel Taylor Coleridge · Leave a comment

The following fragment is here published at the request of a poet of great and deserved celebrity [William Wesley], and, as far as the Author’s own opinions are concerned, rather as a psychological curiosity, than on the ground of any supposed poetic merits.

In the fall of 2007, the Author, then in ill spirits due to poor online poker performance and the fickle fancy of Anna Kournikova, had retired to a lonely bar stool at the John Harvard’s Restaurant in Harvard Square. In consequence of a slight indisposition, a handful of Nyquil gelcaps had been self-prescribed, from the effects of which he fell asleep in his chair at the moment that the Boston Celtics basketball club was laying waste to the Knickerbokers of New York upon multiple suspended television screens.  The Author continued for about three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during which time he has the most vivid confidence, that he could not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines; if that indeed can be called composition in which all the images rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the correspondent expressions, without any sensation or consciousness of effort. (He can also claim with utmost confidence that some wastrel purloined no less than three hundred dollars from his unreliable money clip, but nevermind.)

On awakening he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and surrounding cocktail napkins, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a comely lass whose boyfriend liked not at all the attention given her tramp stamp by the Author’s eager hands, and on his return from the hospital, found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone has been cast, but, alas! without the after restoration of the latter!

Yet from the still surviving recollections in his mind, the Author has frequently purposed to finish for himself what had been originally, as it were, given to him.

In Boston did The Big Ticket
A stately multi-purpose pleasure-dome decree:
Where Charles, the dirty river, ran
Through public works measureless to man
Down to the feet of Tom Brady.
So twice five miles of fertile faux parquet
With stands and stanchions were girdled round:
And there were columnists bright with sinuous curls,
Where blossomed many an invective-laden screed;
Enfolding sullen spouts of jealousy.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Through the green heart athwart a sullen cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
By Auerbach wailing for his Joe Forte! his Len Bias!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless Sam Adams seething,
As if this earth in XXL Antoine Walker jersey were breathing heavily,
A mighty roar momently was forced:
Huge basketballs vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or female referees beneath Heinsohn’s flail:
And ‘mid these dancing bricks at once and ever
It flung up momently the dirty river.
Through Schilling and Vrabel the dirty river ran,
Then reached the public works measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless brick:
And ‘mid this tumult The Big Ticket heard from within
Ancestral Russell prophesying win!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the court;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the rafters and the crowd.
It was a miracle of rare action,
A professional team with multiple scoring options!
A damsel with a microphone
In a vision once he saw:
It was a Californian maid,
Singing of hoary cliches.
Could he revive within
His benefactor’s focus-grouped slogan,
To such a deep pocket ‘twould win him,
That with hollering long and loud,
He would build that dome in air,
That champagne wish! those caviar dreams!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Gino! Gino!
Pick and roll round him thrice,
And close your eyes with simple joy,
For he on Korbel’s hath fed,
And drunk the sweat of Posey and Pierce.
And Ray Allen.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge is a renowned poet, and has never won a no-limit hand raising pre-flop with pocket Jacks.

Good Guys, First Place, Can Of Corn

Posted on by Hawk Harrelson · Leave a comment

Hawk here.  Don’t wanna say I told you so. But I said it.  Now, I might be a lotta things to a whole lotta people.  Some good.  Some great.  But one thing that Hawk Harrelson ain’t is a told-you-soer.  Hawk’s got class.  Like a university.  One of those Ivy League schools.  Brick buildings.  Hippie chicks.  Mary Jane.  Pure class.  Now, some people, when they get it right, they like to tell everyone.  Think they’re all that.  Like to walk around with their peter hanging out all noodle-like.  Just for making a guess. Newsflash, fella — being right doesn’t fix what’s wrong with you.  Take it from the Hawk.  There’s more to life than that.

See, Deej and I were sitting in a Chipotle restaurant, and I gotta say, Chipotle’s got some great food.  Had myself a chicken burrito that was muy bueno, as they say.  I love those beans.  And I was talking to Deej about life and living life.  And I said to Deej, I said, Deej, what you gotta understand is that there’s more going on in the world than this.  There are countries in the world that don’t have running water, or air conditioning, or HBO on their television.  There are kids having their own kids.  Parents having affairs in front of their kids.  Kids doing drugs with their parents.  People giving each other abortions and illegal music.  There’s all sorts of messed up stuff going on in the world today, and you’re just sitting there eating a sad old taco when you could’ve had a delicious burrito.  It’s like you’re sleepwalking, Deej.  You’re sleepwalking through the best years of your life in the greatest country in the world.  Wake up, son!  Wake up!  And he went up to the counter and he ordered himself a delicious burrito.  And it was delicious.  And I said, told ya so.  Gotta call it like I see it.

But, anyway, good guys.  First place.  Running like a well-oiled machine.  Vroom vroom.  Three guys on pace for 30+ homers?  Four guys with 10+ wins?  In the top 5 in offense and pitching?  All in a day’s work for the best team in baseball.  Sure, they don’t have the best record.  They might not have the superstars.  And they’re not the fastest guys around.  And they like a bit of the freaky stuff — better not strap that down.  But you know what the ChiSox have that other teams don’t?  Little thing missing in today’s world.  Little thing that gets lost with all the money and egos flying around.  Little thing called pride.  You watch these guys play, day in, day out.  Tell me they don’t leave it on the field.  Brown bag.  Tell me they don’t go back out there the next day, pick it up, and leave it all there again.  That’s pride.  That’s professionalism.  That’s the stuff of baseball.  Stuff of Chicago White Sox baseball.  Have some.

