There's Your Karma, Ripe As Peaches

A-Rod 2.0™ Is Hitting Like the Natural

A-Rod 2.0™ (that's right, I trademarked that!) is a man possessed. He's playing baseball like he needs to put food on the table, which is something I never could have imagined. But what's more important than 2.0 playing out of his mind (or maybe he's finally IN his mind?) is that our bats came alive, and Joe Girardi kept his non-managing behind on the bench.

For once, we didn't eke one out and sheepishly tip our hats to brain dead plays from the opposition. With CC Sabathia and 2.0 leading the charge, we completely dismantled the Angels, and there was absolutely nothing they could do about it. But watching 2.0 play like Roy Hobbs at Wrigley Field raises an important question about his past: Is Cynthia Rodriguez 2.0's Memo Paris? 

Hang in with me here! In his post-season career, 2.0 has managed the following numbers: 

Before Cynthia ('95 - '00)
18/53, .339 BA, .375 OBP, .566 SLG (World Series MVP in the making?)

Cynthia ('04 - '07)
23/94, .244 BA, .372 OBP, .436 SLG (Pinch hitter in the making?)

After Cynthia ('09)
11/27, .407 BA, .469 OBP, 1.000 SLG (Oh my bloody G-d)

As you can see, that ravenous bitch sucked out 2.0's life force and stored all his power in her biceps, so this theory is totally valid. But this revelation begs another important question - if Cynthia is Memo Paris, who is Iris Lemon? I'd say it is Kate Hudson, who is not only cute and friendly but also seems to be the first woman in 2.0's life who can't bench press him with her vagina's labia majora. Then again...

... who's to say who serves as Alex's muse? All I know is that this person needs to be wary. A-Rod 2.0™ is in beta until the end of the 2009 season, and the last thing the Yankees need is some random glitch jacking up the final stages of installation.

Hey, Good Lookin' - That Means You, Teixeira!

I posted this image by mistake but since it's been up for a couple days, I'll add a little text -- not really for your amusement but because I hate the way the post formatted without it.

For Americans who don't know the identify of this modern day Venus, meet Camilla Parker-Bowles. She not only serves as the Duchess of Cornwall but also concrete proof that money, fame and blue-blood status have no bearing on one's taste in women. 

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In other news of pure awesomeness, the New York Yankees just signed Mark Teixeira to an 8-year, $170+ million deal.

Sabathia, Burnett (meh), Tex. Who are these mysterious chaps in the front office and what have they done with Brian Cashman?! It's as if someone wants the Yankees to win again!

Now, I'll be honest - I remain thorougly unhappy that we solve problems by dumping billions of dollars into the laps of high-flying free agents. $400+M are tied up in our 3 recent acquisitions but at least Sabathia and Teixieira don't require Metamucil and Flomax prescriptions. At least they aren't 8 years past their primes. If we're going to spend money like a drunken hillbilly in a whorehouse, the least we can do is spend it on the best tarts in the building. Two of our recent moves reflect such thinking.

You know, when Madonna's roided up vagina prison trapped Alex Rodriguez a few months ago, I knew the Yankees could be in serious trouble for years to come. With the Yankees' hitting troubles and complete lack of pitching, the last thing we needed was that evil succubus turning A-Rod into the Guy Ritchie of baseball.

But with Teixeira in the lineup, we might just be okay. All we need now is another starter or bullpen arm and a relationship shakeup and the New York Yankees are back in business... the business of winning championships (that was cheesy and I am ashamed. My apologies).

Huzzah!

South African Hookers Jinx The Three Lions

While having my senses abused by Joe Morgan during the Yankees/BoSux game last night, I noticed that Peter Gammons' teeth are an amazing shade of butter. I know he's this legend and all but he's not so big that someone at ESPN - or maybe even his bloody wife - can't force him to put a tube of Crest and maybe even some of those fancy White Strips to use. Being a Hall of Famer shouldn't mean that you can get away with having teefuses that, if pulled out and sold, can put Parkay out of business. Unacceptable.

