Sunday, September 30, 2007
Fuck you, Carlos Beltran, for misplaying that Jimmy Rollins triple, and for not being able to hit a two strike breaking ball even though everyone in the stadium knows it's coming.
Fuck you, Carlos Delgado, for hitting about .215 and not providing any sort of stability in the lineup and for a guaranteed suckfest about 95% of the time.
Fuck you, Luis Castillo, for not swinging at the first two strikes in every single fucking at bat and for trying to do everything in a flashy way, even taking cutoff throws.
Fuck you, Paul LoDuca, for hitting into double plays like you're going to get some sort of bonus at the end of the season, and for not being able to control your temper enough to keep yourself in the games down the playoff stretch, you hot headed Italian Brooklynite.
Fuck you, Tom Glavine, for pitching a third of an inning and giving up 7 runs for an ERA of 189.00 in your only start that even mattered this season. Way to end the career, Tommy.
Fuck you, Jose Reyes, for not running out ground balls or pop ups, and for trying to hit home runs when you're a doubles hitter, and for sucking down the stretch so badly that it's abundantly clear that any team would rather have both Jimmy Rollins and Hanley Ramirez at this point, and for trying to steal third base with two outs when you're already in scoring position more than once, and for having those fucking retarded individualized handshakes with everyone that you can't do in the dugout for some reason.
Fuck you, David Wright, for....being...awesome.
Fuck you, Sean Green, for being an over the hill power hitter who hit 11 home runs this year and who looks like you're going to fall over on your face every time you swing and miss at a ball out of the strike zone, which is often.
Fuck you, Moises Alou, for getting hurt and missing half the season and for giving the fans a glimpse of what they could have had if you weren't a 41 year old guy with above average skills and a propensity for playing 65 games a season, like you've done every year for the past 15 years (didn't someone know this before they signed him, because I did?)
Fuck you, Blastings (it takes a) Milledge, for being the guy in the league with the highest bravado to skill ratio, even more than Delmon Young who throw's bats at umpires. God forbid you make a play or get a hit without celebrating as if you're not payed to do what you just did and gloating over it for two innings so that the rest of the actual baseball game passes you by.
Fuck you, El Duque, for being a 45 year old with the birth certificate of a 37 year old who's crafty enough to come up with some huge wins, but clearly old enough to get hurt down the stretch when your team needs you for the SECOND YEAR IN A ROW, you dirty bastard.
Fuck you, Oliver Perez, for walking everyone in the goddamned lineup and hitting three guys in an inning and not being able to control your fucking pitches despite the fact that you're a major league pitcher. All of your big wins came in May and if you don't get more consistent I will hate you forever.
Fuck you, John Maine, for...leading the team in wins...and for having about as good a year as could have been expected...and for coming up with the only good start for the Mets in September.
Fuck you, Endy Chavez, for getting hurt and missing months of the season when the Mets biggest strength was their bench and it was because of you and for being meaningless to the team this year (even though you're still my favorite Met, provided you come back next year and play competently).
Fuck you, Carlos Gomez, for looking like you're trying to screw yourself into the ground and hit the ball about 650 feet on every swing, when all you need is to hit singles and use your speed to wreak havoc on the bases, just like Jose Reyes didn't down the stretch.
Fuck you, Brian Lawrence, for...wait, who the fuck is Brian Lawrence and why was he starting the must win game on the day after they got swept by the Phillies?
Fuck you, Mike Pelfrey, for going 0-7 to start the season and making it abundantly clear that you're not ready for the majors and that the Mets farm system is not going to provide them with any chips heading into next season, with the possible exception of Blastings (it takes a) Milledge, who sucks in his own way.
Fuck you, Guillermo Mota, for being the worst person in the history of the world, and for somehow convincing the Mets to sign you to a two year contract despite the fact that you were a mediocre relief pitcher with a history of throwing at the head of the Mets best player, and who's only success in the league clearly came because of your steroid use which you admit and which you missed the first 50 games of the season for, and we were better without ou during those 50 games, you dirty, dirty, bitch.
Fuck you, Scott Schoenweiss, I don't care if I spelled your name wrong, because you suck at pitching and this isn't 10 years ago when you were a mediocre starter in this league, so why in the world would you be even a halfway decent relief pitcher today?
Fuck you, Aaron Sele, for being hated by the management so much that you were behind Guillermo Mota on the depth chart and weren't even good enough to be the mop up guy on most days.
Fuck you, Aaron Heilman, for being good enough to get holds in most 8th innings, except when there's a game that we might need to win, for some reason, and then there's a guaranteed home run being given up when you're on the mound.
Fuck you, Joe Smith, for hitting the wall in June. Seriously, June.
Fuck you, Pedro Feliciano, for having a pretty good season except for in the end of the year when it actually mattered and you were clearly overworked on the season just like Joe Torre overworked Paul Quantrill, Tom Gordon, Jeff Nelson, Scott Proctor, and Jose Feliciano.