But you know what?  No one knows about us.  That’s right.  Little old Chicago beating the world, and no one even knows.  Turn on the TV, and folks are doing anything but talking about the little White Sox that could.  Well, let me do a little talking here.  I don’t wanna know about some first-place yahoos letting a guy jake around the bases like some drunk hobo.  I don’t wanna hear about some overpaid jock getting his pipes cleaned behind his wife’s back.  I don’t care about contract negotiations or aggravated assault or foreign beanball wars.  I just care about a ball, a bat, some dirt, some hustle, and a tiny little ballfield named after a fine phone company here on the South Side.  I’m telling ya, these kids are gonna make 2005 look like a trip to the poop chute doctor. Hawk’s feeling a sweep this year.  Twelve up, twelve down.  Or eleven.  It’s just numbers.  Perfectorino.  Put it on the board.

Go Sox.

Chicago White Sox broadcaster Ken “Hawk” Harrelson has a rather large nose.

Post-game show transcript from June 19, 2008, on the FAN590, home of the Toronto Blue Jays, featuring special guest J.P. Ricciardi

Posted on by J.P. Ricciardi · Leave a comment

jpricciardi.jpg

Mike Wilmer (Host): Welcome back to The FAN590, I’m your host Mike Wilmer. Another tough loss for the Blue Jays tonight, as they fall 8-7 to the Milwaukee Brewers here in Milwaukee. A.J. Burnett was roughed up for eight runs, former Jay David Bush carried a no-hitter into the seventh, but the Blue Jays came storming back with six in the ninth only for the comeback to fall just short, with Saloman Torres closing it out for the save in the 9th. We’re going to talk about that and a whole lot more in our postgame show on a special Thursday edition of our usual “Wednesdays with J.P.” call-in show. Welcome to the studio, J.P.

Toronto Blue Jays General Manager J. P. Ricciardi: Hi, Mike, thanks for having me as always.

Host: Let’s go straight to the phones, how about it J.P.?

J. P. Ricciardi: Sounds great.

Host: Here’s Mike in Newmarket, Mike, you’re live with J.P.

Mike in Newmarket: How’s it going J.P?

J. P. Ricciardi: I’m good, Mike.

Mike in Newmarket: My question is about A.J. Burnett. Right now, the team has plenty of strong young pitching, and not enough bats. So in retrospect, that eleven million per year could have been better spent on a couple of big bats. What’s your feeling about Burnett’s contract now, I mean, do you think he’s been worth the money, and do you think he’ll opt out and play somewhere else next year?

J. P. Ricciardi: Well first of all, Mike, you can never have enough pitching. That’s a saying in baseball that goes way back. Now, I heard some criticism when we signed Burnett to that deal, but we carefully weighed our options and took into consideration what we needed to do to contend in a very tough division, and so we made that deal. And if you look at what happened with the free agent pitching market one year later, the cost of free agent pitching went way up. You had guys like Gil Meche and Jeff Suppan who were getting signed for the same kind of money that we gave to Burnett. No offense to those guys because they’re quality performers, but they’re simply nowhere near the talent level of A.J. Burnett. I mean, neither Suppan or Meche is fit to carry Burnett’s jock, or even to lick the sweat of his jock, or even to be in the same division with A.J.’s jocksweat. Now we’re all professionals, and I don’t want to put those guys down, but those are the facts, plain and simple.

Host: And what about Mike’s question regarding Burnett’s future? Does he have a future with the Blue Jays beyond 2008?

J. P. Ricciardi: The thing is, I’m not A.J. Burnett, and you’re not A.J .Burnett, and the only person who can answer that question is A.J. Burnett. A.J. knows how his contract is structured, and he knows what his options are, and he knows that in 2008 we expect nothing less than his full commitment to the team and to competing for a championship. And I’m confident that we have that commitment from him, even if he’s talking about playing for the Cubs. Next year is next year, and I don’t want to speculate on what A.J. Burnett is feeling about 2009 and beyond, but if he wants to take his ball and go home or sign with another club, then he can do that, even though it would make him a giant money-grubbing pussy traitor as far as I’m concerned.

Host: All right, let’s take another call, we have Steve from Orangeville on line 2, Steve, you’re on with J.P.

Steve in Orangeville: Hey J.P., I’m sure you’ve been following Carlos Delgado’s career since he left Toronto, and considering how quickly his skills have deteriorated, are you happy with your decision to not resign him in 2005?

J. P. Ricciardi: Well, that’s a terrific question. Yes, I have been following Carlos’ career quite closely, not only because it’s my job to keep on top of how everyone in baseball is performing, but because Carlos was a great player for us and he’ll always be part of the Blue Jay family. But at the time, we were considering our options and were looking to take the team in a different direction with some fresh talent, and that’s what we ended up doing. It was partly a money issue, where we thought that Carlos wasn’t worth thirteen million in that market. However, we also felt that we needed to part ways with the pinkos on our club, and take the team in a non-pinko direction with players who support America, not bash it. After all, even if we’re a Canadian team, we’re playing an American sport, and we’re responsible for supporting the country that created this game, and that means not signing paychecks for unpatriotic foreigners who won’t stand up for America’s national anthem. That’s what Toronto baseball fans expect from Blue Jay management, and we listen to what our fans want.

Host: OK, next we’ve got —

J. P. Ricciardi: No pinkos, Mike!

Host: Fantastic. Craig from Ajax, Ontario, you’re on with J.P. Ricciardi.

Craig in Ajax: How’s it going, J.P.?

J. P. Ricciardi: Pretty awesome, Craig, how the hell are you?

Craig in Ajax: I’m … great. Listen, I have two very short questions for you J.P. Frank Thomas has hit pretty well since joining the A’s. My first question is, did the Blue Jays give up on him too soon? And my second question is, were the team’s problems with Thomas more business or personal?