--- 

But to the story at hand. It's well known that huge sporting events like the World Cup, Olympics and Super Bowl are boons for the skin trade. After the host site is announced, girls from far and wide grab their chinchilla coats, head to the destination like birds flocking south and get prepared for the influx of indiscriminating, drunken chumps with money to burn on cheap ass. You'd think they'd be unbiased about the fans coming in to cheer on their teams but it seems that when you're in the game of blowing and blanking as many men in possible, the nationality of your punters can be an important factor. At least, that's what these South African hookers believe. 

Meet Levola, Yolanda and Samantha [Note: moments before the interview, the trio was fined by police for exposing themselves to drivers] - three prostitutes from a South African shanty town that link England's success in World Cup qualifications to the prospects of escaping prostitution. According to them, the Army of the Three Lions (that's really what we should be called, you know) will bring in a wealth of cash:

“We just can’t wait. We only get paid about £10 for sex when drivers stop for us here. English men will pay a lot more...

Why, because they can't do better at home?

"We’ll probably have to fight over them with the girls who already have pitches in that area, but it will be worth it." - Yolanda Lorika

Now, a part of me thinks, "Hey! Maybe it's time you raise your games, you filthy mingers! Work harder, blow faster, incorporate something new. There are three of you - maybe you can put on a show! If you get creative over the next two years, you may not have to worry about having the jackhammer taken to you 1,800 times over by insane Englishmen and getting your hips broken. Besides, if that happens, then how will you make money??" But then I realize I'm just being a a foul asshole. So let's look at this realistically:

But when those good feelings come with a side of HIV, that's no good for anybody. You see, one in every two South African hookers is dogged with that pesky, fatal occupational hazard and no matter how much bad I wish upon our stupid hools, all that will happen is that these diseased bints will infect them and they'll bring the bug back to the Isles. How delightful.

Our only hope is that every single one of them chooses to forgo the hordes of toothless women lining the dirt roads and opts instead for 3 or 4 minutes with the chicks in this interview - modern marvels that have beaten the odds thus far by stealing heaps of condoms from the free clinic. 

“They would give us some for free, but not enough for our work,” said Lavola, who spurned paid sex with a Somalian man because a Nigerian man was willing to have sex in the comfort of his own home (and give her £7).

How very classy of the Nigerian man.

It's fantastic that these chicks are eager to get drilled into oblivion by the debauched nutters in our fanbase but let's be real here --- The Three Lions have left England in a state of perpetual pain and heartache since the 1960s, with each year more shameful than the last. The more people depending on this team's success, the worse they fail. So why these dumb bitches really think England is going to come through and help them get off the mean dirt streets is beyond me. If anything, we're more jinxed now than ever.

Thanks, South Africa! 

Yankees Smoked by the Royals -- Again

I leave XM Radio's MLB Home Plate on in my office most of the day and when I came back in yesterday afternoon, Rob Dibble was busy fellating himself over being so fearsome on the mound from about 1990 - 1992. This is a pretty run of the mill occurrence on The Show, a shitefest hosted by Dibble and Kevin Kennedy - a couple of assclown braintrusts with no opinions that make any sense. When they aren't congratulating each other on careers well done or getting unnecessarily furious about this topic or that, they attempt to answer questions from hapless callers.

Yesterday featured a call from a panicked Tigers fan that was concerned over the (then) 0 - 7 squad's chances of making the post-season. No really - I'm serious. And I don't mean that he was worried. He was in an absolute fright. How could that hack Jim Leyland engineer such a catastrophe? How can the 2nd highest payroll in the league not make the post-season? So much for hope.

And he's right. Looks like it's time for that paper bag, Tigers Fan.

Though no team has ever gotten to the post-season after losing its first 7 games, you don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that there are 154 games left to play and these are the Detroit Tigers, not the Texas Rangers. [I can't believe I just said that.] Hell, you shouldn't even have to be a Rob Dibble.

