Friday, October 31, 2008
Raging o’er The New York Times, their leftist crimes, in times, unsure.
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
“’Tis some liberal,' I muttered, “singing songs against the war,
“Only this, and nothing more.”
For head of state, a candidate my party had once scorned before.
Throwing Cheney from the train, in vain, from our convention floor.
“We need a running mate,” I cried, “A champion who shall ensure
“Our victory in the culture war!”
There and then, I flung the shutter, to hear a faint familiar flutter,
There he sat, and nothing more.
“You’ve got the touch, go to it, Dutch! Convey to me, I thee implore:
“Name to me the great right hope, who’ll chase Obama from our door!”
But he just sat, and nothing more.
‘Till came my way a lovely face, no trace I’d never seen before,
An arctic visage, soundly wailin,’ winkin’ at me, smilin,’ sailin!’
Arms a flailin’, Sarah Palin! She – the hockey mom next door!
The perfect demographic face, our Christian base, she would restore.
And Right to Life… forevermore.
But as her verbiage grew thickly, the leftist press grew somewhat prickly,
I could see us crumbling quickly, sickly, toward November four.
“Sir,” I said, “I fear each morrow. Is this our Geraldine Ferraro?
“Please tell us how to win the day, when Palin greets the media corps!”
Quoth the Reagan: “Less is more.”
To fight our flock’s declining number, we next befriended Joe the Plumber,
With Sarah -- what a bummer! – wearing silken suits from Christian Dior.
“Sir, if somehow we win the day, not suffer death by Tina Fey,
“What will we say? What special ray of hope, sir, could we then explore?
The Reagan shook his head and said, “If you doth win November four,
“Pray McCain lives… forevermore!”
And now the Reagan, ever seeing, haunts our daily GOP’ing,
As the markets, in their downfall, bring a free fall to our party core,
Eight long years, a downward push; we can’t escape our burning Bush,
With the bail out, then the fall out, and the credit crisis at our door,
The Reagan, somewhere out there, that once made my party’s spirits soar,
May be lost… forevermore.
It was the "My Mother the Car" of championships.
Let's resist the urge to cackle. If we were in it, we'd have pulled higher numbers, much in the same manner that people with tubes in their crotches watch Barney Miller and Matlock. They view Derek Jeter as comfort food.
So why didn't anybody watch Tamp and Philly's rising stars? Good grief, they missed Evan Longora, Chase Utley and, uhhhmmm, that guy Price... and Shields.... and Yarnell... and all those Phillies, stars every one them... Don't they still have Lenny Dykstra?
Listen: For a long, long time now, MLB has been sitting on a bubble of public support, much like the housing and dot.com fantasies: The people on top figure it would last forever.
These days, it's funded by the taxpayers, who fork up new stadiums, while our schools and roads fall apart.
Let me repeat that.
Taxpayers fork up new stadiums, while our schools and roads fall apart.
We're about to break the bank in pursuit of CC Sabathia, Mark Teixteira, AJ Burnett and/or Manny Ramirez. The claim is that we'll be flush with cash, thanks to Rudy Giuliani, who finagled these stadiums a long time ago in a universe far, far away.
We'll have money, while other teams rattle the cup for their own taxpayers.
So? For starters, we should still chase Teixteira. But as we let our own bloated salaries walk -- so long, Jason, Moose, Bobby, Andy -- we might be seriously wise to let our payroll level fall below the luxury tax level.
When that happens, they'll start squirming.
If we launch a spending binge, we better be prepared to carry Tampa, Kansas City, Pittsburgh, et al, on our shoulders.The philosophy of having the rich pay higher taxes is likely to spread into baseball. (All this talk about socialism? The owners -- billionaires, all -- sound like Karl Marx when they talk about big market spending.)
This is no time to trade cheap young starters -- Phil Hughes comes to mind -- no matter what happens in Arizona. Yeesh, he's throwing innings and developing pitches, not auditioning.
Folks, a bubble is about to burst. Yank ticket prices will be way too high. By midseason, MLB revenues will be suffering enough to make Bud Selig's hairpiece burst into flames.
At that point, it'll be far wiser to have money in the bank and openings on the roster.
The best deals might be for those who wait.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
5:30 a.m. Wake up alarm music: “Your Body is a Wonderland.”
5:31 a.m. Sitting in skivvies, appear via phone on NPR as witty, disarming conservative pundit.
6 a.m. Arrange comb-over.
7 a.m. Breakfast with Paul Krugman, listening to insufferable crap about Nobel Prize.
8 a.m. Cardio workout, with Krugman photo taped to punching bag.
9 a.m. Sitting in skivvies, appear via phone on CNN as witty, disarming conservative pundit.