J. P. Ricciardi: Wow, that’s a new one. Haven’t been asked about that yet [laughs]. Actually, if you check the newspapers right now Craig, you’ll find that Thomas isn’t hitting very well at all right now, because he’s on the DL [laughs]. That’s one instance, in dealing with players on the DL, where you’re more than happy to let other teams deal with that problem instead of you. But regardless, you need to understand that Frank Thomas is a tremendous talent. On the other hand, it’s no secret that there were some philosophical differences between him and Blue Jays management regarding the most appropriate way to utilize that talent. And when we couldn’t come to an agreement on that issue, it was mutually decided that it was best for Frank Thomas to pursue other options. Now about your second question, making personnel decisions based on personal biases is not an effective way to run a baseball club. The main focus must always be on putting a competitive product on the field, and that means assembling the best possible talent. But I won’t lie to you and say that team chemistry isn’t a factor in all this. Essentially, we’re not the only club that has cut ties with Thomas during his career because it’s fairly well known throughout baseball that he’s an asshole. And by that I mean a round, hairy 230-pound shit-caked asshole with a cherry on top, and most clubs would rather pay him to not be around. So no, I don’t think our problems with Frank Thomas were of a personal nature, considering that our experiences with him were obviously the norm, not the exception. Do you see what I mean?

Host: That’s some straight talk from J.P. Ricciardi, right here on the FAN 590 —

J. P. Ricciardi: That’s for damned sure, Mike. I mean, I don’t waste an hour of my precious time every week to come on your show and pussyfoot around with devoted Blue Jay fans who spend their hard earned money to tune into this radio station. They want answers, and I supply them. And on that note, I’d just like to thank all the many fans that have supported me throughout this slow, but steady, rebuilding process, and I look forward to your support going forward. It’s going to be Toronto’s year to shine soon enough. Go ahead, Mike.

Host: Thanks, J.P. Let’s take one more call. Here’s Bill from Thornhill, Bill, you’re on with current Toronto Blue Jays GM J.P. Ricciardi.

Bill in Thornhill: Hi J.P., thanks for taking my call.

J. P. Ricciardi: My pleasure, Bill. Thanks for being taken. [laughs]

Bill in Thornhill: Yeah, funny. So you probably heard that Adam Dunn responded to the comments that you made during last week’s show. Do you have anything to say about Dunn’s remarks?

J. P. Ricciardi: Well, not really, but I got a bit carried away on yesterday’s show and have called the Reds to offer my apologies for the things I said. I spoke with Reds GM Walt Jocketty, and he understands that my outburst was completely out of character and that no harm was intended toward his players or his baseball club. I also wanted to extend my apologies to Adam Dunn personally, but my calls into him and his agent were never returned. I can understand why he doesn’t wish to speak to me, but him not manning up to accept my apology more or less confirms that he’s a one-trick pony without any heart or passion, and not a player that we consider to be a good fit for our baseball club. I considered this issue to be closed a long time ago, but if Adam Dunn wants to milk this a little more, then that’s his business. And if he wants to throw down with me, then I have no problem with that either. I’ll wipe his ass with his lips in ten seconds flat if that’s what it comes to. But other than that, Bill, no, I don’t have any specific comments about Dunn’s chickenshit remarks.

Host: Hang on, we have a special report for our listeners at home — we have just received breaking news here in the studio, in regards to an unconfirmed report, I repeat, an unconfirmed report that the Toronto Blue Jays have fired manager John Gibbons and have replaced him with former Blue Jays manager Cito Gaston. This is surprising news to say the least, but let’s get the answer straight from the horse’s mouth — J.P., is there any truth to what we’re hearing?

J. P. Ricciardi: Well, let me just say this: John Gibbons is a close personal friend of mine. We were roommates down in the minors when we were kids. So I’ve known John Gibbons for a long long time, and I’m as proud to call him a colleague as I am to call him a friend. Now, as an organization, we had to closely examine how the club was faring relative to the expectations we set for ourselves. We want to be competitive in the present and to have a strong foundation for the future, and both of those things are well within our organization’s reach in 2008. And I think that we can do that with the on-field leadership currently in place. Let’s not forget that we were in the wildcard hunt not 2 years — wait a minute. You said that Gibby was FIRED?

Host: That’s right, J.P. John Gibbons out, 2 time World Series champion manager Cito Gaston in.

J. P. Ricciardi: Cito Gaston? Really? This isn’t some wacky radio show prank?

Host: That’s right, J.P.

J. P. Ricciardi: Holy shit. I thought they were kidding. [laughs] Those cocksmocking bastards.

Host: Is it safe to say that you’re surprised by this news, J.P.?

J. P. Ricciardi: Surprised? Yeah, you could say that. You could also say that the Blue Jays ownership wouldn’t know how to run a dishwasher, let alone a fucking sports franchise. Let me tell all you folks out there wondering why Cito Gaston never got another shot at managing a major league club, it’s not because of the color of his skin. Stupidity is color blind, and boy oh boy Cito Gaston was his own goddamn Rainbow Coalition of Stupid. “Hey, look, I’m Cito Gaston, and I won the World Series with one of the best teams in baseball! Watch me play the same nine stiffs every damn day! Joe Carter past his prime is awesome! Orlando Merced is awesome! Ed Sprague is awesome! Otis Nixon is awesome! I’m awesome! Ruining Pet Hengten’s arm by working him like a ancient Egyptian slave — that was so so so awesome. Or that time I let Hentgen cough up eleven runs in eight innings against Boston because I thought I “owed it to him” — truly the plateau of awesome! Scolding Shawn Green and benching him to give a washed-up Ruben Sierra another chance — 31 flavours of awesome!” I could go on, but why not just bring Gord Ash’s fat ass back in if you really want to take a ride on the Fudgepack Express. Yeah, Gordo, I’m talking to you — look at the piece of crap team you left me with when you were shitcanned, you Jabba-looking sweaty bitch. Why don’t you come on over from your bratwurst plate and try to take a bite out of J.P.? Come on, I dare ya!

Host: And that’s all the time we have today. Thanks, J.P.

J. P. Ricciardi: Come and get me, you fucking hosers! Come on! I got your home and native land right fucking here!

“Wednesdays with J.P.” airs every week on the FAN590 at the conclusion of that night’s game.

