Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Wholly Toledo!

Based on a suggestion from Yankees Sr. VP Hank "Hank" Steinbrenner, super-secret agent Scott "Time Master" Boras is evaluating the possibility of signing his client, Alex "The Cooler" Rodriguez to the Toledo Mudhens. The team is reportedly considering their options.

Made famous by their #1 fan, Cpl. Max Klinger (below) of the 4077 M.A.S.H unit of the United States Army (Ret.), the beloved Ohio-based team has already envisioned the former NY Yankee third basemen entering the Hall Of Fame as a Mudhen.

A-Rod Answers Your Emails

A-Rod is answering fan emails at his site. The batch that's up is dated October 3rd; hope he updates soon, because I know we all have questions. Here are some of the ones he/Scott Boras/Dana Perino chose in the last round:

What was behind your decision to wear your socks high this year?

How would you, as an athlete, explain the importance of getting an education to youngsters?

Who do you credit your success in hitting and fielding to?

I was just wondering who is your best friend on the team? I also want to know your kids names?

What did you do to get your arm so strong?
SPOILERS: He thinks education is very important; he is close with everyone and has lots of great friends on the Yankees. But he's probably closest with Mo.

UPDATE: A-Rod -- or AROD, as he calls himself -- has a page just for the logos of his "corporate partners!"

The Return of Alvaro Espinosa

I mean Bobby Meacham.

Clearly, Uday and Kusay want to push Big Stein over the edge.

Next up, Dan Pasqua as a special "hitting" coach during spring training. And Eric Plunk in the bullpen.

The Rocket

Once upon a midnight era, while I pondered Yogi Berra,

O'er many our Babes and Scooters, men of dynasties of pinstriped lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a yapping,
Like Big Pappi, loudly crapping, rapping 'bout some final score.
'Tis some Redsock fan,' I muttered, "drunken still, from 2004."
"Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly, I remember; we had rumbled through September,
‘Till our Bronxian troops had snatched a Wild Card from the Tigers’ drawer.
Anxiously, I sought each morrow; for our foes, I’d feel no sorrow,
For we would beg or steal or borrow, tomorrow would be ours for sure.
Beating down the Redsocks in a way no Gammons could ignore,
Owning them, forevermore.
Though some hitters could be chilling, we’d take pleasure on Curt Schilling,
Crushing balls of gopher, wreaking havoc like in times of yore;
And in my heart, though feeling clammy, I imagined beaning Manny,
Manny, being Manny, on his fanny, writhing on the floor.
Send them home as losers, and to us, a series ring restore!
Champions soon, and evermore!
"Suddenly, I felt a shudder, sensed a faint, familiar flutter,
In flew a stubbled chin of rubbled skin of double-grubbled gore.
And there before me, face a-twitter; t'was the famed Piazza-hitter;
He of filth and cheese and splitter, Roger Clemens at my door!
Bigger than Giambi, wide and pinstriped at my chamber door.
Big he was, as Michael Moore.
"Beast!" said I, "Fiend full of might! What evil brings you here tonight?
"What lures you out of Texas to this distant place and littered shore?
"Ancient one, so grand and pro, who hurled for us, once, long ago,
"Tell me, creature, large as train, that we'll rule the Socks again!
"Send them home as losers, and to George a series ring restore?
Quoth the Rocket... “Nevermore.
Soon to FOX, my eyes were peering, long I sat there watching, cheering,
Certain we’d beat Cleveland, for we’d always beaten them before.
Andy, Moose, Chien-Ming Wang! How could anything go wrong?
But then again, I bent to cussing; ‘round our heads I felt a buzzing,
Bugs and mites and pop-ups; we were roasted, toasted, out in four.
Quoth the Rocket… “Nevermore.
And so the Rocket, once rehired, now sits resting, home, retired;
While tears of Suzyn Waldman stain the paint upon my chamber door.
For in his eyes was all the seeming of a Redsock who’d been scheming,
And now his Boston fans are streaming, gleaming from the drinks they pour;
And my team, from hell itself, a curse we're facing to be sure...
It shall be lifted… nevermore.

Mattingly Lashes Out at Giuliani

Wow. Didn't see this coming. Did Rudy seduce his wife or something?

From today's TIMES...

"Trust me, I’m not going to all of a sudden start rooting for the Red Sox,” Mattingly said.

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

If We'd Only Waited One More Day...

We could've hired a man whose name will be forever linked with big Yankee wins: Grady!

He loves only gold.

Only gold.