10 a.m. Ponder differences between “Starbucks Coffee-Sipper Guy” vs. “Dunkin' Donuts Coffee-Slurper Guy,” rival subcultures that could affect election.
11 a.m. Conference call with Cokie Roberts and George Will to gauge opinions of everyday working Americans.
Noon. Lunch. Flirt with waitress by declaring self “Patio Man" and asking if she likes “Sprinkler City.”
1 p.m. Change trousers, due to coffee poured into lap by creeped-out waitress.
2 p.m. Sitting in skivvies, appear via phone on MSNBC as witty, disarming conservative pundit.
3 p.m. Stare at flag and shout "G.O.P! G.O.P!" until recurring doubts about John McCain disappear.
3:30 p.m. Cab ride to New York Times. En route, regale driver by identifying him as “Burkean conservative... who believes society is an organism; that custom, tradition, and habit are the prime movers of that organism; and that successful government institutions grow gradually from each nation's unique network of moral and social restraints."
3:45 p.m. Realize cabbie speaks no English.
4 p.m. Ponder differences between “Toothless Unclean Incontinent Street Man” vs. “Armani Pants-Suited Harvard Business Woman,” rival subcultures that could affect election.
4:30 p.m. Start writing next day’s Times column.
4:45 p.m. Word-counter hits 900; file column.
5 p.m. Resume argument with William Kristol over what it takes to please “Sprawl Ladies.”
6 p.m. Rearrange comb-over.
7 p.m. Sitting in skivvies, (below camera), appear on PBS “News Hour with Jim Leher” as witty, disarming conservative pundit.
8 p.m. Sitting in skivvies, appear via phone on Fox News as witty, disarming liberal pundit.
9 p.m. Goodnight call from Krugman to discuss where he should mount Nobel Prize.
11 p.m. Awake in bed, muttering about where should have told Krugman to put prize.
Remember: No negatives in this, just science.
1. Piss off Redsock fans.
2. He has at least two solid years left.
3. He hits in the clutch. (Don't underestimate this. Right now, we have a team that does not.)
4. Home town factor. Hard to rate this. He might thrive. Gamble worth taking?
5. He hates the Redsocks. Give him credit for that.
6. We'd have to jettison Abreu and Giambi (no problem; see No. 3) and trade Nady, Matsui or Damon... Or convert Damon to first... if cannot get Teixeira. These are dicey moves. It's impossible to say whether they pan out. Depends on the trade. But... if we cannot sign Teixiera, let's not forget why we failed last year: No hitting.
7. Imagine the order: Damon. Jeter. Arod. Manny...
8. If he beats up our team offficials, maybe it'll knock some sense into them.
9. A lot of tabloid back pages taken away from Arod. The Yankees love back pages, except when they involve Arod.
10. Fans would be reluctant, angry, at first. But if he won them over with clutch hitting, they could absolutely love him.
11. Enter the Hall with a Yankee cap?
12. Piss off Curt Schilling.
13. Enrage Joe Buck and Tim McCarver. (Oops. Sorry. Already covered that in No. 1.)
Bloggers are ragging over S.I.'s namby-pamby interview with Derek Jeter, mostly because the Jeet talks 20 minutes of nothing. He's a pro at saying nothing. He speaks with the mentality of Sarah Palin: Just don't say something stupid, and you might be President.
But, hey, who can be Oscar Levant with questions like these:
SI.com: Do you play Xbox at all?
SI.com: Have you watched the postseason at all?
SI.com: Speaking of the last week of the regular season, how was that
last game at Yankee Stadium?
SI.com: What do you think about the new Stadium?
SI.com: Do you ever come back to New York during the offseason?
Yeesh. Why didn't they just ask about carbon emission credits?
Wanna open up the Captain and see what's inside? Ask questions worthy of a captain.
Here's our interview:
IIH, IIF, IIc: Think this. Phone rings. It's Heath Ledger's assistant. She screams, "HEATH IS DEAD! THAT OLSEN TWIN KILLED HIM!" What do you do? Turn it over to the police, or look for the murderer yourself?
IIH, IIF, IIc: You see the stars of "High School Musical 3" telling kids to, "Get out the vote!" We've become Nazi Germany, am I right?
IIH, IIF, IIc: Natalie Portman? What, she's too short?
IIH, IIF, IIc: Your computer locks up, and Microsoft asks in a box if you want to send "an error message?" Do you call it an error? Or as a fielder, who knows that everybody makes errors, do you side with the computer and not call it in?
IIH, IIF, IIc: Tell us something we don't know about Brian Bruney!
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
I hunted for our food.
I partnered with the companies,
That combed my land for crude.