Chicks Dig The Double Standard

Posted on by Rick Sutcliffe · 2 Comments

I know this has nothing to do with baseball, but since I am a baseball commentator, and this concerns something I supposedly did during a baseball game, then I guess it’s a baseball matter. A loyal fan e-mailed me this little “blog” link concerning a little something I said last night concerning the lovely and talented (wink wink) ESPN journalist Erin Andrews. In case you don’t want to read the link, this guy DMZ — yeah, that’s a name — calls me out for making some comments about Erin’s attractiveness and drop-dead sexiness. Oh no! I called a woman sexy and attractive! Call out the police and arrest me for that awful crime while drug dealers and other terroritsts roam the streets!

I’d talk about the lacking credibility of “blogs,” but famous writer Buzz Bissinger (a personal pal of mine, if you must know) already took them out to the woodshed and gave it to ’em good. Besides, there’s only so much time in the day to talk about unemployed virgins that live rent-free in their parents’ basement eating Taco Bell and playing Pac-Man all day. (Ouch!) Instead, I’m going to talk today about women, and what it means to be a woman in today’s society, and in the sport’s world, and how hard it is for a man to appreciate the modern woman without getting a bunch of guff from know-nothing namby-pamby losers.

Though you may not know it, back when I was growing up, old Sut was quite the ladies man — I had plenty of pretty young things lining up to wear my letterman jacket. When I saw a sweet little something that caught my eye, I made sure they knew the Sut was interested. A wink, a smile, a little swat on the heinie, a little Tune In Tokyo in the yearbook office — it was all out in the open, and it was totally harmless. I dare say it was actually respectful, but I don’t want to get myself in trouble with a certain militant and hair-covered sect of society, if you catch my meaning.

Today in the 21st century? Well, I already hinted at it. You follow a girl around for an hour or two, she’ll think you’re a weirdo. You show up at her front door unannounced, she’ll sic the cops on you! You even glance at a girl while walking by her bedroom window in the middle of the night, she’ll sue you for sexual harrassment! And don’t even try to talk to her about your new super-sturdy bedroom furniture! Don’t let ’em tell you otherwise: chivalry is in fact dead, and I got the cat-scratches to prove it.

The fact is, women want to have it both ways — they want to walk around showing off their legs and ankles to every Tom Dick and Harry on the street, and yet they want men to respect them for their mind while they’re flashing all that skin. Sorry, honey, but you can’t have it both ways. You can’t expect to go around dressed up in your skirts and blouses and expect men to ignore how nice and round your rear end is. If you don’t want your looks to be an issue, then don’t make them an issue. Newsflash, ladies: if you’re a professional, and you’re working around other professionals, maybe you should dress in a professional fashion. And ladies, another word of advice: get out of the kitchen if you can’t take the heat. And lemme tell you, even with the ball and chain wrapped around me like a hangman’s noose, Sut still brings the heat.

A lot of you young women our there could learn something from former presidential nominee Hillary Clinton — she was a looker back in the day, but now that she’s in politics, it’s all about frumpy pantsuits and low-heeled pumps. She doesn’t get my blood pumping the way she used to, but would you vote for a President that gave you wood? Exactly. Now, Chelsea, on the other hand … well, I guess I should stop there before I offend any of our sensitive readers with my totally respectful and offense-free opinions about the supple juicy mound that is the Rodham-Clinton derierre.

See, it’s resorting to that sort of PC shuck-and-jive that totally rusts my wagon. I come from a place and time where, if a man sees a woman’s butt or chest and likes the way it looks and says so, it’s called a complement. Way I see it, if it walks like a duck, and it’s got a nice ass, then I’m going to say, “God damn, that duck’s got a nice ass!” It’s not like we fellas give out these sorts of things like condoms at an abortion clinic. If I was dealing with ESPN’s Rachel Nichols, I can guarantee I wouldn’t have said one thing about her butt-ugly face. If I wanted to put up with women whose teeth look like they were flossed with a crowbar, I’d visit my mother-in-law (may she rest in peace, even if she’s not dead, the old battleax).

If only I was so lucky. Instead, I have to deal with the hottest thing in front of a microphone, and because I’m a man that appreciates the finer points (and curves!) of the fairer sex, I have to be reprimanded by some loser stranger out in Hippietown, USA because I got stuck working with a woman with legs out to here and a nice rack to boot? No way, buddy. Last I remember, this is America, and I can say whatever I want. This is why we’re fighting that war on terror over there, because I’m proud to be from somewhere where I can say that Erin Andrews gets me harder than quick-dry cement and not take any guff about it from nobody. Save that sort of book-burning facism for Iraq or the Middle East, because the Sut ain’t having none of that. And you can take that to the bank. With interest.

Cy Young Award winner Rick Sutcliffe wants you to know that the fine piece to his left in the picture above is his daughter, so you’d better watch what you’re thinking, buddy.

I Knew It All Along, Byotches: Vol. 693

Posted on by Spartacus · Leave a comment


Dag, y’all, has this been a boring baseball season so far or what? Everything is falling into place, just as I thought it would. Utley and Hamilton, leading their leagues in tacos largos? CALLED IT, knew it, locked ’em both up with my first two picks in every league. Cliff Lee, best pitcher in the majors? NAILED IT, took him before any overrated Santana or Hernandez action. Edison Volquez, who is arguably better? NOSTRADAMUSED IT, knew I could snag him with my last pick in every single draft and did so. Cubs and Rays in first on June 1? DUH, got it in my lockbox for anyone to see. (Email me for password, and therefore proof.)