But rather than talk about a week's worth of games full of flukes, aberrations and mishaps or the fact that the Tigers are a good ball club with good hitters making mental errors and pressing a bit too much, the Nasty Boy took up the torch and pitchfork. After excoriating the organization for being such a colossal waste of talent, he and Kennedy then tried to calculate the number of games Detroit would need to beat the odds, eventually deciding that going .500 in April MIGHT leave Detroit with a chance but even then - who knows because other teams are good too - like the Royals and the Cubs!

Seriously? Is this where my subscription money is going? To keep this mindless dickbag employed? They can't find anybody better than this? The reality is that at 1-7, the Tigers are 3 games behind the Indians - their true competition come September. And with their lineup, this team should be able to sleepwalk through April and still be able to hit their way into the wild card. Christ, the Yankees don't even get out of the rocking chairs to participate in the league schedule until it gets warm in mid-June.

Case in point, here's where we are now:

• .244 BA (.167 RISP), 21 walks and 25 runs (Detroit has 22 runs)
  
• Errors in seven games in a row and no steals
  
• Like Torre, Girardi seems unaware that Kyle Farnswacker sucks balls
• Posada has a dead arm and Jeter has some flaws in his nether region.
  

And honestly, I can deal with all of that for now. Even being outscored 19 - 7 in two losses to Tampa Bay, which is pathetic, can be taken in stride... I think. But something that cannot be tolerated - and something even the Tigers wouldn't allow - is scoring just 2 runs in 2 games against the Kansas City Royals.

We're missing Jeter and Posada, sure, but that's no excuse for getting pwned by the dregs. Zach Greinke shut us down and shut us out, allowing 6 weak sauce hits over 8 innings.

Have we no pride? Is there no line that is drawn where the team agrees to not be bent over and rogered by every perennial bottom dweller in the league? Now, I know that the Royals are all new and improved but they're still the Royals and managing 2 runs with Rodriguez, Matsui, Abreu, Damon and Cano in the lineup is nothing short of foul. That said, at least we're not the Tigers. If you haven't heard - they're not gonna make the playoffs. Chumps.

Time Began On Opening Day - Last Week

I'm sure I'm late on this but am I the only one that didn't realize that with Opening Day just 24 hours away (not that hyped up bullshit on ESPN), the true Opening Day has already come and gone?

Last Tuesday, I caught all of the news about the Red Sox trip to Japan to take on the A's and what a magical event it was. Hell, I even caught a small portion of the game before flipping on MTV to watch that horrific yet oddly captivating America's Best Dance Crew (Go Kaba Modern!!).

As it turns out, the entire country of Japan showed up for this spring training nonsense. Highlights included Daisuke Matsuzaka being treated like the Second Coming of Jesus and Manny Ramirez jacking a couple homers so monstrous another Godzilla was likely awakened in the Pacific. Now, I paid this news no mind because, like I said a moment ago, this was spring training nonsense.

But alas - this was actually Opening Day. The Opening Day. The only day of the spring so holy and glorious (and non-denominational even) that it deserves to be revered and celebrated at least on the same level as Thanksgiving. This a day that brought us Hank Aaron's 714th and Bob Feller's no-hitter. It's a day so woven into the fabric of the national consciousness that it has become the only true symbol of rebirth - not just a sign that the despair of winter is long gone but of your team's hopes and your ability to bump gums all year about your chances. Not only that, it brings millions together - all playing hooky from their respective life situations - in the joy and anxiety of knowing that if your team wins that day, you're not gonna lose em all and maybe, just maybe that "next year" you're always crowing about, has finally arrived.

But no. Leave it to the federal government to thumb its nose at a nation and celebrate President's Day instead. Where does that get us? A day off to hit that big sale at Kohl's and pick up a piece of cherry pie down at the senior center? Please. But leave it up to Bud Selig to take advantage and shit all over our special moment by shipping Opening Day off to Tokyo and then having the nerve to brag about it:

"Not only do you feel that you're watching history in the making, but we're doing what we really set out to do.... "The game has never been more popular than it is in the United States today. Our goal is to take that popularity and make it worldwide."

Hey dummy, here's a tip - THE JAPANESE ALREADY LIKE BASEBALL! This is about like the English Premier League shipping its opener to Brazil to drum up international support and then sucking each other's dicks over the success once a frenzied riot breaks out in the stands and the stadium catches fire.