Fuck you, Billy Wagner, for not blowing a save until late August, and then having a tired arm and back spasms and being the suckiest suck among the other sucks in the bullpen to the extent that the guy who I trust most in the bullpen is Aaron Heilman, which makes me sick.
Fuck you Duaner Sanchez, for...are you still alive?
Fuck you, Pedro Martinez, for making only 4 starts on the season, all in September, and pitching well enough to win the game, only having to leave after 5 innings because you were on a pitch count and leaving the game to the couldn't suck worse bullpen.
Fuck you, Ruben Gotay, for being a way below average second baseman, so much so that we had to go get a million year old Luis Castillo at the trading deadline even though you were hitting .340 at the time.
Fuck you, Marlon Anderson, for geting suspended for two games in September because you had to argue with an umpire instead of just letting it go, and the one guaranteed clutch pinch hit was missing for us down the stretch.
Fuck you, Ricky Henderson, for giving Jose Reyes bad habits to the extent that he didn't steal any bases in September.
Fuck you, Rick Peterson, for wearing that stupid jacket in the middle of April, and for not teaching your pitchers the most important rule of pitching, whish is that they have to get guys out and not give up 6 run leads 3 times in September.
Fuck you, Willie Randolph, for not even showing a hint of trepidation while your season slipped away from you. I don't need you to yell or be someone that you're not, but I do need you to say something like, "It's time for us to stop screwing around and put this away," instead of saying, "Yeah there's some bumps in the road, but it'll be that much sweeter when we're sipping champagne."
Fuck you, Omar Minaya, for letting your bullpen suck ass and not even trying to do anything about it. You mean to tell me that you had the gaul to let Chad Bradford walk and the foresight to sign Guillermo Mota to a TWO YEAR EXTENTSION?
Fuck whoever is responsible for the fact that I'm going to have to pay even more money for my season tickets next year to watch a team with no heart and no character in a shithole of a stadium until your new stadium is finished next season and undoubtedly more than the $14 dollars for parking that I paid this year.
If I missed anyone, then I will amend this post with the appropriate amount of vigor.
Friday, September 28, 2007
African-American Boycott of L.L. Bean Enters 80th Year
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Premiering at the same time tonight, 9/8 central, on ABC is Grey's Anatomy. I can't explain why, but I've seen every episode of this show. And I'm going to watch it tonight, too. After The Office, of course. This show is entirely emasculating, unrealistic, contrived, and downright gay. (Please pardon the homosexual slur. There was a time in my younger days when anything that I deemed below average was labeled as "gay". People tried to convice me that I was being hurtful and I tried to convince them that they were grossly misinformed and that I couldn't care less if one chose to putt from the rough, that it was just a good word that fit a situation. I've since realized that I was the one who was grossly misinformed and I repent the error of my ways back in the day. Given my repentance, you can be assured that my referring to Grey's Anatomy as gay really means that the show is downright gay. If you're wondering whether or not I've just cancelled out the whole explanation with that last sentence there, I may have, but I don't think so. Certainly that's not my intention. Ok, let's move on.)
Grey's Anatomy is not a show that is made for me to enjoy. And, truth be told, at least once an episode something so ridiculous happens that I think to myself, "Why do I watch this show? It's terrible." Yet, still I watch. And I can't stop. I know I'm going to watch it for the forseeable future. Last night was the premiere of the Grey's Anatomy spin off called Private Practice. I watched it intermittently, but I don't think I'm going to be following that one with any sort of interest. It's just not that good. Except the same thing is true of Grey's Anatomy, and still I watch. One of the plot lines of this season is that Meredith (Grey)'s half sister is going to be an intern in the hospital with Meredith, and last season ended with Dr. McDreamy running into her (the sister) at the bar across the street from the hospital and offering to buy her a drink, which is coincidentally how he met Meredith. Seriously, that's the plot line. And I'm still going to watch it.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
There are other shows that I've watched in the past that have not necessarily been up my alley. Open Bar and Diesal Dave teased me endlessly in high school for watching Party of Five. Except that show was at least well written and had fully realized characters and there were people on it that more or less anyone could relate to. It was basically just about teenagers and I was a teenager at the time. I think all of us have watched our fair share of 90210 in our times. I would definitely not win the 90210 trivia contest, so I'm not too concerned about that one (I'll take Evan over anyone else on Earth in 90210 trivia, by the way). Add to that that the other shows that Grey's Anatomy fans watch are shows that I find literally unwatchable. Desperate Housewives, for example, is a show that I've had to turn off after about 5 minutes of viewing on more than one occasion for fear that I might become retarded. I've learned not to even put it on anymore. I never got into the OC, even though a couple people I knew were really into it. You get my point.
Any show that I ever watched with regularity I can defend to some extent, with the exception of Grey's Anatomy. I simply do not understand why I watch. Yet watch I do.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Now if you had a pet lion...?