As for the other so-called controversies — come on, duderz, if you think the “issue” of instant replay on homers is even worth talking about, then you are a small small man inside and out. I know YOU all know where I stand on THAT one. Yankees in last place? Um, obviously they were going to have pitching problems, holes in the lineup, overhyped young manager, meddling boss, easy as an all-day pass in Bangkok Boys’ Town. Anyone shocked by the sudden power outage on the “new, slimmer Pudge”? Yeah, me neither, wink wink. Whatever else has been going on, I already knew it; yawn, ho-hum, so sleepy. My algorithms this year are as right on as a red traffic light.

Some ask me if it gets boring, knowing every single thing that is going to happen all year long in virtually every situation, just based on my superior knowledge of mathematics and baseball. Well, I guess you’d just have to refer that question to a certain Dr. Jonathan Osterman, wouldn’t you? Like the good Dr., I pretty much see everything simultaneously, future and past and present all jumbled together like your mom and the milkman. So it’s all the same to me.

Still, though, there are some developments that even I, your ever-lovin’ blue-eyed Spart-diggity, could not foresee. Here are some of those developments, and my excuses.

  1. It looks like this is a big year for home-field advantage, at least so far. I knew that would be the case; all the indicators pointed to it. (I have a lot of indicators, fools.) But I only thought the percentage would be up to about .565 or .568 at the most, not .577. I guess I underestimated the pussiness of professional baseball players. “Oh, poor us, we have to travel around the country in private jets and stay in five-star hotels for free — of COURSE we can’t be expected to win on the road.” What a sick, sick joke. Moving on…

  2. Longtime readers of my work know that I like b.s. like “Player of the Month” about as much as I like cancer. (Want a small sample size? Check your pantalones, loser.) So I lolled my tidy ass off when I saw that May’s POM was Lance Freakin’ Berkman. For what? All the articles are like “Ooh, he’s hitting for a really high average.” Um, stats discredited much? BA is worth about as much as diarrhea in an elevator — funny, and you know there’s a story behind it, but not really very much of a big deal. And, sure, he had 21 extra-base hits in the month and scored 31 runs; better, but still not that impressive when you figure in the fact that HE PLAYS IN A DAMN CHILD’S PARK. Seriously, the dimensions of Minute Maid Park are the game’s biggest scandal, and any HR hit over that left-field wall, or even down the right-field line, are more suspect than a prom date with an adam’s apple. Berkman, Carlos Lee, anyone who takes credit for anything more than a long double into deep center is as much of a damn cheat as Roger Clemens. Word.

  3. Okay, this one kills me — I would have completely housed the standings of both leagues, but I somehow had a mental poot and had the Padres last in the NL West instead of the Rockies. OUCH. Go ahead, kill me in the comments, you know you want to.

Okay, that’s about it so far. Sorry there ain’t more but I am really smart and I don’t make a lot of mistakes. Leave a comment exalting my superiority, or don’t, all the same to me.

Yo No Soy Marinero: Los Seattles en el ano 2008

Posted on by Ana Maria Callejeo Guillen · Leave a comment

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Holas y muy besos to you, readers of El Yard-Work.org! It is I, your internacional ambassadoress of beisbol, pop music, y the grande Bolivar-ish revolución del Húgo Chavez!

Excuse of me to you for not so much writing on this e-weblog. But it is hard work being the public beautiful face of the new Venezuela. Every week I have appearing on “¡Hola, Presidente!” with our great leader — my role is a sidekick, to laugh heartily at jokes he tell and then also to sing all my songs popular in medley fashion. Every week. Over and over. Live. For six or at times ten hours at a time until the show is over. Of course, it is a blessing and an honor to serve my country, therefore I cannot complain. I would like to see your countries popular divas holding it down like this, but ¿who would want to see that much of Christina Aguilera? And her fake nuñitas, jajaja.

Also, I am forever traveling, traveling, making public appearance for Citgo and for Invepal and Telcel Cellular, all our big companies. Also I am sometimes bringing documentos to these appearances in a suitcase shackled to my slender and supple wrists. Further, I at times have assignment to “charm” certain leaders with my dazzle good looks and ready smiles, so that Venezuelan agents can do things they need to do. Ay yi yi, it is hard to being me!

All these has left me very little time for the beisbol season in the U.S. But now that I am look at the standings I am very upset about what I see! My poor Marineros del Seattle having the worse record in the entire both leagues? This is not good! This is not right! This fact sticks in my craw all night! How can such a thing as this be happening?

First of, Los Seattles are not hitting. Except unless you are talking about the other team’s pitcher, with a batting helmet. Then yes, at least Richie Sexson is hitting. But other than that it is muy poor at the batter box. Only two regular person has a batting average over .300…and it is Jose Lopez and Raul Ibañez! What a surprising! And the OBP is in addition a pile of fecal matter, homers are nowhere or very little to be found, and no one wants to run on the basepaths except Ichiro. I have cried hot tears of melancholy watching this team, and once evomited too.

But never so hard have I vomited as when I think about the Marinero’s pitching. What a hot slippery malodorous mess! My dear countryman Felix is doing well, mostlies, with an ERA of pretty low and some strikeouts that are a lot. But walking too many! and giving up more hits than innings! That will catch up with one faster than a spoiled arepa. But over all Feliz is not the problem, even though he has only a 2 to 4 record. The rest of the starter pitchers is the problem, even my homesboy Carlos Silva, who pitching about as well as the ass of my dead aunt Thereze. And the relievers también. And the manager who does not know how to leverage his staff. And the GM who was supposed to make everything great. And the Moose, I hate him too.

Most of all, who I really hate is myself for believing too ferventamente. I espect too much from a team that is just not very good. When I find myself lighting candles in a shrine to Wladimir Balentin, running scenarios about what would our record be without the Bedard trade (much mas good, doy). or trying to figure out what is a yuniesky betancourt, it makes me confused plus sad. This happens all the time, with even some results in boyfriends and in charismatic leaders of a country. Maybe someday I will elearn “not to wear my heart on my sleeve” for a team, or at least to get a new phrase to describe that process because ew no yuck no way wtf, I do not want a heart on my sleeve.