Yet again, it's time for someone to kick Bud Selig in the sodding face... GO YANKEES!

A-Rod Selfishly Helps Yanks Afford Pitchers

To A-Rod: Thank you for hitting .314 with 54 homers, 156 runs batted in and .839 RISP this season. Without it, I wouldn't have had the luxury of bitching about and, eventually, melting down over the Yankees playoff result. Your regular season magic was and is highly appreciated - just as it was last year and the year before that. I hated you for a long, long time but I eventually came around before this season, finally recognizing that you played your heart out for us, day in and out. I would have loved for you to stay in pinstripes for the rest of your career. Hell, it even seemed like you might be down for the ride, dropping two ridiculous lies in as many months:

"This feels like home. It’s hard to believe that I played for another two organizations. So much has happened to me here, adversity, some success, that I feel like anything but New York feels weird for me now."

“I understand I have an option, but I want to be a New York Yankee.”

But alas, your pimp has spoken - amazingly, on the same night that you dare to snub Hank Aaron, a man of penultimate integrity and class... Looking back, that seems painfully appropriate. Apparently, you can't deal with the uncertainty of not knowing "what the composition of the team was going to be." As if the brass isn't going to pony up the money to keep three of the four remaining pillars of recent Yankee lore. Correct me if I'm wrong, Alex, but aren't you the same whore that signed a $252 million contract to play for a team that called Rick Helling its ace and had Dough Davis leading the pitching lineup with a 4.45 ERA? How dare you have the audacity to talk about team composition. You are a prostitute and a weasel and worse, Alex Rodriguez, you are not a man.

A man comes correct with honesty. He stands up and says, "Thanks for the opportunity but New York's not for me," "I want to test my value on the free agent market," "I want to define my legacy on a championship team." Those comments would have stung but at least you'd have your dignity and your pride. By feasting on the mercenary market, the Yankees set ourselves up for those possibilities. We could have handled it.  But no. Instead of standing up and dishing truth, the only thing you manage to accomplish is proving that you are a sackless, vacuous punk. What a legacy, Alex.

Don't let the door hit you and your tepid .136 postseason average and 0/18 RISP in the ass on the way out, you fucking weasel.

Red Sox Punt Tim McCarver Into Broadcaster Abyss

As you all know, the Boston Red Sox unceremoniously punted the Colorado Rockies into the mountains last night for their seventh World Series Championship. Unless you live a mile above sea level, this wasn't a surprising result. Sure, no one guessed that the Rockies would tighten up like a gnat's chuff, roll over and die but let's be real - the only question was how long this would last, not who would win. All the same, it was a nauseating result. But while kneeling in front of the toilet after watching the Sux celebrate, I realized that there is a silver lining to this quick result: 6 months without Tim McCarver!

That's right - no Tim McCarver "analysis," no "Tim McCarver Show," no Tim McCarver anything. Just sweet  silence. And for that, I want to express my undying gratitude to the Boston Red Sox. By all but raping the Rockies in record time, they have ushered this addlepated baboon into the broadcaster abyss until March 30. Sure, Screamin' A. Smith and a legion of jackass basketball personalities stand to infect the airwaves in only a matter of days, but a season of that isn't nearly as painful as three more games with Tim McCarver.

As such, I leave you with a few parting remarks of Game 4 idiocy from the only man that can make the ears of a nation bleed (all comments provided in context):

On Manny Ramirez and aerodynamics while he's at the plate in the 3rd....
Joe Buck (JB): Last night doing what he has done throughout the post season and throughout the season... with the dreadlocks, running the bases, last night kicking his helmet back into foul territory and last night tagged out at the plate on a throw from Matt Holliday in left (long pause) but that's part of his action around the bases.
Tim McCarver (TM): It certainly does not make you faster.
JB: With two outs, there's a strike on the outside corner.
TM: If that were the case, you'd be seeing marathon runners wearing helmets... hundred yard dash guys wearing helmets.