Stubby Steinbrenner: Workin' Man's Hero

The craziest thing that happened Monday was the public reaction to Hank Steinbrenner telling off A-Rod.
On Yankee forums, fans almost universally praised Hank for taking down the greedy, pampered, millionaire athlete.
Never has class consciousness in America been so distorted. (Well, aside from George W. Bush, but that's another story.)
Here, you got a monosylabic, leisure-suited billionaire's son, ripping a millionaire athlete for valuing money more than loyalty... just days after the team showed no loyalty to its most beloved and loyal manager.
True, A-Rod makes a great villian. And I believe he made a bad decision, one he'll regret the rest of his life. But that's his problem.
Remember: Just because a guy can't talk, it don't make him no man of the people.
Don't get me wrong: I'm glad Stubby said what he said.
But let's not forget who he is... because right now, that why the Yankees are what they are.

Dane Cook Is So Pumped

From his blog* [link]:

Congrats to my Boston Redsocks for winning the World Series. I was there loud and proud representing Redsocks Nation. I gotta admit this was like a fairytale season for me. I gotta admit that. Like a fairytale with a cool success story and a really juicy self-help book all combined only instead of pages and a cover and a price it's all my Redsocks and me. And you my fans, because I take you along wherever I go.

I produced my first film in Boston where I grew up. Also designed my stylin' new line of "threads," or clothes. And rehearsed my new band Funny As Heck. Got to hang with old family and friends and that meant the MOST to me. We'd get into like these misunderstandings but it would all work out and we'd give each other these big hugs and we couldn't help but cry. SO SWEET. Hit 81 Redsock home games all the while hired by MLB to do one of the most artisticly successful ad campains in years. EVERYONE was talking about it (good and bad but bad is good for business. Just ask Pope Benedict. He gets a lotta flak from haters, but his career is still like a raging success) and most people were writing me saying those commercials and my energy and enthusiam and drive and stick-to-it-iveness and hair and stuff made them want to check out MORE baseball. Wow. Goal acchieved. I wish I could go up to each and every one of them and personally take pre-orders for my new CD/DVD, Dane Cook: I Don't Get It.

Now I can finally admit. Sometimes it was hard doing the commercials because I am always rooting for Boston but I had to chat about ALL of baseball. Even other teams that werent the Redsocks. I reallly hate those teams. I call 'em teamholes, or sometimes teamwads. But I wasn't supposed to say those things. Major downer but I kept thinking about me and my career and how I look in my DVDs and movies and it kept me focussed. And I thought about my ever-lovin' Redsocks. Big Peppy and Kirk Schilling and the guys. You never wanna jynx your boys while they are rolling so I was careful with the jargon and scripts.

Image though. I get to be in Boston, film there, be with my closest people and do these ads while my team goes on to win it all and I was there. Not to mention the droves of fans that I got to chill with around Fenway and whatnot. No way around it and I guess forever for me knowing that it will never be so perfect no matter how many times I see the Sox go on to Victory. For this year in my life.

There WAS only one October.
*Transcribed from memory.

Monday, October 29, 2007

"I just can't find one damn thing that you guys have done wrong."

Questions for FEMA's future fake news conferences, by el duque's friend Seely. [Link]

I'm a veteran reporter, and I hate positive stories. I'd much rather destroy people, especially with no facts to get in my way. So, my question is this: What minor tidbit should I gin up into a scandal? Because frankly, I've been digging for weeks, and I just can't find one damn thing that you guys have done wrong.

We are just getting crushed.

BAM. First, we lose to Cleveland.

Then, BAM, we lose Torre.

Then, BAM, we watch Boston beat the Indians.

Then, BAM, we get to meet Hank the Yank Steinbrenner.

Then, BAM, Rudy Giuliani turns yellow.

Then, BAM, we watch Boston clobber Colorado.

Then, BAM, we watch Alex Betray-Us.

What's next?

BAM. We hire Girardi!

BAM. We sign Mariano!

BAM. We sign Jorge!

BAM. Hank takes "Hooked on Phonics" lessons!

BAM. Rudy Giuliani gets busted for cross-dressing.

BAM. We sign somebody, anybody, for a lot of money, just to show we have a lot of money. Schilling? Nah. Lowell? Hmm. That would push the Red Sox to A-Rod! Yesssss!

Only a few months to opening day. And the magic number is INFINITY!

A-Rod has done the impossible!

"Boras and AFraud are world class punks... I'll take my Sox AFraud-free please. Don't need a cancer like that in the clubhouse..."
"The Sox should not touch him and should not even take Boras' calls..."
"A-Rod can go f*ck himself. Just say no to Rodriguez..."
"He's as disingenuous as they come... it's clear that all the ARod bashers were right all along & those of us who defended him were fooled by his empty sincerity... good riddance."
"Does anyone else hope that Jose Canseco really has something on him? Or that he winds up it the Mitchell report?"
"I seriouslly despise him as a person now. What a disgrace!"