And sí there are times when I would like to cambiar my choice for a favorite team, especially when Kenji Johjima does another 0-4 caca night, or when the ferkakte Beltré does a big airy whiffy swing to no avail. But Presidente Húgo loves them so emuch, based on Seattle’s righteous stance against the G8 summit years ago, and because they’re stadium is suppose “Go Green” with innovations for the lungs of working class folks. So if Presidente likes them, so do we all, and so do I. I know the bread’s correct butterside.

So come on you brave Merineros! Shock the world by going all in first place! Do it for me; do it for yourself; do it for Venezuela; do it for the internationale struggle in the streets of Caracas and its classrooms. So go Marineros, even though you are a lot less good than we all thought. Yay hooray. And remember that you are still in the ALWest, a bad division because of weird days all over but we can get this done.

Ana Maria Callejeo Guillén’s new workout video, “Escuchando Esta Música, Sude su Culo Gordo Apagado con Ana Maria,” is on constant rotation on Venezuela’s Canal Nacionál 5.

The Duck, It Is Snorting

Posted on by David Smithson Michaels · 2 Comments

Don’t let the tricky title fool you. Yes, it’s another edition of DUCK SNORTS! I’m ready if you are. Let’s do this thing, people!

CUBS HAVE HAD MORE THAN ENOUGH PIE: The Chicago Cubs, finding themselves locked into a struggle for first place in the NL Central with the St. Louis Cardinals (who are totally for real, by the way), can’t afford to play anyone that’s not contributing. This is why I’m glad they finally ended the Felix Pie experiment. Pie, a formerly highly-touted prospect in the Cubs’ organization, has been given plenty of opportunities to stake his claim on the center-field job that lots of so-called experts expected to be his. But so far, in over 110 major league games, he’s proven only that he’s not ready, forcing the Cubs to look elsewhere for answers. It looks like they’ve finally found their answer in former Padre great Jim Edmonds. His clutch hitting and spectacular defense means that Pie can spend more time in Triple A working on his game, though if he hasn’t hit yet, I’m not sure he ever will. It’s sad to see someone’s career end at the age of 23, but it looks like Felix Pie is, pardon the expression, burnt toast.

While I’m here, I’d like to offer kudos to the Padres organization for a classy move. With their team mired in last place in baseball’s most competitive division, the season’s all but lost. Giving a veteran like Edmonds a chance to play for a contender, instead of forcing him to put up meaningless numbers for a lame-duck team, shows that the Padres’ heart and mind are in the right place. That they simply let Edmonds go, instead of prolonging the process by trying to bilk a team of prospects, makes the team even classier in my eye. Here’s hoping for better times ahead for those long-suffering lowly Padres.

A STEINBRENNER SHOUTING? GUESS THAT MEANS THE YANKEES ARE BACK: If you’re a Steinbrenner, you want what you want when you want it. If you’re a Steinbrenner, you’re not going to settle for second best. When George Steinbrenner was in the public eye, he let folks know this on a regular basis whenever his New York Yankees didn’t play well. Now that George has retired, I’m glad his son Hank has taken over in his stead. Following in his father’s storied footsteps, Hank ripped into the Yankees for their disappointing effort to date this year. Not only did he make the right move — they responded to his pointed comments with a gutty 2-1 victory last night — but he’s also right about the team’s underwhelming performance. Even with their best two hitters out with injuries, and their two young prospect pitchers struggling, and two veteran starters scuffling, and a handful of slumps from regular players, the Yankees shouldn’t be under .500 and closer to last place than the top of the division they usually win.

A franchise as storied and well-known as the Yankees should never have to suffer the sort of disgraces this team has dealt with this year. It not only reflects poorly on the handful of millionaires the team employs. It also reflects poorly on the team’s ownership, all the fans of Yankeeville, USA (my own name — please don’t steal it without permission!), and the storied history of the franchise. It takes a special type of man to stand up and say that enough is enough, and to voice his displeasure for all the world to hear. Based on what he’s said so far since taking over for his father, Hank Steinbrenner is that type of man. And I think this is good for baseball.

ROOTING FOR TORONTO’S NOT FOR THE BIRDS: A lot of people are making a big deal about the Tampa Bay Rays and their first-place standing in the AL East. My position on this is that people shouldn’t believe that a team as historically bad as the Rays can suddenly start playing well. If I was a betting man this year, I’d put my money on the Toronto Blue Jays as the team to beat this year. This is because of the man in charge of the personnel moves, a person I also singled out for praise in my last DUCK SNORT column, General Manager J.P. Ricciardi.

He might be taking a lot of heat for the Jays’ struggles, but Ricciardi, a former disciple of Moneyball kinping Billy Beane, has finally climbed out from under the shadow of his mentor and become one of the best GMs in baseball. He’s a man that understands two important things about General Managing: you can’t be afraid to make moves, and you can never have too much of a good thing. This offseason is a perfect example. When third basemen Troy Glaus turned out to be a steroid-using injury-prone strikeout machine, Ricciardi flipped him to the Cardinals for Scott Rolen, a respected veteran with a reputation as a great clubhouse guy. After the A’s mistakenly cut bait on speedster Shannon Stewart, JP invited him into camp, and Stewart became the team’s starting left fielder over light-hitting Reed Johnson. And then there’s his masterpiece move this winter — after inking slick-fielding shortstop John McDonald to a new contract, he went out and acquired World Series dynamo David Eckstein. Unfortunately, both of these gritty stars are currently out with injuries, but the decision to keep two excellent shortstops on the roster is a good one.