It's as if McCarver believes Ramirez is wearing the helmet for speed. It's not a fucking jetpack, you daft bastard. You don't throw it off and get a boost! Amazingly, this continues:

JB: Well, last night was the first time we've seen it in the post-season where he pushed it off and it came back and hit him in the heel.
TM: First time we've seen it hit him on the heel... RIGHT.

Yes, Tim. That is right. Don't act like you're combing through your memory banks to check Joe's facts. We all know you've got the short term retention ability of Leonard Shelby. As ironic proof of this, McCarver re-tells the story of Manny's base-running/hat issues in the bottom of the 6th, as if the previous conversation never occurred. Joe Buck, as usual, responded with silence.

On Hank Aaron during the recap of Prince Fielder receiving the Hank Aaron Award...
TM: If there was anybody in baseball history with a more appropriate nickname, HAMMER (McCarver's emphasis), could he ever "hammer."
TM: You could take those 755 homeruns away and he'd still have 3,000 hits 

Pitcher Aaron Cook bats for the Rockies in the bottom of the 5th...
TM: I know Aaron Cook is a good hitter, but I don't think he can hit right here. The Rockies have 14 outs with which to score at least 2 runs. That's provided they hold the Red Sox down.
*Cook bunts*
JB: He pushes a bunt past the pitcher and has a base hit! That's the first time that a Rocky hitter has pushed a bunt to the right side, and once it got past Lester, it was a base hit.
TM: But he wasn't up there hitting, he was up there bunting! 

No, that's not a typo. During the commercial break, McCarver thinks up a way to redeem himself and drops this nonsense in the top of the 6th:

TM (confused): With Ortiz coming up, why didn't the manager have someone pinch hit for Cook last inning? I mean, Cook got a bunt hit, yeah, but you're taking the chance that he won't and there's an out! I'm just talking probabilities of getting a man on base here. You gotta pinch hit!

Oh really? Maybe that's why you're in the booth with Mr. Slamalamadingdong and not managing in the World Series, Tim. But I suppose it could be worse. You could be Dayn Perry of Foxsports.com, who suffered a case of Rocky Mountain hacking (click to enlarge):

In any case, thank you, Boston. Thank you for ripping off the proverbial bandaid as quickly as possible. I don't think I could have stomached much more... too bad you can't do anything about Dane Cook as well, but I suppose he's one of yours, isn't he? That just about figures.

Rudolph Giuliani Is a Traitor, Fraud and Whore

Rudolph Giuliani is dead to me.

In an attempt to curry favor with voters in New Hampshire, that poll-riding hooker switched allegiance from the New York Yankees to the Boston Red Sox.

"I'm rooting for the Red Sox," the Republican presidential contender Tuesday told a Boston audience, just a few T stops from Fenway Park. "I'm an American League fan, and I go with the American League team, maybe with the exception of the Mets. Maybe that would be the one time I wouldn't because I'm loyal to New York."

Loyal to New York? The only things Rudy Giuliani is only loyal to is his career and, given the amount of wives and mistresses he's had, his penis. Mets support? Please. And that American League argument is even worse. The league line is reserved for the half-hearted and the bandwagon-jumpers. It's not for people that claim undying loyalty for sides steeped in history, pride and tradition. The fact that Giuliani is using it is not only foul and fraudulent but also completely insulting.

I can't even begin to fathom how Giuliani has the audacity to think something like this would ever be acceptable. Duke fans don't throw on Carolina blue when North Carolina is contending for national championships. Manchester United supporters don't sport kits of The Mighty Arsenal when we're riding high in the Champions. Why would anyone ever logically believe that a supposed diehard New York Yankees fan would switch allegiances because of league affiliation?!

Real Yankees and Red Sox fans would rather throw themselves off a bridge before rooting for their rival in ANY situation. It could be Red Sox vs. The Antichrist and I'd be on the sidewalk rocking the sign of the beast and talking smack about how eternal hellfire and damnation rules the school. But not Giuliani. That rat-faced cunt sold us out for an election and what's worse is it's not even the main one! It's a fucking primary!