The call

"... FROM A-ROD!


A-Rod Bombshell Tabloid Battle

I have to give this one to Newsday. The other headline writers were a-sleep. But respect to the Daily News for splashing it all over front and back. And the Post earns points for this depressing piece of back-page Photoshop:

So... when's the World Series? I haven't heard anything.


Ninety-one million wasn't enough.


(Best news all month.)

Stubby Steinbrenner denies he's stupid

In today's Times...

"The baseball people we have are the smartest guys in the game. I’m not stupid. It’s not like I’m not going to pay attention to what they say.”

By my count, this is AT LEAST THE SECOND TIME IN THREE DAYS that Stubby made it a point to tell the world THAT HE IS NOT STUPID!

He's NOT a dolt. He's NOT retarded. He's NOT stupid.

Are we clear on that?

A friend writes...

The Doc and I were watching Game 4 last night when Fox showed a videotape of the pre-game presentation of the National League Hank Aaron Award to Prince

John Miller said that there were two such awards, one for the most outstanding offensive player in each league. Miller said A-Rod won the American League award, but failed to show up to accept it because of a "prior commitment."

"Well," Doc said, "I guess it's a good thing after all that the Yankees didn't make the Series."

Good point.

Of course, this wasn't the first postseason A-Rod failed to show up for.

Congratulations, Rudy

Your Red Sox won.

Sunday, October 28, 2007

The Daily Stubby

"I’m just like my dad in a big-time way."
Really inspires hope, eh?
(Check out Hank's forehead. It's got abs.)

Saturday, October 27, 2007

The Daily Stubby

We are soooooooooo doomed.

Hank Steinbrenner in front of a mike is like Britney Spears climbing out of a car. You get an unobstructed view of hell.

From today's NYT:

"We’re going to pick whoever’s the best guy for right now, that’s the bottom line. We’ve got the best baseball people. The Red Sox obviously have some good baseball people, as well, but we’ve got great baseball people, including some of the guys responsible for the team in the late ’90s, one of the greatest teams ever.

“So who am I going to go with? The fans and the media — or the best and the brightest, the guys that are the smartest baseball people in the country...

"We’re not going to be stupid.”

Friday, October 26, 2007

For Sale: Joba's pants

Sleeps 10.

Hopefully, doesn't attract gnats.

A true piece of Yankee history.

Rudy's Ring

The asteroid isn't supposed to hit earth until 2027. I'm not sure we're going to make it.

The Daily Stubby

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

From Stubby Steinbrenner in today's LoHurd:

"What we’re looking for is a guy that’s maybe going to be one of the greatest managers, maybe, of all-time, over a period of 10, 20 years, who knows?"
I want to stick my head in a bucket of ice.

Voice of the People

Today's Syracuse Post-Standard

To the Editor,

Joe Torre is no longer manager of the Yankees. They now want him to be the catcher for the team. He said he was too scared to be catcher, and besides, he didn't want to be known as chicken catcher Torre.

Len Jacobs

Rudy Giuliani

Rudy Guiliani, stand-up guy!
Starin' down terror, do or die!
Looking for a leader? He’s your man!
Rudy Giuliani... Redsock fan.

Rudy Giuliani, say no more!
Solid as a rock in the terror war!
Anybody else – an also-ran!
Rudy Giuliani... Redsock fan.

Rudy Giuliani, take no crap!
Standing tall in his Redsock cap!
Staying strong, thick and thin!
Rudy Giuliani... GO SOCKS, WIN!

From the Book of Joe: Joba

And in the summer of 07, Joe’s staff had collapsed of elbow and spirit.
For it had been a six-year drought; Steve Karsay had begotten Paul Quantrill, who had begotten Tanyon Sturtze, who had begotten Kyle Farnsworth, who had begotten Scott Proctor, who burned his clothes and still had begotten a generation of Scrantonites.
And the House of George faced a year without October; for the Bostonites were the most powerful and ruthless nation on earth, and their slaughter of small markets rivaled all empires that had come before.
And one day, Joe appeared unto Cashman, the lord of management, and spake:
“O, Man of Cash, hear me!
“We hath no wings to fly upon, for our bridge to Mariano Rivera hath fallen long ago into sea of Randy Choate.
“In the pit of mid-game, no lead can is safe, no contest secure. Until we find a savior, our battle is lost.”
And Cashman replied:
“Joe, o, ye noble goat of scape, hear me!
“I know of a hummongus being whose girth and growl portend the End of Days. I hath seen the Leviathan, and it is called Joba.
“And though he is but a babe, he hath the size of a whale, the head of a manatee, and the shape of a designated hitter, and his father rolls on wheels, a tale that shall juice the tongue of every working scribe.
“We shall summon Joba from the mines, and he shall be our bridge to heaven. And a child shall lead us.”
And for a fortnight, Cashman’s words came to pass.
For Joba Chamberlain, son of Goose, forded the streams of mid-game to reach the fertile land of Mariano.
And Joe’s weary army survived to another October, where pundits foresaw the House of George reclaiming its rightful throne.
But in the first encounter, a rival tribe routed Joe’s minions.
And in the second skirmish, his army barely held the advantage, as the cock crow grew near.