The same goes for his most recent acquisitions: outfielders Brad Wilkerson and Kevin Mench. Both players, unceremoniously discarded by their former teams, are sluggers that can help jumpstart any offense. Signing only one of them would be enough to make Ricciardi GM-Of-The-Year material, if only to replace the woeful lack of production they were getting from another former prospect, Toronto farmhand Adam Lind. Getting both these players for pennies on the dollar, however, makes me wonder what other teams were thinking when these guys showed up on the waiver wire. Adding them to a roster that’s loaded to bear — thanks to shrewd contract extensions awarded to boppers Vernon Wells and Alex Rios — gives the team unenviable outfield and bench depth. JP manages to combine the out-of-the-box thinking that made his stat-centric Moneyball cronies so desirable once upon a time with an understanding of what actually works in baseball. It’s only a matter of time before everything finally breaks his way and Ricciardi can give our foreign neighbors up north the World Series championship they want so badly.

INTERLEAGUE MEANS THE SEASON CAN FINALLY START FOR REAL: In conclusion, I’d just like to share my thoughts on the upcoming slate of interleague games. Before interleague became a regular part of the baseball season, I would always find myself losing interest in baseball around this time of the year. When you’re always seeing the same teams play each other year after year, it gets boring pretty fast. And I’ve been a hardcore baseball fan for almost four years — I can only imagine how bored regular people get! But now that interleague play is a regular occurrence in May, I like to think that the first six weeks of the season are just extended Spring Training, and now is when the season finally begins.

With interleague, we get to see the sort of matchups that you used to only dream about. Now New York finally gets to see who’s better, the Yankees or the Mets. Now the White Sox and Cubs can finally lay claim on who owns Chicago. And where else can you find a series so packed with tension and excitement as with the Citrus Series between the Florida Marlins and Tampa Bay Rays? And then there are the unexpected pairings — the Rangers and the Giants? the Royals and the Pirates? I don’t know anyone would would ever think of having these two teams play together, which is why it’s so great. Interleague brings excitement back to baseball, something that’s sorely missing in this Steroid Era. For all those folks that say interleague play is nothing more than a gimmick that makes the unbalanced schedule a joke and limits the amount of meaningful games a team can play intra-league that have actual impact on postseason chances, I have one thing to say — you’re missing out, because it’s great!

David Michael Smithson is still waiting for the next Under Siege movie — put down the guitar, Steven, and go kick some terrorist butt!

2008 Season Preview: Oakland A’s

Posted on by Connie Mack · Leave a comment

Today, Yard Work will step aside and introduce today’s Season Preview post from longtime A’s manager Connie Mack with an anecdote from Mack’s Wikipedia page: “Once, when [Mack] visited the mound to remove the notoriously hot-tempered [Lefty] Grove from a game, Grove said, ‘Go take a shit,’ when Mack held out his hand for the ball. Mack looked Grove straight in the eye and calmly said, ‘You go take a shit, Robert.'”

Before I begin in earnest, I must say, from where I sit, I have no idea what in the world is going on down there. I’m certain the fine people of Philadelphia would never stand for this nonsense some pretend is baseball! This William Beaner, he’s supposed to be some sort of savant? Perhaps an idiot savant, I would think! Who would want to watch millionaires — millionaires! — performing what amounts to a basic constitutional when they could very well take in a moving picture show at the local cinema, or quench their thirst with a refreshing sarsaparilla? Where is the panache? Where is the flair? And where, I ask you, is the well-groomed facial hair? These players might be wearing the insignia of the team I am proud to call my own, but looking at what these glorified ruffians and unseemly characters are doing to my fair game, they are no more baseball players than they are speakeasy drunks.

How unseemly of these players to just stand there and watch as the balls sail past their idle bats! And athletes — my word, I shudder to think how these paunchy slouch-ridden so-called “men” can call themselves athletes. The countenance of this Jack Cust, for instance, reminds me of nothing more than a bowl of “Cust”-ard — pun most assuredly intended! — that has sat out in the noonday sun for too long. The same goes for that Eveland character, or this rotund Blanton man that is the team’s defacto “ace”. Given how heavy these lads look, I am thinking Mr. Beaner acquires his hurlers based on bulk rather than talent. And now, to join these molasses-footed individuals, they have acquired a dark-skinned Canadian fellow by the name Francis Thomas — how such a mountainous man can be so massive and powerful and yet so brittle that he cannot play the field is beyond my understanding of what I thought of this sport we call baseball.

I doubt even the most passionate fan of this squad could name four of the nine Oakland starters without a scorecard, even if they were spotted three of the names. Their leading run producer and best hitter both are first-year A’s that, ironically, were castoffs from that dismal Kansas City squad that suits its backwater burgh to a quite cross T. Their best pitcher from the previous year has a losing record in this one, and is still a desired hurler from many teams! And yet, they win! More so, this team is in first place! As God as my witness, it might take me one thousand lifetimes to wrap my head around this quandry. Clearly the entirety of the sport has fallen onto hard times when such a motley misshapen collection of humanity can position themselves for an honest-to-goodness World Championship!

Though I am not one to boast, it is with no false modesty that I make the following claim. I would wager with any betting man that I could employ merely a handful of my former players — Charles Bender, James Foxx, Edward Collins, perhaps even that foul-mouthed Robert Grove character, just to name a few of those I was fortunate to steward during my tenure — and fill any roster vacancies with hopeful young men playing stickball in the streets of Philadelphia or Brooklyn, children that were stout of heart and character. I could take this patchwork squad, and in a series of seven or nine games, or even over the course of the regular season, I would guarantee that my rag-tag squad would soundly trounce those well-funded anonymous upstarts with multiple games to spare!

Of course, it should go without saying that my failure to understand the ways and means of the modern-day Athletics goes hand in hand with my failures to grasp the nuances of the game as it exists in the 21st century. All this unseemly showboating! All the jewelry and wanton bodily mutilation! Narcotics use that is better suited for opium dens and lurid pulp novels than America’s past-time! Those inscrutable Orientals! Oh, I know that the game must change with the times, but my word! I guess my sensibilities are more in tune with the ribald and jovial antics of Michael Joseph Kelly — or, heaven help me, that swill-swallowing wastrel George Ruth! — than the grunts and hand gestures of these players that reminds me of the primitive means of communication utilized by the common African bushman.