I fired all the bureaucrats
Who didn’t give their best.
I went to lunch with businessmen
Who sought to feel at my chest.
I battled with my sister’s ex-
Who, frankly, is a jerk.
It took me twenty phone calls
Just to get him fired from work.
To the crooked pols’ dismay.
I refused to back their earmarks
‘Cept the ones that came my way.
Always cheering, always calm.
My daughter met the goalie,
Soon, she’ll be a hockey mom.
By her high school boyfriend’s seed.
We’ll get that punk to marry her.
Who says I cannot lead!
All the other days, I preach.
I’ll make a perfect President.
It says so in my speech.
Nature Provides What Selig Denies: A World Series Game That Will End In Time for a 9-Year-Old to See Who Won
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
“Mrs. Weinberger, are you trying to seduce me?”
“So, these are the terms of our little wager: You’ve selected this unpopular girl, this “Condoleezza.” I must woo her, take her to the White House – and then break her heart. Ahh, Laura, you are so deliciously evil, and that’s why I adore you.”
“Sir, with this executive order, you’ll gain super strength and incredible speed. You’ll be able to see through walls, hear conversations across the continent. You’ll fight evil like never before. But you’re going to have to keep these powers a secret. The world must never know.”
“Yes, of course, I’ve heard of the memos. C'mon, Condi, you don’t really believe in those old terrorist tales, do you?”
“Cleared? Wait a minute. So if Karl didn’t do it, and Cheney didn’t do it, that would mean the only possible leaker is… CALL THE POLICE! Scooter Libby is out there, and there’s no telling what he might know!”
“NO, NO, NO! DAMMIT! DON’T YOU GO QUITTIN’ ON ME, ALBERTO GONZALEZ! DON’T... YOU... GO... QUITTIN’... ON... ME!”
“John McCain? But… you’re dead. I saw you… everybody saw you… you died.”
Dear Madam or Sir,
Last year, thanks to Arod, we owned the World Series news cycle.
This year, we can't even beat Iceland.
WE'RE PHONING IT IN.
Listenup, you Tampa big Yankee office watercooler flunkies: If you phone-in the off-season, you'll phone in the regular season!
Let's get this tabloid back-page-capturing off-season underway. Thus far, we've been horrible. We watched Boston nearly stage a Brosius-Tino miracle comeback. We watched Joba get liquored up in a girlie club, go Farnsworth on a mouthy Redsock fan, and then go mailbox hunting with his car.
Then, topping it off, you jerks sign an agreement to market meats with our natural partners, the Phallus Cowboys. That really makes our mouths water: Every time we order food in the new stadium, a percentage of it will go into Tony Romo's new kitchen.
Wait. There's more: This weekend, Phil "The Franchise" Hughes gets cuffed around like a four-egg omlet in the Arizona Wannabe League's "Rising Star" game, pitching to the game's future Eric Duncans and Drew Hensons.
Message to Hank: Mrs. Peel, we're needed.
It's time to sign somebody.
It's time Hank Steinbrenner, the seedcorn Yank diva heir, to set down his cigs, get on the honker and say something, sign somebody -- just do something, anything. Throw out the first pitch in the off-season.
Think Mark Teixteira. Now. Before the water even dries in Phily.
We need a positive, Madonna-less back page. Now. Hank? Are you listening?
Monday, October 27, 2008
It's basically simple:
1. Winning the World Series is tough. Defending it is tougher. Let them win this year, and they'll fall apart next year.
2. With World Series rings on their fingers, the young Rays will fall more quickly to our vast secret, undercover network of Yankee agents, syncopaths, bartenders, drug dealers and hookers.
3. By winning this year, they'll have no unfulfilled mission next year.
4. By losing, Philadephia will stay hungry and be more inclined to whip on the Mets.
5. Don Zimmer. Hey... God bless him.
6. A Rays championship will serve as a hot poker up the butt of Yankee management, which is headquartered in Tampa. That's a fun image: A hot poker up the butt of Yankee management. Yes, it's fun. A hot poker up the butt of Yankee management. Mm-mm. ONE MORE TIME: A HOT POKER UP THE BUTT OF YANKEE MANAGEMENT.
7. Tampa did our dirty work. They beat the Redsocks.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
That's when MLB teams sign their 16-year-old muchachos from across the border.
We sign them directly out of the eugenics lab concentration camps/training facilities where they've been raised.
Of course, the boys have waited years for that 16 Candles Coming Out party, called the pro contract. They've been working as amateurs since 12.
Oh... did we mention that the scouts often skim money from the bonuses given to the little tykes' families?