And Joe called upon Joba to bring heat to the near vanquished hordes.
And then, thick as clouds, a trillion billion gazillion locusts descended upon the field of battle. .
And they did not devour hotdogs of concession.

And they did not devour painted female Ohioites.
And they did not devour the opposing tribe, which huddled safe in its bunker.
But they devoured the Leviathan, Joba.
And the plague covered his face and blinded his eyes and filled his ears and roamed his mind. .
And in the big inning, there was darkness.
And Joe’s legions were routed.
And the House of George summoned Joe unto Tampa, where the Son of the Owner, known as Stubby, spake:
“Uh, Joe, guy, hear me!
“My father hath turned over this stuff to me, and I hath brought think to the day.
“We shalt cut thy pay. We shalt stab thy back. And next year, we shalt whack thee. Here is thy contract. Sign on the line of dots. I gotta go smoke.”
And Joe replied:
“Hear me, o, cancered seedling, Stubby!
“Behold, for the end of days shalt come faster than you planned.
“For me, it cometh now.
“But I shalt testify to things, and all men shall know them to be true.
“For I am the soul of Joe McCarthy, the Scooter, the Yogi and the Clipper.
“And I am the spirit of the Iron Horse, the Mick, the Billy and Whitey – though not in the Gary Sheffieldian sense of the word.
“And all who read these words shall know that sickness and loss can seek any team at any time.
“And all victory is short lived, and all success must be cherished for the way it comes and goes.
“For champions be not made, not born. And they be not purchased, but taught. And they be no imported, but found. And they be not expected, but celebrated.
“And it is over only when it is over. And, yea, it is over. Amen.”

So endeth the The Book of Joe.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Rating The Contenders

PROS: He's a celebrity, just like Joe Torre.
CONS: Didn't I just say he's a celebrity? How could there be cons?

PROS: Not afraid to scream at people.
CONS: Not famous enough to get away with screaming at people.

PROS: Former Royals skipper knows how to handle obscurity and defeat.
CONS: Mattingly will get the job.

Oy! Yankees Sign Hot Israeli Prospects

From the wires:

"The New York Yankees have signed outfielder Jason Rees and catcher Eladio Rodriguez to minor league contracts. Both players participated in the Israel Baseball League's inaugural season in 2007."

The outfielder is 23, and the catcher, a former Redsocks farm hand, is 28.

That's right.

Twenty-three and twenty-eight.

They'll probably play in the lower minors.

Twenty-three and twenty-eight.

Do you ever get the feeling that Boston doesn't really have to be so smart to finish ahead of us?

Progress in Tampa

Statement from Howard J. Rubenstein
Spokesman for The New York Yankees:

"There has been widespread speculation about who the next manager of The New York Yankees will be. The evaluation process is continuing and there will be no immediate decision or announcement."

Translated from the Original Statement
by Hank "Stubby" Steinbrenner:

"Huh? What happened today? I got my hand fukinay caught in the window fan. Three stitches. Tomorrow, we're gonna order Mexican, instead of pizza. Dad wouldn't lemmie use his credit card to make a call. He thought I was calling Lupica. He don't listen. I need a cigarette."

Are the Rockies Worried about Boston's 10th Man?

Think of it this way:

You pitch a good game against the Redsocks, and you find yourself being publicly identified by the Mitchell Commission as a suspected steroid abuser.

Is it worth it?

Was it worth it for Paul Byrd?

Was it worth it for Jason Giambi early this spring?

The message from George Mitchell is simple:


It is time to make a stand. They can kill us. But they cannot make it right.

Rudy Bails

In case you haven't heard... Rudy Giuliani says he's rooting for the Redsocks.

We say:
1. They can have him.
2. He can have them.
3. He just lost the Presidency.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

The Book of Joe: David XXXIII

Rejoice now in the story of the burly warrior, David Wells, who in the annum 2003 inked into print his long-awaited memoirs. But the quirky giant’s quill etched dark and unholy secrets from the House of George.