Dont Touch A Lions Paw - Watch more free videos
Seen on Gorilla Mask.
In fact, for a long time I've really wanted to attend a big-time Big Ten game, mostly for what I've heard is an outstanding tailgating experience. Since most Big Ten games start at about noon, that means, folks are there in the parking lot at the break of dawn, halfway through a 30-pack by 9 a.m. That's my kind of people. Then, once everyone's good and soused, it's time to head in for the game. At that point, I can't imagine anyone really follows it all that closely. Sure, you cheer when your team scores, you boo when the referee calls your team for an illegal formation. The usual. But the drunken camaraderie in the stands, with everyone wearing the same colors, screaming their brains out, while being generally unable to remember what happened on the previous play -- that's college football. And the Big Ten was supposed to be known for this type of glorious revelry.
But then this happened.
What the fuck? You can't be drunk at the game? You have to pass a fucking breathalyzer to get in?
And at Wisconsin? I had always actually kinda liked the Badgers. People I know who went there all seem well adjusted and -- unlike, say, those who would willingly refer to themselves as "Buckeyes" -- worth talking to, you might even say "smart." Well how come no one told me Wisconsin was run by freedom-hating fascists? Is that why the school's color is red?
People in Wisconsin, I've heard, are so full of meat and cheese that they have to drink a handle of vodka just to get a little tingly. These people can handle their liquor. Whichever teetotalling pussy came up with this new rule deserves to be tarred and feathered in the town square.
So I guess I've gotta find a new Big Ten team. You know what? I can't believe this never occurred to me. Purdue! Know why? Their nickname is the Boilermakers. And we all know what a Boilermaker is, right? A shot of whiskey dropped into a pint of beer. Now that's a Big Ten school worth cheering on.
Wow, what happened? How the fuck did I end up a Purdue fan. Shoot me now.
P.S.: I just received this from Danny G, a Wisconsin grad. He and I have had some very good talks about drinking policy and stuff. Here's what he had to say:
Thursday, September 20, 2007
No, you smart asses, I'm not railing against LoJack or against the feature that turns off the car battery to prevent theft. I'm talking about the "Weewwweeewwweeeewwwweeewwwweewwww, bleeeeepbleeeeeepbleeeep, woooahhhhhwooooooaaahhhhh" or the alternate "honkhonkhonkhonk". Utterly useless, my friends.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Ahmadinejad giving Wheeeeeeeee's Luke? a hearty "Thumbs Up" at the 3d Annual Iranian Cultural Ministry's "Top 10 Blogs" Luncheon. Thanks, Mahmoud, but we still won't tolerate a nuclear Iran! ;)
Thumbs Up go to . . . Marc Ecko. I don't know the first thing about his fashion designing (though I assume he is somewhere between "so now" and "fabulous"), but this guy bought Barry Bonds' 756th home run and has decided to let the public vote on what he should do with it (bestow it to the hall of fame, burn an asterisk into it, or blast it into space). I've linked to my preference below (just because the record is tarnished doesn't mean the ball isn't a part of baseball history . . . so it belongs in Cooperstown). This is the real power of the Internet.
Thumbs Down go to . . . the Giants, and especially coach Tom Coughlin. I know they are only 0-2, but the Giants defense looks awful, and the offense has been 50/50 (one impressive game, one not so much). The Giants don't have a brutal schedule, but there also aren't too many gimmes on the horizon. Washington and Philly have both played better than we have in the first two weeks . . . could 0-4 be upon us before 10/1? The Giants' struggles are worthy of their own post -- and if no one beats me to it, I'll try to do one in the next few days. Suffice it to say for now that if a coach is brought in for the sole purpose of being a disciplinarian, a "no nonsense" guy, then I can forgive him not being a great X's and O's type coach, but it is inexcusable that the Giants are consistently getting called for stupid penalties, especially the 15-yarders. More to follow.
Monday, September 17, 2007
It is currently 9:34 p.m., and in the top of the 7th inning the Mets are down 9-4 to the Nationals. And what a game it has been! I've heard of this New York Mets baseball franchise here and there in my years, but they've never been my favorite team in all of sports or anything. (I've always been a Rutgers man, first and foremost. Go Knights!) But I've been doing a little counting, and I wanted to relay a few quick numbers from yesterday's game vs. the Phillies (which these Metropolitans, or whatever you call them, lost 10-6) and tonight's. Since the 1 p.m. start time yesterday, the Mets have committed a total of 8 errors (not counting at least 3 more that for some reason were not called errors tonight), issued 16 walks, and given up 20 runs. That's in a grand total of about 32 hours. Whew. I swear, if I had ever been a big Mets fan or something, I'd probably want to shoot myself in the penis right about now. But since I'm not and never have been a Mets fan, I've elected to follow along with this game and chug a full beer if the Mets commit another error, walk another batter, or yield another run. Oh, and I'm going to pretend, for the time being, that I've always been a Mets fan. Okay, let's go!