Our six-figure signings: SS Gian Carlos Arias, Dominican Republic, 16; OF Ramon Flores, Venezuela, 16; 3B Jackson Valera, Venezuela, 16; OF Yeicok Calderon, Dominican Republic, 16; SS Anderson Felix, Dominican Republic, 16; CF Ericson Leonora, Venezuela, 16.
Remember those names.
Remember the ages. Sixteen. Sixteen. Sixteen. Sixteen. Sixteen. FUKING SIXTEEN!
In the United States, we don't let pro teams sign 16 year olds.
Does anybody care that baseball does this in Latin America?
DOES NOBODY SEE WRONG IN THIS? WTF? WHY ISN'T THIS AN ISSUE? SIXTEEN YEAR OLD BOYS!
Karl Rove will be swarming over this one.
Obama, no doubt, was too busy plotting against the United States that day, and he made the costly mistake that will end his campaign once and for all. Mwhah-hah-hahahaha.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
In today's Times, the most painful evidence yet that the Golden Parachute-level gasbag suits of the New York Yankees are inalterably corrupt, incompetent and unworthy of their fans.
Yesterday, team President Randy Levine told his fellow oil cans -- the ones who happen to be in Congress -- that without tax-free financing for the stadium, the Yanks would have left New York.
“It’s been no secret for many years” that the team would move if it could not save tens of millions of dollars on financing with tax-free bonds, Levine told the House subcommittee on domestic policy. He added: “There was no shortage of suitors. We see ourselves as a paradigm in professional sports.”
A paradigm in professional sports?
A paradigm in self-righteous, greedy, nepotistic entitlement.
Don't these clowns think they owe anything to the fans who supported the Yanks for 80 years? Apparently not.
It's their team, their stadium, their tradition.
If they want to get naked with the Dallas Cowboys, that's their perogative. Hell, they can boink al Qaeda if they want. Who are the fans to question their dealings? (Especially since the owner -- bless him -- is obviously not delving deeply into contracts, or news stories, these days.)
If they want to double ticket prices in a stadium built by taxpayers, that's their perogative. Hell, they could keep all the tickets if they want, letting in only their friends and family. They're doing us a favor, letting us root for their team.
If they want to move the team, that's their perogative. Home town fans? We could move, too.
The New Yonkers Yankees!
The New York Yankees of Winston-Salem!
The Connecticut Yankees!
You know, there are times when you wonder if the people at the top of our major institutions -- (consider the Yankees in this category metaphorically) -- have a clue about the responsibilties and traditions they are supposed to honor. Or are they simply the best players in a Darwinistic struggle for internal power that, once won, means they no longer have to care?
Somehow, Randy Levine climbed to the top of the shitpile.
Why would he care about us?
The (Your Town's Name Here) Yankees!
Friday, October 24, 2008
Unfortunately, there is no FALLING STARS game, so Jacoby Ellsbury has the night off.
It's definitely Youk's handwriting.
What's amazing is how it corresponds to the Boston emblem, as this inverted close-up reveals.
UPDATE: They claim it's a hoax. The woman, from Pittsburgh, carved it herself as a protest for Jason Bay trade.
Approval points, that is.
Lowest in his last eight years,
But the record is… not his!
He’s still two points above the worst,
That Harry Truman scored,
If Bush can knock three off his line,
He’ll win THE WORST award.
But beating Harry Truman,
Means he has some things to do,
He’s got to somehow shave three points,
Get down to twenty-two.
He needs one last fiasco,
One last meltdown! One last crime,
To be the worst in history!
Worst leader of all-time.
Could he unhinge the markets?
Maybe spend too much, too hard?
Or maybe give a hickey
To a secret service guard!
He maybe could act spiteful,
Kick some orphan out the door,
Or utter and obscenity
While crapping on the floor.
He might expose his privates,
Get drunk publicly and puke,
Or just be seen with Cheney,
In a bar fight in Dubuque.
He could cross dress in public,
Throw feces at his aides,
He’d drop his score quite firmly,
If he gropes one of the maids.
He could ignore the deficit.
No, wait... already did.
He could endorse some market,
Which would bring about its skid.
He could become an atheist
And say that God is dead.
He could run off with Britney Spears,
They both could shave their head.
He could become a killer,
Like that TV Dexter guy,
Tape mirrors to his loafers,
Women’s panties he can spy.
Or call folks during dinner,
Just to sell them magazines,
Kill puppies with his bare hands.
Sell crack to high school teens.
Just two points is all he needs,
To carve his place in time,
To come this close and miss it?
That would be his final crime.
The gang at Mons is celebrating last night's win, but really, it's just a warm-up for Spring Training.