According to the Book of Boomer, his famous Game of Perfection, five summers earlier, had been rendered while David was recovering from an ill-swollen night of grape gleanings and rank tomfoolery.
According to the Book of Boomer, some competitors were swallowing unlawful elixirs to thicken themselves with devil-forged muscle.
Stunned and violated by David’s false testimony, the Yankees fell into fume and distemper.
After seven days and nights, Joe appeareth unto the false scribe and spake:
“Hear me, o, Boomer!
“Ye hath broken the Golden Code of Silence that Yanks have loved since the time of Sparky Lyle. For mere pieces of silver, ye have betrayed the House of George!
“I condemn thee! I denounce thee! I rebuke thee!
“Ye shall be fined a hundred thousand goats. And ye shall smell the stench that ye hath farted upon all who cherish the spoils of Yank silence.
“This I do decree!”
And so it did transpire.
David, stoned and buttery beneath his pinstriped sackcloth, called a conference of news and spake:
“Hear me, o world!
“I renounce the claim that I birthed my Game of Perfection following an eve of refrocked virgins and shots of meadfire.
“I renounce the claim that some contestants of game have chewed vitamins of deceit to fortify themselves with counterfeit spine.
“I renounce myself for being a bald and larded lout, who hath penned bile in the hope of bedding the runway vixens who shalt rouse a fiery tower from my unremarkable shaft.
“O, I damn myself. I rebuke myself. All in range of my voice, know ye that I am of puke and gulp. I am not just spaking this. I shalt mean each word. Really. Truly. I doth. Verily. OK. Turn off thy phones of mike. Unspool thy cameras. Doth thou hear? We are endeth. Hey, you holes of ass, turn off thy fuckin-”
And among doubters, winds whispered that David’s testimony was born not from righteous self-loath, but deceit.
And writers called for Joe to replace David with the rising God of Potential, Jeff Weaver, son of Kaminecki.
And for a fortnight, the bejeweled Weaver did assume David’s throne within the House of George.
Then, one day, Joe appeareth unto David and spake:
"OK, o, Boomer, listenup!
“Upon reflection, I hath come to see that ye are not a cancer upon the Yanks, but a delightful maker of mirth.
“And I hath come to see that Jeff Weaver is getting absolutely hammered each time his surfer frame ascends the mound of pitch.
“Verily! Ye shall reassume thy place in the rotation. This I do decree!”
And so did it transpire.
And David did lead the Yankees to the Flag of the League.
And David helped vanquish the Bostonites in a great Yank victory.
But during the Series of the World, a bulge in David's back-cake snapped his spirit hymen. And David could not coax hurl against the Marlins.
And the House of George was defeated.
And the guessings of seconds soon seeded boils upon David’s supple breasts.
And David renounced his ties to the House of George.
And he took vows as a Padre in little town of San Diego.
There, his quill would never again see censor.
And there, he brought filth to the End of Daze.

Playing in Peoria

Yankee Game One hero Ross Ohlendorf has joined the Peoria Whateverthefucktheycallthemseves of the Arizona Fall Instructional League.

Yesterday, he pitched a 1-2-3 inning.

Isn't it great to have good news for a change?

My Interview in Tampa

Stubby, Hal, Brian, Sir... Thank you for inviting me here and considering me for Yankee manager.

Simply put, here is what I will do.

1. Let Arod walk. He has the love and loyalty of New York. If he doesn't value it, "So long, Al! Our new 3B is a guy named Derek Jeter. Here's your going-away gifts: earplugs and a vest."

2. Sign Jorge and Mariano. Yanks for life. Yankees! For! Life!

3. Send Mussina, Giambi and Abreu packing. Eat contracts, seduce wives, whatever you gotta do. Wish 'em the best. Not their fault.

4. For once in your miserable, stinking, self-centered lives, think about the team TWO YEARS FROM NOW. (That's 2009 to you, Stubby.) You'll be in the new park. Guess what? Everybody will hate it. The fans will miss Yankee Stadium. Across New York, one question will echo: What the hell was wrong with Yankee Stadium? (Rudy Giuliani had better run for President now, because once people see his stadium, he will become a reviled Yankee presence -- as will you guys.)

Unless you field a great 2009 team, a really great team, the Yanks will lose New York to the Mets (whose fans will shed no tears for Shea Stadium), New England to the Redsocks (who will add more tiers of $500 "working man" seats), and the future to the past (which will be remembered in Yankee Stadium.)

As Yankee skipper...