9:38 p.m. With Lastings Milledge on first and no one out, pinch-hitter Ruben Gotay strikes out looking. Good eye on the rookie, he'll be a star. Now up, Jose Reyes, who softly grounds to second. What a pussy. "Ya really knocked the crap outta that," as the great Clew Haywood once said. (Anyone get the reference? I hope so.) Blastings moves up to second. Now up, Luis Castillo, who bloops a single to left. Lastings Milledge, of course, doesn't bother to score or anything. I don't get it -- here's a young, athletic black dude who for some reason runs like Mike Piazza. The phrase "deceptively slow" has never been more appropriate. And now up, David Wright. Nice, we've got our best hitter, our young stud, "the future," "the golden boy," up there with two men on. Great. And what does he do? He swings like a little girl with a lazy eye and the hands of Jim Abbott as his "grounder" reaches an astonishing 30 feet. The Nats pitcher guns him out at first, beating him by only about 30 feet or so. Ah well...
9:42 p.m. Willie Collazo in to pitch for the Metsies, and my first thought is, "Who the fuck is Willie Collazo?" And I'll thank the Mets broadcasting team of Gary Cohen and Keith Hernandez for not informing me whatsoever about this rando at all, like he's been on the team for years. Thanks guys, I really appreciated the nonsensical discussion of Gary Cooper vs. Gary Carter instead. With one down, some National named Lopez hits a ground-rule double. Almost a dinger! I thought I might get to have a drink, but alas, I must postpone my desperately desired liquid meal of fermented hops and barley. Pitching change! Someone allegedly named "Joe Smith" is coming in. Are you being serious here, Gary and Keith? Do you just not know the guy's name, so you decided to go with the most common name in America? Okay, piss break.
9:55 p.m. HIT PAUSE ON THE DVR! Some guy whose name is seriously "Nook Logan" just blooped a single into right and -- unlike the sloth-like Lastings Milledge -- Lopez actually hustles around third and scores! Booze time! Okay, this'll only be a few seconds... Okay, I'm back.
9:57 p.m. That Nook Logan guy tries to steal second and ERROR! The ball goes into center field. Time to drink, baby! This is easier than I thought! (Chugs another beer.)
9:59 p.m. Oh shit. Ryan Church just hit a 2-run homer. Maybe this wasn't the best idea. Ah well, what the hell, time to down another two. I'm starting to feel like a freshman pledge. Alcohol poisoning and hospital, here we come!
10:03 p.m. Keith Hernandez: Someone's got to take the lead now on this ballclub.
Gary Cohen (clearly sneering at Keith): What does that mean, exactly?
KH: Someone's got to shake this team... (trails off)
GC: Like a parent who's angry with their baby for crying too much?
(He didn't actually say that, but by the tone of Gary's "0 and 2 to Zimmerman," I just know that's what he wanted to say.)
10:05 p.m. Gary wonders if it might help to "have a player who's a screamer." I don't know what context he's referring to, but sure, why not? Keith responds, "That's a very good question. I don't think screaming does anything with today's players." Ah the repartee of two future Emmy-winning broadcasters with a chemistry not seen since Romeo and Juliet...
10:07 p.m. Arnie Munoz in to pitch for the Nats. I swear, I'm not making these names up. Carlos Beltran pops up. Nice job. Perhaps, as LJT suggested to me the other day, we should start calling him Carla Beltran. Bitch. I hate him with a violent energy. Like how Sonny felt about Carlo when they had that "chat" in the street.
10:10 p.m. Wow, those consecutive chuggings are kicking in. I do not recommend anyone repeating this practice. And I'm starting to regret only buying a 12-pack of Yuengling for tonight's "game." It hasn't even been a full inning yet.
10:11 p.m. Ramon Castro up at bat, the third Mets catcher of the night, and definitely the fattest and most dictator-name-having, easily beating out Paul Lo Duca (not quite Mussolini) and Mike DeFelice (who comes in a distant third in the dictator-name contest).
10:15 p.m. Blastings strikes out (looking, natch) with two men on to end the inning. Ah fuck it, this just means that now the Mets go back out into the field, so I actually have a chance of drinking. Let's hope I don't eat (drink?) my words...
10:18 p.m. The guy with the boring-as-fuck name is still pitching. I can't believe I've only been doing this for one full inning, yet I've already had to chug four beers. Like they said about the Wizard of Oz, that's both great and terrible. Wow, yet another play that should have been called an error, but is scored as a hit, as Reyes continues his sudden insistence on refusing to pick up ground balls. And it was on a 3-2 count, so I barely escaped another chug there twice on the same pitch. Cool. Cool and sucky.
10:23 p.m. Though not pertinent whatsoever to this post, my roommate's friend just uttered a phrase I've never heard: "There's nothing hotter than when a hot guy's ass is just falling out of his pants." It may not sound so odd at first, but the person who said it in a completely serious manner? He's a dude.