Can't wait for their pals — Sweetie Petey, Ty-Ty, Sweene The Swine and the rest — to return to the Bay with their fat expense accounts and stacks o' singles!
Got me thinking about the Lost Legions who came before him.
We start with Christopher Columbus, whom she landed at the peak of his career, after returning from the New World... just kidding. She started long before C.C. Sansalvador. But let's get to her modern trophy case.
In 1985 she bagged Sean Penn. He was coming off "The Falcon and the Snowman." They did two years (which must be why Penn has such a boner about closing Gitmo; he knows what it's like.) It took him 10 years to win an Oscar. In the meantime, it was "Shanghai Surprise," "Cruise Control" and "We're No Angels." Those are the equivalents of 20 HR and a .296 average. Yep. That's Bobby Abreu.
Then came Tony Ward, the obligatory bisexual porn star. These days, he's probably singing in a church choir somewhere, or wrapped in a straight-jacket, ranting how he won't even harm a fly.
Then Vanilla Ice. Yep. THE Vanilla Ice. For those of you who don't remember Vanilla, I refuse to inflict his image upon fellow human beings -- it's like Batman's code to never take a human life. Let's just say, he was to rap what Kei Igawa has been to the Yank rotation. And let's just say, he has yet to make a comeback.
Then basketball center Dennis Rodman. That was mid-1990s, when he was morphing into the Ru Paul of sports. They were fated to be together. He was a great rebounder. He has yet to rebound.
Then out popped her fitness trainer, Carlos Leon, who seeded her with his bursting spermatozoa. He probably weighs 300 pounds these days.
Then Andy Bird, whoever that is. He scored the best deal of anybody. He sold his story to the tabs.
Then Guy Ritchie, who did the longest stretch, now pictured at a supermarket near you.
On deck... ARod.
I know what we all hoped: Check the guns on that wacko lady. Maybe some of her workout gorilla insanity will rub off on our boy. The key word, though, is "insanity." We're talking about a woman who devours men like that evil force in the old Fantastic Four, Galactus, did planets. Or to use a baseball analogy, she's the Billy Martin of females: Short term excitment, but in the long haul - well, somebody's going to get punched out.
She's going to leave this guy on the side of the road like an empty sixpack of Pabst. And God help us if she takes a shine to Jeet.
If anybody thought it was a certainty that Arod will break Barry Bonds homerun record, they didn't take into account the arrival of Ms. Galactus.
And if we think it's a certainty that Arod will rebound in 2009 and have an MVP season -- just put those failures last year behind him and return to 2007 -- think this:
We're No Angels.
Twenty home runs. Two-ninety-five average.
We better have solid backups in our batting order. And ugly-looking ones, at that.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
When the party shopped for our next V.P., we were there to capture the fun.
The key was making sure the gowns would fit right. Fortunately, the GOP had somebody just the right size.
Of course, Sarah Palin's legs are legendary. So the GOP had to make sure audiences would get their fill!
NATIONAL HUG A REDSOCK FAN DAY: Curt Schilling Loses Mind, Writes Teary, Epic Screed about Team, Life, Universe, Himself
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
... and good old Beelzebubba himself, Jerry Jones (shown celebrating the new deal with Hal Steinbrenner), we'll have to add this song to that Rockin' Yankee Stadium playlist.
Oh, sorry, wait, wrong song. I meant this.
And here is the entertainment for Opening Day!
The leftist, liberal, godless, pro-terror Chicken Little media reports that the Republican National Committee thus far has spent $150,00 to put clothes and lipstick on Sarah Palin and her rapidly procreating family.
This is suicide.
Hell, it's what the Yankees did last year.
The Repubs are paying bargain basement Melky Cabrera rates for what should be Derek Jeter showcase fashions and accessories. As the late Mr. Blackwell would have said, there's a reason money is green and shit is brown: Taste!
This year, we proved you can't win with a Wal-Mart centerfielder, especially one who bats .220 and sends mental text messages while in the field.
The Hank Steinbrenners of the GOP -- (yowzer, there's an image!) -- ought to realize that if they're going to win this horserace, they've gotta part with some honest sheckles to silk up their prized stallions.
We're talking Tori Hunter evening gowns.
We're talking Johnny Damon pants suits.
Hell, we're talking big money, free agent, ARod-on-Madonna leatherwear, maybe with an occasional Dolly Parton wig and -- 0h, I don't know -- I'm thinking Joel Grey now in "Cabaret," -- the kind of boob holsters that lift, not separate.
The GOP is not going to win this election with Sarah Palin wearing Melky.
They should take a chapter from Cindy McCain, who spends more on crab dip than the Yanks did on Melky. If Cindy McCain wanted to wear Mark Teixeira, you better believe she would sign Mark Teixeira.