I promise not to burn out young arms in a meaningless pennant drive.

I promise to find a long-term position for Derek Jeter.

I promise to find somebody who can come off the bench and steal a frickin' base.

And most importantly, I promise to come in third and get fired, thus saving your butts along with the franchise known as the New York Yankees.

Boiling Point

A rising chorus of courageous Yanktriots is signing The Petition to Restore Dignity to Baseball and Truth to America.



"Mitchell is also on the Board of Directors for Disney who owns 80% of ESPN. The parent company of the SF Chronicle, Hearst Communicatios, owns the reamining 20% of ESPN. How convenient!"

"The Red Sox should be forced to forfeit their postseason games and their AL East title."

"This was unethical, rotten and ill-timed. Like Pres. Bush pretending the Citi Bank building was under attack during the Democratic Convention. This purely pro-Boston display is demeaning to baseball."

"Mitchell should NEVER have been allowed to remain on the Red Sox Board of Trustees and conduct MLB's investigation. That is a major conflict of interest.."



The Book of Joe: Song of Rocket

And in the year 2000, the great bringer of cheese, Roger Clemens, returned to the tiny village of Boston, seeking old friends.

But across its pagan tabernacles, those who once exalted Roger now brought hurtful chants about his plumpness and etched crude remarks onto signs and loincloths.
Stricken with woe, the beefy hurler appeared unto Joe and spake:
“Hear me, o, wise and decent Joe!
“Why doth my former lovers now so loathe me? How doth my robust physique come to gird such geysers of venom and spleen?”
Joe placed his calm hand on the pitcher’s abundant shoulder and declared:
“Verily, o, Rocket! Thou art truly King of Pitchers.
“Let no arrows of poison ink draw tight the strings of thy magnificent hams. Their foul showers of spittle shalt never include the spice of truly deserved bile.
“They loathe not you, o, Rocket, but the pinstriped linens that hug your ample buttocks.
“They loathe not you, o, Rocket, but the bareness of their fingers, which hath never felt the warmth of championship ring.
“Go forth, King of Pitchers, with music of chin!
“Go forth, o, Rocket, and hurl!”
But on that day, Roger did not go forth with music of chin or stuff of filth.
Verily! He serveth balls of gopher.
And he suffered smiting from the corked and angry bats of his tormentors.
And he yielded five earned runs in just two innings.
And the House of George was routed.
And the King of Pitchers collapsed into a bottomless despair.
Presently, the form of Joe appeared and spake:
“Hear me, o, Rocket!
“Do not drown thyself in mead or seek thy false salvation of Krispee Kreme.
“Long ago, the House of George foresaw a calamity such as this. At the cost of a hundred Marlins, the Owner hath secured El Duque, the exiled Cuban prince, to hurl on the morrow.
“Behind El Duque, this defeat shall be avenged! The Bostonites shall be vanquished.
“This I do decree!”
And so it came to pass.

Behind El Duque, the Yanks cast out the Bostonites, four games to one, to secure the Kingdom of the American League.
And they went on to capture the Series of the World.
And they went on to frolic on flatbed trucks along the Canyon of Heroes through a glorious deluge of tickertape and feminine undergarments.
And Roger went on to hurl more seasons for the House of George, and the House of Houston.
And in his final appearance in Boston, his accusers stood to adore him as the true King of Pitchers.
But by then, their hatreds had been softened by the warmth of Championship rings.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007


Sign our petition!


"On Oct. 21, several hours before the Cleveland Indians were to play the Boston Red Sox in Game 7 of the American League Championship Series, a media account identified Indians pitcher Paul Byrd as having purchased $25,000 of the illegal substance, Human Growth Hormone.

"The source of the leak had to be someone within the ongoing probe of Major League Baseball headed by former U.S. Senator George Mitchell. Mitchell is a member of the Boston Red Sox board of directors and a well-known, diehard Red Sox fan.

"That his probe would leak the name of a player who might be pitching against the Red Sox that day -- by far, the biggest game of the season -- suggests a calculated attempt to destroy the focus of the player and his team.

"Throughout the Mitchell probe, leaks about players from the Yankees, Indians, Giants and other MLB organizations repeatedly have occurred. Despite their rampant success, no Red Sox players have been identified.


"Commissioner Selig should appoint an investigator to determine the source of the Mitchell Probe leaks. And if it is shown that Mitchell or one of his aides is the source, the Red Sox victory over the Indians -- and its American League East pennant -- should forever be noted WITH THE PRESENCE OF AN ASTERISK."