"Somehow it makes me feel better if the team that was ahead of the Yankees wins the World Series," he told a group of mostly local reporters in explaining his sudden backing of the Red Sox, "because then I feel like, well, we're not that bad."

Later, at a town hall meeting in Lebanon, N.H., Giuliani yukked it up with a couple of audience members who were wearing Sox caps. "If I keep looking at that hat, I may start crying," he said to chuckles, before adding, "Good luck to the Red Sox!"

All this proves is that Mayor 9/11 was never a real Yankees fan in the first place and for that, he should never show his face in the Bronx again. Frankly, I think he may need to stay out of New York City altogether. For years, Yankee Stadium has been Giuliani Propoganda Stadium, throwing him on the jumbotron more than the score. He's on before, during and after the game. He has pre-recorded "Go Yankees!" video clips and his traitorous cunt face is all over the place during "God Bless America." Rudy Giuliani needs to transfer his headquarters to Massachusetts, as he should not be permitted to further insult and taint the City of New York with his cowardly suck.

Before I go break something, here's what I would like to know - how can anyone trust him now? Sure, he's a politician, which makes him a weasel by default, but if he is so sackless and weak that he cowers on his knees at the feet of Red Sux Nation, how is he going to stand up to Iran? Two years from now, we'll turn around and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad will be dropping bombs on Israel while Giuliani waits on the sidelines to give him a rimmer.

As far as I'm concerned, Hizzoner can eat a dick. But that'll be no trouble for him, as I'm sure they're offering plenty of it with a side of chowda on Yawkey Way.

You Just Failed the World, Cleveland!

Disclaimer/Admission: I have no right to bitch. I am a fairweather fan and, therefore, a complete disgrace.

In the last week, I have become the Cleveland Indians' biggest "no right to root for them" fan. I threw on my brother's offensive Chief Wahoo hat and memorized each player's stats and skills to ensure that I could run my mouth with accuracy and conviction. I bumped my gums to any Sox fan within earshot and as Cleveland racked up wins, I was well on my way to a restoration of playoff happiness.

But then came game 5, where the Indians decided to make a run at the 2004 Yankees' title for most humiliating and pathetic ALCS collapse. Why? It's anyone's guess. The only thing I can figure is that rules of nature are violated if the city of Cleveland isn't mired in misery and defeat. A proper victory might mean the Indians would have to move to a new city where hope and happiness reign and hey, Denver already has a team. A miracle/storybook/heartwarming/Cinderella/unlikely/more Joe Buck adjectives and phrases team.

But oh well, right? At least Eric Wedge is calm and keeping things in perspective.

"We won three games in a row and they won three in a row," Indians manager Eric Wedge said. "I'm disappointed, obviously, we weren't able to finish it off."

Yeah, so are we, Eric. I'm not speaking to you as a legit Indians fan but as a Yankees fan that rabidly supports any team that could/should bust the Boston Red Sox in the mouth.

There are rules to this game. There are protocols and policies. If you beat the Yankees in post-season play and the Red Sox are next on the menu, it is your duty to defeat them. It's not "well, we just wanna play good baseball and we'll see how it goes." No, "see how it goes" is not how it works. "See how it goes" is loser talk. Once you are in a position to beat the Boston Red Sox into submission, it is incumbent upon you to do so by any means necessary. If nothing else, it's simply a matter of common decency.

Naturally, there is a strategy to this. When managers find themselves in a potential giant-killer run of Yankees then Sux, they should understand that they can't use up their entire arsenal on Yankees. It's pretty obvious to anyone that isn't completely delusional that we turtle up and die the second Dane Cook shows up on air to obnoxiously proclaim that it's "Actober." (When is that douchebag's 15 minutes up???) Yankees in the playoffs is defined by horrendous pitching, dead bats and bad luck. We are never long for the pasting these days. As such, Wedge should have known that he could save some things in his bag of tricks for the ALCS. The 11th Plague of Egypt would have been a little more helpful in, I don't know, Game 5 of the ALCS, wouldn't it, Indians fans? Instead, it was wasted on a team that couldn't produce with runners in scoring position if they were playing against a pitching machine in Central Park.