10:24 p.m. I was about to skip forward through the Mets' at bat (I'm a bit behind on the DVR), before I realized this will likely be the last half inning. So new rules: If another Met strikes out looking, I'll chug. And if the game ends with Mets in scoring position, I'll chug. And if the Mets stage a dramatic 8-run comeback, I'll actually go forward with shooting myself in the penis, as I suggested earlier. Let's see what happens!
10:26 p.m. After two quick outs, it's down to Luis Castillo, who has a normal name. (Finally!) If something exceptional happens in this at-bat, I'll chug. But I'm sensing a pop-up to second. And, yes, if that does in fact occur, I'll chug.
10:28 p.m. Weak ground ball to the pitcher. I couldn't have scripted that ending better. I think I'd better just get rid of this beer anyway. Wow, what an amazing, soul-lifting experience this has been.
If I actually was a Mets fan, I'd probably be pretty depressed. Here are the final totals over the past two games: 10 errors (which should really be 14), 16 walks, 22 runs allowed. Believe it or not, they lost both games! But who cares, right? Let's go Rutgers!
**shoots self in penis**
And hey, if you're still reading, you can also check out this post on Armchair GM, a site that totally rules because apparently at least one person there actually read our little blog here! Oh, and give me some votes or something. I'm not quite sure how it works yet, but hey, that's what this Ph.D in Thermonuclear Physics from Cal-Tech is for, right?
Friday, September 14, 2007
And since I didn't get anything up last week, this oughtta make up for that. Here's a streaker receiving his comeuppance (My favorite word! I so rarely get to use it.).
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
MC Escher (there was even a tailored version of this MC Escher photo, revised to make a joke about how the Bush administration used the same excuses for going into Iraq as they now use for why we can't leave)
- The Mobius Strip
- and (as foreshadowed above) . . . limits.
(Did you know that if you rotate a two-dimensional curve such as the one represented by the function f(x)=1/x around the x-axis you create a three-dimensional figure with a definite volume but an infinite area? Mind = blown. Is that right? Jerry? Joe? Help me out here.)
Way back in the day, when I walked back home from the glorious Teaneck High School, I would -- from time to time -- engage in the occasional prank phone call. (***SIDE NOTE***: Why do some people call it a "crank" phone call? You're clearly pranking the person, right? Prank, not crank. I don't know if there's a legitimate difference, but I've always called it a "prank" phone call. Oh, and I didn't even underline my "side note" introduction, so if anyone was confused, please forgive me. I'm not a lawyer. [Side note: Lawyers work really long hours. If you doubt that, read this. There's mad underlining, and that's proof beyond a reasonable doubt.])
So where was I? Oh yeah -- back in the day, prank phone calls an' shit. Chuck was there for a good many of these, along with Angry White Dave and Dr. Lee (and occasionally Guy-Who-Couldn't-Whisper-During-Risk -- whose mom drove slower than anyone I've ever seen, and LJT can back me up on that -- and...well shit, I can't even think of a nickname but I don't think he'll ever read this, so let's call him "Gianluca" [pronounced "John-Luke-a" for our ignorant readers.])
Wow, this is the most difficult-to-understand post I may have ever written. I guess that's what happens when you get totally hammered on a Monday and decide to talk shit about your co-blogger. But, in my defense, Side Bar deserves it. He wrote a great post earlier (Seriously, that was a quality post, SB. How 'bout some more now, huh?), but I still feel like I can rip on him if I want. I changed the header back to "Wheeeeeeere's Luke?" I wonder if anyone who reads this blog besides the people who write it (that means BOTH OF YOU!) even noticed. If you did, put it in the comments and I will buy you a beer the next time we see each other.
So back to the pranks. Chuck, a few other folks, and I would occasionally make prank phone calls from the pay phone in the parking lot outside the Biddy Gym. We called many different places, but the one I remember most is 1-800-29-ARMOR, which was a business that sold -- wait for it -- body armor. This became a regular thing, and I was usually the one to call, and to this day I still remember the woman who answered the phone most of the time. Sonja. She had the voice of an angel and the patience of Nelson Mandela. Except for when she finally lost it on me and yelled like a banshee. I don't remember exactly what she screamed at me (I think I collapsed in laughter), but I will always respect her. How many times can you have someone ask you, "But will this bulletproof vest protect my face?" before you finally crack. She knew, just as I did, that bulletproof vests do not, in fact, guard your face. But I kept asking her if it would. Day after day. Week after week. Until she knew my voice, until she could expect my inevitable call at around 3:15 p.m. on any given weekday.
I think it was around mid-January 1996 or so when Sonja lost it on me. I can't blame her. But I will always love and respect her. At some point in the future, I feel like destiny will lead me to some bar, where I will be drunk, and then direct me to some strange woman there. And this woman will have an angry, "don't-come-near-me" kind of look on her, as she sips her gin-on-the-rocks in the corner. She'll mutter things from time to time, and occasionally yell at her manager -- who isn't even there, of course. She hasn't worked for that armor company in years.