The Book of Joe: St. Tino

During the 1996 Series of the World, the lifelong covenant between Tino Martinez and his kingly bat fell into sickness and disrepute. After many fevered swishings and empty half-swings, the great and earnest keeper of First appeared unto Joe and spake:

“Hear me, o, Joe!
“My once-vengeful sword sags meekly in my hands, and my wallops bear no scoreboard fruit. With each visit to the plate, my average furrows deeper berries of dingle into my bottomless bottom.”
Joe placed his healing hand upon the citizen slugger and spake:
“Hear this, o, Tino!
“The gritted teeth of stress hath slowed thy swiftly swung sword. Until ye learns to relax, the good wood of thy bat shall torment only air.
“Ye must swaddle thy nerves in silken robes, then pleasure them in the light of candle and music of Mancini mood.
“Ye must take seedpipe in hand, floss clean thy fear and fling sacrifice.
“Whence ye hath achieved this, thy drives again shall pierce outfield foreskins, and blood-red rivers of runs shall flow down the hosed thigh of thy boxscore.”
But, alas, on the morrow, Tino could not summon the birdsong of self-snoggle.
Nor on the next morrow, or the next morrow, or the next.
Finally, without more morrows, Joe appeareth unto Tino and did spake:
“Hear me, o, Tino!
“Until ye drinketh from the well of self-flog, the cob of thy batting corn shall remain mealy and without taste.
“Until thy stroketh returns, the Yankee order shall be inscribed henceforth without thy good name.
“Until the end of this Series of the World, my card of score shall bear in thy stead the mark of the Behemoth: Cecil Fielder.
This I do decree.”
And so it came to transpire.
On the morrow, Cecil Fielder occupied the base of First.
And though Tino’s humiliation was shrieked a million times by the hounds of back page, he rejoiced when the House of George – with Cecil Fielder – bested the tribe from Atlanta in the Series of the World.
And in summers to follow, Tino learned to soothe his twitchery by drawing man-milk from the spiggot of self-shag.
And Tino led the Yanks to great victories, which were celebrated with parades, merriment and slaughter of animals across the Canyon of Heroes.
And because he laid grasp upon Joe's vision
, Tino became a saint in the House of George, until its trust of brains gave ditch to him, as anyone would, so they could sign the mittless brute, Jason Giambi, son of Balco.

Monday, October 22, 2007

Just When We Need It The Most...

Commenters are posting inspiring works of art on my friend Edwar Ramirez' MySpace page:

Laura Bush Meets with Yankee Braintrust

That's Stubby on left, Brian Cashman on right.

Day One from The Book of Joe: Knobbiticus

Now it came to pass in the third summer of his four-annum covenant, a time called 2000, the righteous Yankee warrior Chuck Knoblauch lost his ability to bring direction to the hurl of balls.
Sayers of sooth pondered this omen, and prophets offered solutions. But the more that “Knobby” sought to herd his frantic emissions, the more waxen and leprous his tossings became.

One dusk, Knobby’s errant missile soared so far off course that it nearly slew the mother of Keith Obermann, son of Sevareid, while the matron held a baseline seat. So pocked with guilt was Knobby that the once-great Twin barely could see the outfield through his veil of tears.
That night, Knobby appeared unto Joe’s chamber and spake:

“Hear me, o, Joe!

“My arm mocks God with its treachery.

“’Tis a curse upon the House of George and a stain of camel dung upon our carpeted pennant path. Lend me thy axe, I beg thee, so that I may chop off the fevered limb and feed it to the suited toads of print and byte!”

Joe placed his calm hands upon the mini-brute’s troubled appendage and declared:

“Hear me, o, Knobby!

“Thy demons reside not within thy wing, but within thy mental mind.”

And so Knobby flung himself to the floor and spake:

“If brain it be, then bequeath to me thy trowel, so that I may carve out the infected lobe!

“If brain it be, then clip me unto thy taser, so that I may singe the wormed matter!

“If brain it be, then swing thy scythe neckward, so that my thought cabbage shall plummet, and my eyes at last can gaze up at their meat pedestal, freed of madness and deceit.

“Bolt me to thy bench! Option me to thy Clippers of Columbus! Trade me to the plebes of Kansas City, or to a place where my head can be blissfully shrank!”

For seven days and nights, the jell-haired Yank testified to his sins. Finally, Joe spake:

“All right, all right, all right, o, Knobby, listenup!

“Only ye can smite the vermin that breed beneath your pleasingly oiled quaff.

“Only ye can untempt the lips of self-doubt, which open unto the glistening French tongue of error.

“But fear not for the House of George, o, Knobby, for thy craven seizures shall not unman us.

“On the morrow, ye shall find a seat of pad. In thy stead, we shall martial the tuneful Venezuelanite fielder and batsmith, Luis Sojo.