Are you listening, you GOP Hank Steinbrenners? (Yeesh, I may never get that image out of my head.)
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Well, the bloom has gone from the Joba rose to the Joba nose.
At a strip club, no less. After losing his cool to a Redsock fan's taunting.
Joba must take after A-Rod more than we thought.
Well, this is clear: We either wake up and move forward, or we're entering the deepest Yank recession in history.
This could make the '80s look like the '50s.
Already, the Redsocks are spouting about signing Mark Teixeira. HEY, HANK, HAS ANYBODY IN TAMPA HEARD THIS? THE REDSOCKS ARE TALKING ABOUT SIGNING TEIXEIRA!
Let's face it, with the cash he's going to want, we can't outbid Boston. Sure, we can double his salary, but what's the difference? In the Obama tax rate, it'll all be the same anyway. He'll either like what he sees in an organization, or he'll go somewhere else.
Right now, if you were a free agent looking at the Yankees, would you like what you see?
A rotation with two Sidney Ponsons, one from the past and one from the future.
An outfield with four corners, and no center.
An old team that plays like rookies, facing young teams that play like veterans -- and Tampa Bay might easily be the best in baseball for the next two years.
Can we compete in the AL East without Teixiera?
Maybe. But not if the Redsocks get him. If that happens, my friends, we might as well go out drinking with Joba.
Yep. Order some shots. Cut our losses, get stinking drunk and hope to sober up by 2010. Because without that free agent pick up at first base -- which allows us to deal for pitching -- we're a third place team again.
This is bad.
This is really bad. And food catered by the Dallas Cowboys will NOT be easily digested.
Wisdom of the ages...
"You never can have enough corner outfielding."
"Baseball is 90 percent corner outfielding."
"Good corner outfielding always beats good hitting."
"Baseball is corner outfielding, corner outfielding, corner outfielding."
"Don't look back. A corner outfielder may be gaining on you."
Monday, October 20, 2008
We need it.
We need it now.
(Like, oh my God, coffee costs, like, $1.20 at work and we're, like, two dimes short nearly every day.)
This is bad.
This is very bad.
We just hopped in bed with Mephistophiles, which is worse than hopping in bed with Madonna in her $1,000 cream-filled plastic slumber suit.
We have entered into a "Legends" entertainment deal with... the Dallas Cowboys.
Oh, God. Why? WHY, GOD, WHY!
The Cowboys are professional sports' most obnoxious team, with the most obnoxious players, in the most obnoxious city in the most obnoxious state.
The Cowboys are evangelical, rubber-titted cheerleaders doing soft core porno doll routines at 50th birthday parties for 300-pound, pedophilic oil tycoons named Junior.
The Cowboys are HGH-injected rapists suckled by a meglamaniac billionaire whose face has known more plastic surgeons than the entire cast of Gilmore Girls.
The Cowboys are phony country-western stars who sing racially coded songs and sloganize wars they don't have the guts to fight, because at the end of the day, they are pampered pussy Hollywood hypocrites -- no, they're worse, because for all the tough talk, they are fundamentally cowards.
The Cowboys are Jessica Simpson leading the all-white Karl Rove Church of Christ choir in "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," while Alberto Gonzalez stands at the front door, selling $1,000 a plate dinner tickets to flag-wrapped Bush Rangers who pay no taxes because they moved their operations off-shore.
The Cowboys are mortal enemies to the Giants, the New York Giants, the 2008 Super Bowl champions, the Yankees' traditonal football counterparts, the Giants, the Giants, THE GIANTS, NOT THE COWBOYS.
What in the name of Pacman Jones are the Yankees thinking?
I can't believe this.
They tear down the House That Ruth Built, triple the costs of game tickets, turn over the future of the team to the guy who's going to hop into bed with Madonna and her $1,000 cream-filled plastic jammies, and now they announce to the world how proud they are to enter into an agreement with the most evil team in pro sports, and certainly the most reviled pro football team that any New York fan can imagine.
Is George Steinbrenner brain dead? I'm sorry, folks, because it's not fashionable to attack somebody whose brain may have the electrical output of a bowl of Fruit Loops, but for this fiasco, somebody needs to get a grand slam into his centerfield monuments.
Do they not care what their fans think? Is that it?
This is horrible. This is rotten.
The Dallas Cowboys and the New York Yankees... partners.
I would puke, but I'm too nauseous.
By IIH, IIF, IIc Secret Correspondent Shamus
CAMDEN, MAINE -- As the sun rises on Red Sox Nation this morning, I am reminded of a scene from one of those destruction movies, such as 'ID4', 'Cloverfield' or 'I am Legend.'