But for some reason, I'll approach her. It could be on a dare. It could be that I want to save her from falling out of her seat. It could be that I have to reach over her to sign up for beer pong. I'll say something to her ("Hey sweetie", "Whoa! Careful!", or "Where's the chalk?", respectively.), and she'll give me that look.
That look that speaks volumes. And by "That look that speaks volumes," I mean she growls.
Have you ever seen a woman growl? Weird.
Sonja growls at me, and before I can even say, "Sonja, stop!" -- in the same voice she has just recognized after all these years -- she sinks her teeth into my ribs. I try to beat her off, but she's a woman possessed. The bouncers come over. One of them tries to yank her off of me, but her jaw does not release me. I go flying up off the floor along with Sonja. Seeing this, the bouncer drops her (and me).
I'm in pain. Beyond the huge gash Sonja has inflicted on my ribs, I've now been picked up and dropped. My head and back must deal with some serious fucking impact.
Finally, Sonja stops. As she pulls off, I see the blood -- my blood -- dripping from her teeth down to her chin, down to the floor. She smiles. As the bouncer pulls her away from my broken body, she smiles, and says, "Shoulda bought that vest, huh?"
The bouncer yanks her away. I look down at the gaping wound on my side, blood gushing everywhere. Everything goes dim.
But before I totally pass out, I remember: I don't have health insurance.
My mom is gonna be so mad.
In the honor of a truly good prank, I present the prank war that has taken place between Amir and Streeter at College Humor over the past year. (If you already know about this stuff, then just skip to the bottom for the latest one.)
It's really amazing how far people will go with a prank:
(Oh, and this is all totally safe for work, you office drone. Tell your boss what's up! Don't be afraid. Read some Karl Marx, you proletariat bastard.)
This just happened. Amir took months before responding. Go Anil!
Hey Sonja -- I'm sorry!
Monday, September 10, 2007
Last try . . . Meaghan and I have this baby now, and me and the baby have been on a totally sick bender for like three weeks.
OK, fine. The real reason I've been absent from the blogosphere (side note: worst. word. ever.) is the same reason I have been generally absent from any semblance of a social life for the past few months -- is that I've been getting, a-hem, hammered (side note: that was for you OB) at work.
People generally have mixed reactions when you tell them that you can't do something because work has gotten in the way, especially when the plans being cancelled occur later in the evening or on a weekend. Some feel legitimately badly for you, which is nice. Many feign sympathy, but generally believe (as I do) that if you choose a profession that demands long hours, you shouldn't bitch about it all the time (as, alas, I also do). I have no problem with these people (side note: though, in fairness, they should consider walking a mile).
Others, though, simply do not believe it, and either explicitly or implicitly call you a liar. It's mostly implicit, like asking all sorts of questions to try and trip you up when you tell someone you worked the entire weekend, or very late into the evening, etc. Many of these people have never worked past 5:01 or on a weekend in their entire life, and therefore cannot comprehend that others do. These people drive me fucking nuts. Let's say I cancel plans with a friend from college because I am called into the office on a Saturday. Let's say I see that same friend a few weeks later, and comment what a great game the Mets had on the offending Saturday. Suddenly, everyone is Clarence fucking Darrow, and they want to cross examine you. "Oh, I thought you were working on Saturday." "How did you have time to watch the Mets if you couldn't hang out?"
Shut. The. Fuck. Up.
Maybe I checked the score on the website. Maybe I took an hour lunch to watch the game. Maybe I worked all day and was tired and watched the game when I got home. Point is, if I cancel plans on a friend, they should generally assume (as most do) that I would prefer to be socializing with them as opposed to working, and not generally assume (as a few do) that I have cooked-up some scheme to avoid hanging out with them. If I don't want to hang out with you I just wouldn't make plans with you in the first place. Idiot.
I guess that became more of a rant than I meant it to be, and I am sure someone with a degree in counseling (batter up, D) could analyze the above and find all sorts of guilt/resentment/bitterness lurking just beneath the surface, but I digress.
My absence from the blogging world (side note: doubtfully my last, hopefully my longest) now explained, I have some catching up to do (side note: I just realized now, in re-reading this post, that the banner on the website changed. Very funny. Ha ha. You guys are the best. I think we can all agree, though, that it wouldn't have sounded nearly as melodic and hilarious if Mary had said "Wheeeere's side bar?" instead of the now infamous "Wheeeere's Luke?"). It has been a month and two days since my last post (side note: in which he discovers that Ace of the "Ambiguously Gay Duo" and Stephen Colbert were one and the same person (side note to the side note: five points for the movie reference)), and much has happened. Since I gather that everyone has been dying to know what I think about the goings-on in sports, news, politics and pop culture, I present my thumbs up and thumbs down for the past month. Here they are, in no particular order:
Thumbs Up go to . . . The Mets. After getting swept by the Phillies in an awful four-game series in Philadelphia, the Mets rebounded nicely winning eight of nine, and putting the division out of reach barring all but the most horrendous of September collapses (side note: chance of me lamenting this post -- and Open Bar cursing me for the jink -- three weeks from today: 2:1. Place your bets now).