“For until ye becalms thy derelict oblongata, ye pose threat to all celebrities who occupy seats along the Line of the First Base. And that includes Rudolph Giuliani, son of Koch, heir to Dinkins, and brother of Ailes.

“To preserve the House of George, which seeks a grander Yankee palace hewn of public gold and bejewed boxes of luxury, we must protect the shining forehead of Rudolph Giuliani, our political ticket of meal!

“Verily! And in the spring of 2001, thou shalt move to the far field of Left. There, no stones slung by thee shall ever slay a celebrity or king, or those who service them.

"This I doth decree!”
And so it came to pass.

The following spring, Knobby roamed the far field of Left.
And he ruled the League of Grapefruit.

And he rained frenzy upon his foes through the showery month of April.

And then, without cause, his June bat floundered and died.

And when Knobby’s covenant expired, the House of George exiled him to the crop farms of Kansas City, and his name was never spake again.

And no Person of Very Importance was ever felled by one of Knobby’s ill-aimed pellets.

And Rudolph Giuliani, giver of pork, oversaw many celebrations.

And one day, there shall be a greater and more expensive House of George, born of the public till and ripe with the raised price of tickets, thanks to the wisdom of Joe, the generosity of Rudolph Giuliani and the sacrifice of Knobby, son of Sax.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

10 Seemingly Optimistic Statements by a Yankee Fan That Actually Represent Suicidal Thinking

1. We're used to the Redsocks winning, so this doesn't hurt as much.
2. We'll replace Torre within two years.
3. Soon, we'll have a brand new stadium.
4. Pavano should be back after the all-star break.
5. We'll spend whatever it takes to keep A-Rod.
6. We have fine young players to package in a trade.
7. George won't take this defeat lying down.
8. Frank Thomas is available. Just imagine him platooning with Giambi!
9. Roger Clemens hasn't announced his retirement.
10. Manny Ramirez is right: Losing is not the end of the world.

No Radiohead Song Could Prepare Us For This

Larry Bowa to the Mariners? That would mean the most experienced candidate for the job of Mattingly's bench coach is Suzyn Waldman.

10 Options for Joe Torre, at age 67

1. Manage Pittsburgh Pirates.
2. Announce baseball games.
3. Corporate spokesman.
4. Write kiss-and-tell memoirs.
5. Greeter: Mohegan Sun International.
6. New Liz Taylor husband/caregiver.
7. Infomercials for “Garden Weasel”
8. Counter work in fast-food industry.
9. Sell vital organs for cash.
10. Fight homeless guys for wine in college frat parties.

Saturday, October 20, 2007

A philosophical question

Considering that the Redsocks are rolling to their second World Championship in four years...

Should we care who leaves?

Really. Torre? Arod? Jorge? Mo?

Can it get worse?

(Well, let's keep Jorge and Mo. And the young guys.)

I say, shoot this team, set fire to it, bury it in the ground, then dig it up and shoot it again.

What can be worse than this?

Let the bidding war begin!

Joe Torre needs work, and that’s bad news for E.D.!

Who will buy the ad power of Joe’s Hall of Fame bat!

Viagra? Cialis? Or Levitra?

Whoever wins, they'll enjoy the service of a tough man, powerful, feisty and willing to stand strong and go the distance!

They'll have a sensitive man, one who shows compassion, wisdom and tenderness.
They'll have a great Yankee, a man with relentless endurance, who is not afraid to stay up all night.

But let's hope Joe never faces the nightmare of the extra-innings marathon!

(From the writer of the greatest book ever written)

Zero hour.
Hello-o-o, my flower!

Hour One.
This is fun!

Hour Two.
I’m… overdue.

Hour Three.
I'm still a tree.

Hour Four.
I'm getting sore.

Hour Five.

Hour Six.
Doc, that ice constricts!

Hour Seven.
I still feel leaden!

Hour Eight.

Final Hour.
Plant a flower.

YANKEETORIAL; A plan to get us out of this mess

Face it: Joe is gone. The top Yank minds (see Stubby, left) underestimated the mounting pro-Joe insurgency.

We are trapped in an endless, horrible franchise-building war -- with no exit strategy.

We need someone who can restore Yankeean Pride.

One who is tough, smart, graceful and can find guidance in times of trouble.

Ali Torre!Yes, a woman Yankee manager is long overdue. Ali has proved her knowledge of the players and batting order. She's shown ability to work with coaches and press.

And, as an added bonus, Ali will have the help of her husband, the First Man of the Yankees, who can serve as a good will Ambassador for worldwide Yankee values.