Cars are burning and overturned, bodies clad in Red Sox apparel lay motionless everywhere, and the distinct smell of raw pork hangs in the air.
Yes, fellow Yankees fans and readers, Red Sox Nation is in ruins, like the Romans at the end of their run, after Joaquin Phoenix killed his dad, Caesar, and wanted to sleep with his hotty sister.
I am eerily reminded of 2003, after getting punched in the mouth by that upstart, uppity southern Florida team, the Swordfish. Or Sea Bass. Whatever they hell they were called.
I specifically woke up at 5 am to listen to their desperate pleas fill the radio waves, as they call into the Big Jab (95.5 fm/ Portland Maine) and WEEI, aka Al-Soxzeera.
Some are near suicide. Some are in shock. Many are still drunk. On a troubling side note, with the economy in the dumper, last night didn't help one bit, b/c today none of them are going to their jobs at bars, strip clubs, McDonalds, trash collectors and plumbers. It seems all of RSN is taking the day off to lounge around the double-wide trailer and watch infomercials on NESN all day.
Some want Theo fired for his Manny debacle. Some want Tito Francona fired for his misuse of the pitching staff. Many are clamoring for them to sign and trade their way out of this nightmare.
You know its trouble when Sox fans are asking on broadcast radio if St. Louis would accept Coco Crisp, Mike Lowell and cash for Albert Pujols. Or if they can sign Peavy when he hits free agency next week.(I know, as well as you educated Yankees fans, Peavy could only be acquired via trade, but, I digress...)
I've even heard the impossible and imporbable: Sully, still hammered at 5:15 am, called WEEI while getting dressed to go to work as a trashman, and asked "what it would take for Manny to come back."
I know, I know. Things haven't been great for the Bronx Bombers since 2000. In '01 and '03, we had reason to cheer. But on the whole, we haven't had much to be happy about.
Here's what I figured out, listening to these tortured souls this morning:
We created this monster. All the years they watched us, the late 90's, etc. They wanted to win, so they sold their souls to the devil and bought the 2004 championship. After getting swept in 2005 in the first round, they spent even more money (Rice-Cake, Nancy Drew, etc.) and won it in 2007.
They have become a little version of the Evil Empire. A 'Mini-Me' of sorts. For a team that has known nothing but losing for so, so long, to win twice and resort back to losing, you'd think they'd remember how it feels. Sox fans always tell me, a Yankees fan caught behind enemy lines, in the Red Neck Backyard of Red Sox Nation, 'hey, we've won the Series twice in the last four years."
I always correct them by saying: "No, you've won two Series in the last 90 years, and yes, I want plastic, not paper please."
More reports will follow, deep in the lion's den. Deep behind enemy lines.
Dear Madams or Sirs,
Congratulations to your fine organization on its fine season.
Because there's nothing like a fine season!
In a fine season, players have -- well -- fine years. As did your fine players. Because they are fine players. As you are a fine bunch. Which is fine with us.
And today, congratulations on your spiritual ascent: You are starting to understand what it's like to be a Yankee fan.
Welcome to Hell.
Yep, all those seasons when you thought being a Yankee fan was easy... all those years when you pointed to us with moral contempt and said, "They buy championships, they never feel pain!" all those years, you said, "They have no heart, they're the evil empire!"... all those years you sustained yourselves by closing your eyes and clutching that golden, hardon of hatred...
And now you know how it feels to have had a fine season...
With nothing at the end.
It's like sleeping with someone 165 nights, then getting dumped.
Welcome to our universe.
You are learning the secret of our society:
If you don't win the ring, you suck.
Sorry to say it, friends, but this is truth.
No ring? You suck.
Yep. Now it's your turn to debate whether you should have traded Jacoby Ellsbury for Johann Santana, your turn to re-think the Manny deal, your turn to think about all the money wasted on Curt Schilling, your turn to ponder the outside corner that the ump gave Matt Garzas all night.
And for all the thinking you do, it won't change the outcome.
No ring? You suck.
But hey, you sucked fine. You beat the Yankees this year. Let that give comfort. Hell, you can be the first fanbase in history to remember who came in second! And Dustin P might win the MVP. So he can join other fine MVPs, like that guy from Minnesota, whats his name? The firstbaseman. Or ours. You know who we're talking about, eh? Fine players.
Because you are a fine team. A truly fine bunch.
Congratulations, fellow suckees.
PS: NOTE TO YANKIVERSE: Write this down. As soon as we blogged about rooting for the Redsocks, they lost. Ha! Maybe we've cracked the code.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
1. Humiliation. Let it rain. Let condemnation soak the hubris-laden fools who got us here: Hank, Cash, Joe the Plumber, Arod... all of them. Let them feel the heat. With the Redsocks winning two in a row, they can watch a championship team and think about what it takes to be one.