Updated (9/18/2007). Ok, well, if you took the bet then, arguably, you lost, since it didn't take three weeks, only one. The Mets are 1-5 since this post was published, and the Phillies haven't lost since [insert witty, exaggerated reference here]. The Mets now lead the division by a mere 2.5 games. While they should still make the playoffs (assuming the Mets can go 7-6 over the next two weeks, the Phillies would need to go 9-3 just to force a one-game playoff, which might not even happen, as 9-3 could land the wild card in the NL East, in which case there would be no playoff), but it was borderline unthinkable a week ago that we would even need to be doing these calculations. Ugh. Always remember Raymond Parking (anyone? 25 blogger points to the winner).
Thumbs Down go to . . . . the White People of Jena, Louisiana. I admit to only recently getting informed on this story, but this is some old school, 1930's, no holds barred, unadulterated, unapologetic racist shit. I am sure there are black people out there who experience some form of racism every day, or at least with some frequency, and who aren't as shocked by this as me, but I definitely am guilty (if that's the right word) of thinking that this kind of off the reservation shit doesn't go on anymore.
Thumbs Down go to . . . Michael Vick. Dear God. Next.
Thumbs Down go to . . . Tikki Barber: Ok, Open Bar beat me to this, but it bears repeating. Tikki has spent the past month beating up on the oh-so-unimposing Giants, and has made some headlines doing so. What a hack. It's bad enough that you sell your team out in mid-season to announce your retirement. Whatever, if you want to retire, it's your right. But to start poking the Giants in the eye after the fact is just bush league. Have you seen any of his interviews on the Today show? (side note: f off; it's on at the gym in the morning). They won't let him do his own . . . he has to sit there with Matt Lauer or Meredith Viera kind of lurking over him to make sure he doesn't completely fuck it up. Hey Tikki: when I want the inspiring four-and-a-half minute story of a 90 year-old from Duluth who lost his eyesight but overcame the odds and realized his dream of owning a jukebox, I'll give you a call. For now, just be quiet. You made this bed, now lie in it Tikki Cronkite.
Thumbs Up go to . . . Fox News: Never mind the war in Iraq, the disgrace of Republican congressmen, or the financial crisis paralyzing the credit markets, Fox reports, and we get to decide, on a new Hardees ad that, at least according to one teacher's association, is demeaning to female teachers. Yeah, so, Fox News, hard-hitting and titillating. This is the source for middle-America's news and political views? Game over.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
The longtime Giants running back Tiki Barber, in case you haven't heard, has been talking a lot of shit lately, now that he's safely retired and become a media hack for NBC. First, he ripped Eli, and just recently he alerted us to the fact that -- despite saying he wanted to retire before his body got broken during last season -- the real reason he quit was that he hated Tom Coughlin. In his words, "If Tom Coughlin had not remained as head coach of the Giants, I might still be in a Giants uniform. [Tom Coughlin] robbed me of what had been one of the most important things I had in my life, which was the joy I felt playing football."
So Tiki hated his boss. So he quit.
Well, in honor of Tiki's newfound fondness of whining like a little bitch, I thought I'd alert him to a new car I just saw that might be right up his alley:
I saw this pic in the comments section of East Village Idiot. Check that thing out, dumbass.
Amazingly, two cops were nearby, heard this, walked up the stairs, and arrested the two kids. Say what you will about the tenets of marijuana's legality, dude, but don't yell out the window that you're a drug dealer. Please.
The real football season began this past weekend -- college football.
I haven't really ever had a favorite team, although I guess Notre Dame is the team I follow most closely year in and year out. Growing up in Teaneck meant the closest thing to a local team (that was ever any good) was Penn State, so I also like them. But now, finally, those of us who grew up anywhere from Delaware ("Hi. I'm in Delaware." Little known fact: this "state" doesn't actually exist!) to Connecticut have a team. A damn good one, too.
After years and years of going 1-10, 2-9, 0-11 and basically turning into a statewide joke, the Rutgers football program is now something more than just respectable -- they're a team to be feared. One of the top two or three best games all of last year was the Rutgers-Louisville Thursday night special in November. Had Rutgers not pulled off that ridiculous last-second field goal, Louisville might have found themselves in the National Championship game (where Florida probably would've stomped them worse than they did Ohio State, but nevertheless...). This year, mark your calendars for October 27th. That's when West Virginia -- currently ranked 3rd in the country -- makes the trip to Piscataway. Rutgers will have another chance to foil a top-5 team's national title hopes. I can only hope it's as good a game as last year's vs Louisville. Speaking of which, Rutgers' final game of the season, November 29, is the rematch with the Cardinals, this time down on their turf. Sure to be another great one, hopefully again with championship implications.