But I digress. This elderly man is woefully out of sorts even imagining the advances, technological and societal, that have come and gone in the three score years since I last stood in the dugout at grand old Shibe Park. Clearly I am in no position to speak sensibly of such things, though I have undoubtedly said more than enough for some. No matter — things are what they are, and though the franchise that once took the field beside the Atlantic Ocean now plies its wares beside the Pacific Ocean, and though they play a style of ball that churns my innards with a nauseating vigor, I shall root for her all the same, be they in first place or last place or even no place at all. So go on, you Crosby, you Sweeney, you … you Duchscherer! Do my glorious elephant proud, men!

2008 Season Preview: San Diego Padres

Posted on by Scott Weiland · Leave a comment

What, you think the Yard Work 2008 Season Preview shriveled up and died like the site usually does between May and August? Shut up! For the San Diego Padres’ preview, we took a big flying leap and reached out to one of our favorite rock stars, golden god Scott Weiland! And he reached back! Like, totally for real! Get excited!

Look I dont know who you are that you got my e-mail address out of the blue and wrote to me thinking Id have enough time to write something for your pennyante little “famous baseball website”. In case you forgot who youre talking to this is MULTI PLATINUM SELLING ROCK AND ROLL ARTIST Scott Weiland. Ive got millions of fans two world famous bands a successful solo career and an upcoming solo album recordted by STEVE FUCKING ALBAINI and more important things to do with my time instead of writing about the stupid SanDiego Padres for your “famous baseball website”. I dont care if you got Iggy Pop and Lou Reed to drop trou for you, those guys are washed up hasbeens and woudl give it up gratis for soem dryhumpin Snikemax crap and a subscription to Tiger Beat. I’m at the peak of my creative powers and fcuk the Padres.

Yeah back in the day I used to love the Pads before the SUCKED. how many years did Tony Gwynn hve to suffer being the only player on that squad worth a damn? I mean who the hell were Timm Tuffel and Cragi Shipley and Archi Cionfuckinfranco? Theyre no Derek Jeter thats for damn sure. Hell they aint even mark Loretta.

Man for a while I though STP was gonna be the Phil Plantier of the music world… some one-hit wondersquat that hit 33 homers and did nothgn after that. Of course that corny grunge shti went away and were still here.. the heck wiht abseball tho. Besides baseballs for stupid jocks and shutins in their moms basement what the fuck. Im out making ROCK AND ROLL and getting all sorts of hot ladies gvign me handjobs and telephone numebrs. Following some crappy Padres team just because I grew up with that stupid Ozzie Smith trade and those awful awful yellow-brown unis and cheapass Ray Krock of Shit and cried after 1984 doesnt mean I give a crap now about that stupid nerdy kid crap.

OK so maybe Im a fairweathered fan… when the Pads FINALLY made it back to the World Series in 98 I tuned in and began hoping againt and of course the Pads can’t win against the NEW YORK YANKESS because thats not supposed to happen. 4 game sweep whatever. And then that team loess Kevin Brown AND Greg Vaughn AND Ken MVP Caminiti (RIP) and the team goes back to sucking agian because thats what they do and fkcu I dont even care. EVen when they wont he division they suck and get bounced like a superrball because Bruce Bochy No Balls couldnt win a roto league if he had 5 Barry Bonds and 5 Pedro Martinezs from 1999.

(And spekaing of Pedros sick 99 whtas up with ERA+? I dont get how you can really use ERA as a basis for that sort of universal metric when ERAs totally flawed? If I got some gratis smakc every time some BS reliever with a 1.00 ERA allowed 3 inherited runnrs to score and came out smelling like a rose because the next guy cleaned up his mess Id be dead twenty times over. And reall that fat neck Joba had an 1174 ERA+ last year? Right.. and Chinese Democray’s comin down the pipe any day now…)

ANyway this team is dogmeant nowadays… you got the Dodgers that cant help byt do well despite themsvels, the D-Backs are stacked like Pam aNdersno, thr Rockes just made it to thw WS last yer. Hell if it wasnt for the GIanst San Diego might have classy last place all to themselsvs WOOHOOOO. Mabye Kevin Towrs can get more washd up vetrerans to go with the less crapyp Giles brother and Ednomsds (ha RIP bro-dive) and one of the bdest pitchign staffs in baseball. Im ean Maddux and Wofl (and Justing German-oh-no) might be meat outsdie of Petco but damn Peavy’d shut down all cummers on the moon let alone in bornig old Earth’s gravity. Dudes a beast and a beastmaster right? My man T-Hoff tho.. damn. Love the guy but Im ridng the Heathh Bell FoR Closer bandwagon until the tires pop and Im stuck thumbing a ride somewhers in Baja.

Really tho just change it up guys plz. Biirng up Chase Headly stick him in left and stick Harston in cneter (or in a trash compactor whatves) and see what happesn — the defense might turn to starigh up slop but at least they might get a hit or 2. OR SIGN BARY BONDS HOW ABOTU THAT APPLE? I only wish they cd mayeb bring up Matt Antonelli or stick my boy Kahlil with the same magic juice that Ken C (RIP) used. And wtha is up with that fascists Honor THy Troops fatigue uni crap? this ain’t Nouremberg this is AMERICA and besides those unies make the Krok McD’s shitstains looke like Versace+. (hahaha.)

Sitll tho I lveo shit team and cant wish them ill will even if they annoy the shit out of me. But thats fandom right? Anyway I got go straighten msyelfff out — one of the DeLeos is gonna check up on me bretty soon. thanks for writng dood — reminds me I need to renew my sub to BPro! (I bet cHristinak Karhl is totally bangin.) Hpe the ladyfriends not riding on some other dudes clap-ridden knob, and dont snort where you shti. Peace in the NL EAST1!

Scotty Wee