2. Break up the Rays. Tampa has one long-term chance -- winning the World Series -- to cause a spike in attendance, which would allow them to keep their young stars and not become the Marlins. But to lose -- especially in such a hauntng, pants-soiling manner -- ahhgh, they'll go back to playing in front of 12,000. Which means we sign their free agents. (NOTE: This could backfire. They might be a team like Arizona, which will trade players anywhere but to the Yankees, unless it's a flat-out steal. Tampa does hate the Yankees. This could go either way.)
3. Our cause. If Boston runs the table again, the world will know that only one team can stop them in the future. Us. It will be up to us.
4. The Variteks. If Boston wins, Theo must re-sign their catcher. The fanbase would not allow them to do the smart thing, which would be to let him go. He'll demand a three-year contract, and they'll have to bite. Winning the championship will keep them from retooling. If they lose, who knows, they might sign CC Sabathia. Or Ivan Rodriguez, either way.
5. Hubris. "It wasn't them planes that killed the beast. It was beauty that killed the beast." That's not just the theme of King Kong. It's the theme of the New York Yankees. We got to thinking that we were beautiful, and we could do anything. I'm not sure we've gotten over our self-infatuation yet, but watching our greatest enemies pleasure themselves at our expense ought to do something. And in the meantime, maybe they'll start thinking that everybody who puts on a Redsock uniform will turn into a champion. As soon as that happens, a tipping point will be reached.
But let's be clear about this: This is all LIPSTICK ON THE PIG. This is turning into one of the lowest points in Yankee history. WE ARE IN A DEPRESSION. And it might just be a long, dark, brutal one.
Hell, maybe Paul Krugman should write sports.
PS: Note that I didn't give any bullshit line about American League pride or anything like that. Don't let anybody tell a Yankee fan that we're supposed to be proud that the Redsocks won, because it uplifts the American League. Never. Never. Never. That's REAL blasphemy.
Court is now in session.
Thank you, your honor. I'd like to call to the stand the defendant, Mr. Joba Chamberlain.
Very well. State your name.
Justin Louis Heath Chamberlain.
OK, uhm, Justin, I want you to tell the court: What is your career earned run average thus far?
And what is your won-loss record?
Six and three.
In other words, you've won twice as many games as you've lost. Am I correct?
You may step down. You're free to go. Your honor, I move that the charges against my client be dealt with under terms of the 2002 Sidney Ponson Act, which state that with a talented pitcher, nothing else matters. And let me add that, hell, your honor, we have nobody else. We're not going to sign C.C. Sabathia. He's Hollywood and Vine. If we get that Burnett guy from Toronto, everybody knows he's the next Pavano. Therefore, I move that we take the normal procedures and punish this man accordingly.
Agreed. Mr. Chamberlain, hold out your wrist. Baliff, render the slap. Court adjourned. Joba, will you sign the docket sheet for my son?
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Lipstick on the Pig Dept: If the Rays lose, they'll replace '04 Yanks as Greatest Chokers in History
If you have the benefit of a blocked memory, here's what happened: The bums led Boston 3-0 before squandering 75 years of Yankee pride in less time than it took America to win the 1990 Gulf War.
Friday, October 17, 2008
NEW YORK _ ACORN, the non-profit coalition of neighborhood groups that has replaced the economy, al Qaeda and former Abbie Hoffmann-wannabees as the greatest threat to America, announced today that it recently registered C.C. Sabathia to vote for the next six years as a New York Yankee.
Under terms of the 6-year deal, Sabathia will receive $100 per day, with the rest of his $120 million contract going to ACORN.
Last month, the Yankees launched a working agreement with ACORN, hoping to sign free agents in the fine print of contracts that appeared to be registering them to vote.
"We've already signed 130,000 free agents," said Yankee President Randy Levine. "I figure that, out of that group, somebody's gotta be able to play first base."
Levine said he was personally intrigued by an "M. Mickey Mouse," who just might be the future centerfielder.
From the Times today... big shitpile starting to teeter...
The chairman of the Congressional subcommittee investigating the tax-exempt financing of the new Yankee Stadium said that city officials could be prosecuted
if the Internal Revenue Service determined they lied about the ballpark's property value.
Based on the $1.2 billion value of the land and the new stadium, the city's Industrial Development Agency issued more than $900 million in tax-free bonds on the
Nice scam. Bump up the assessed value, then borrow off it. Sound familiar?
Of course, these days, corruption is chickenshit if it can't hit a billion.