Oh, and one more thing: The Scarlet Knights' first "real" game this season is Sept. 29 against Maryland, a game which I'll be attending. For some reason, I've never been to a Division I college football game, so I want to soak it all up --
(No idea who this person is or why I chose this pic. But what a fox!)
Everything. So let's all arrange to go down there together, okay? Good.
I'm not going to get to into the Michigan/Appalachian St. game, as there's already been loads written on that, but what I will say is that I hope people stop overrating the Big Ten now. Last year, Ohio State got demolished by the SEC champ Florida in the title game. The SEC -- now that is clearly the best conference in football. LSU, currently ranked no. 2, opened the season last Thursday, and if you saw any of that game, you know that team is goddamn tremendous. (Incidentally, the best game of this weekend is LSU vs. Virginia Tech -- call it the "Whose Recent Tragedy Was Worse?" Bowl, or something.) But the Big Ten can eat a fat dick, and if that Michigan loss opens people's eyes to that fact, then great. The Big East is a far superior conference -- two legitimate National Title contenders in Louisville and West Virginia, with one dark horse possibility (R.U.), and four first-tier candidates for the Heisman Trophy in Steve Slaton (WVa), Pat White (WVa), Brian Brohm (Lou.), and Ray Rice (pictured, above). I don't know if there are any Big East-Big Ten matchups this year, but if there are, my money's on the Beasts of the East. (For a much better and deeper analysis of this check out Lozo's blog. He's really good, and he actually posts every day! What a concept!)
I suppose I could write a bit more about how the BCS sucks and how stupid it is to have polls ranking the teams before they even set foot on the field (polls shouldn't come out until at least 6 or 7 weeks into the season), but I'll save that for a later post. I guess I prefer to keep the focus on the Scarlet Knights for the time being.
And keep in mind: tomorrow night at 7, it's Rutgers vs. Navy. I'm sure it's on TV somewhere, so WATCH IT. Get to know them. Hop on the bandwagon like I did.
I promise, you'll see -- it's nice to finally have a team.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
If all the cabbies in the city go on strike and no one there notices, does it make a sound?
(I know it's not a perfect comparison, but here's a funny one: If a retard falls in the forest and no one's there, do the trees laugh?)
Seriously, I don't even know what they're striking for. Rates just went up a lot like two years ago (or was it more recent than that?). And who thought this would be a good idea? Was the head of the cabbie union (there's a cabbie union?) paying attention back when the MTA went on strike? I don't recall a great deal of public sympathy for the union. And didn't that Roger Touissant prick end up paying a big fine and even going to jail for a brief stint? And what did the MTA workers even get out of their far-more-destructive strike? Their benefits were already amazing. I think they actual wound up giving some stuff up in the end, though I could be wrong on that.
On top of that, they announced that it would be a two-day strike. Doesn't that kinda ruin the effect? If you let people know it's only gonna be a brief stoppage, what kind of leverage do you gain by striking? At least the MTA folks had the common sense not to announce when they would be ending their strike. Not that any of us truly thought it would go on interminably, but still, is there anyone in the cabbie union who understands the most basic concepts of striking?
And if there are no cabs, I can still just take the SUBWAY like almost everyone. It's not like back when the MTA was on strike, and you had to walk like 20 blocks to find a cab, and even then you had to share it with three other people. This strike is FAR less inconvenient. I rarely take cabs anyway. So I guess if there are some rich douchebags who cab it everywhere, they're the ones who are gonna really suffer, riding the trains with us peasants. Well boo-friggin'-hoo. I think I hear violins playing somewhere on 5th Avenue. (A small tear rolls down cheek.)
I get the feeling I must be missing something about this story. Perhaps I should have read an article on it or something. But if there's anyone who can enlighten me, I'm all ears.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
This weekend, they had an excellent post examining the mind-blowing stupidity of writer Eric Wilbur. Titled "Hey Red Sox, Time to Hang It Up," the post describes and article in which this Eric Wilbur guy makes the bizarre claim that since the Red Sox don't get emotional enough, they will definitely not win the World Series. At one point, Wilbur claims that what the 2004 championship team had that the 2007 lacks is...ardor?
You should check out the whole post, it's the third or fourth one down. (I can't link directly to it.) But I thought I'd excerpt this particular section, which was my favorite as it mocks the insufferable Joe Buck and Tim McCarver in a short radio play. Oddly (or maybe not so oddly), I can really imagine hearing these two guys speaking these exact words:
Joe Buck: Well, Tim, you have to like the Red Sox' starting pitching and bullpen, but how do you feel about their ardor?
Tim McCarver: Ardor is a funny thing, Joe. It's like Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart said about pornography: "I know it when I see it." And with these Red Sox, I just don't see it.
JB: How do you know it when you see it, Tim?
TM: For me, it's when you see the dick going in.
(ten minutes of silence)
TM: Oh. I see. You were talking about ardor.