Nice strategizing, Wedge. You blew your wad too soon and now I have to become the Colorado Rockies' biggest "no right to root for them" fan. And thanks to a 10-day vacation, which has seen the Rockies' mojo sucked dry by constant fellating from both the media and women, they will inevitably come out clouded, rusty and overconfident. By the time they come to, the Sux will be up 3-0 in the World Series. Great. Just great.

Post-ALDS Meltdown

So I cried on Tuesday night. I can admit it now. It wasn't a boo-hooing sobfest or anything... I'm not an 80-year-old delusional Cubs fan. But when the Indians stormed the field, I started throwing anything I could get my hands on before running out of my house in madcap hysteria, cursing the gods, George Steinbrenner and nature herself. Sure, you say I should have known better.. that I should have seen it coming. But I didn't.

Was I being smacked over the head with signs? Oh, sure. Brian Cashman allowing Ian Kennedy run off to get married; Chien-Ming Wang throwing beach balls over home plate; Roger Clemens pulling up lame and rubbing our noses in it with that ever-present Cingular commercial; lineup going 1 for 11 with runners in scoring position and 2 outs, hitting .228, managing eight runs on 6 solo homors and stranding 24 runners on base; God sending one of the Plagues of Egypt to attack Joba Chamberlain. I'm not even going to mention Alex Rodriguez. But through all of that and more, I honestly believed my Yankees would pull it out until the 27th out was officially logged and Jorge Posada's whif lead directly to the thunderstorm that blanketed Japan today.

In any case, I made my way into the street, where a crowd of random passersby watched me have a complete and total meltdown. After they ran away, I continued to rant and rave like one of those homeless crazies you find under a Central Park bridge, and, somewhere along the way, suffered an involuntary stream of tears. I really don't know when they started... I came out of my dementia cloud to find my face soaked and tears still falling. There wasn't much I could do to stop them... borne of frustration, anger, annoyance and dashed hope, they continued for at least ten minutes.

After a while, I pulled myself together, had a shower and a lot of sex. It's amazing how little those things helped. By morning, I was back to wallowing and lashing out at anyone who even had a hint of a smirk.

I'm pretty sure most of my morning conversations went something like this --

Victim: Good morning!

Me: GO FUCK YOURSELF! I WILL NOT BE MOCKED! 

Even now, I can't really make heads or tails of it - the loss, I mean, not my behavior. Dead in the water at Memorial Day, my Yankees stormed through the rest of the season to take the Wild Card and actually make a brief but futile run at the AL East. It wasn't like we were fighting tooth and nail at the end and barely squeaked into the playoffs. It was ours for a month. We owned the Wild Card fight and for once, the New York Yankees were going to be the hot team! And it'd be us that steamrolled over the complacent division champions for our shot at Number 27. But alas. Here we are again.

After the Alex Rodriguez exercises his contract and heads off to Anaheim or Chicago, I'm going to take a Yankees news nap. When I wake up, I hope to find:

• Joe Girardi as the manager
  
• Pitching staff of Andy Pettitte, Joba Chamberlain, Chien-Ming Wang, Ian Kennedy, Phil Hughes, Mo Rivera, Luis Vizcaino, an innings eater, a solid long man and a stable of healthy, young middle relievers
  
• Carl Pavano, Kyle Farnsworth, Mike Mussina, Jason Giambi and Kei Igawa relocated to the Lost island
  
• Johan Santana
• A-Rod magically still in pinstripes (that's right!)
  
• Another outfielder with an arm and some pop in his bat

Too much to ask? Of course it is. This time next March, I'll find this:

• No decision on Torre's employment
• Pitching staff of Andy Pettitte, Joba Chamberlain, Chien-Ming Wang, Ian Kennedy, Phil Hughes, and a stable of discontented, young middle relievers that are constantly offered as trade bait
• Mike Mussina and Jason Giambi doing Snickers commercials from Yankee Stadium
  
• Barry Zito
• Barry Bonds
  
• Juan Pierre

Barry Bonds - Always One Step Ahead

I have to think that an ounce of Frank Thomas' love is 100 times more potent than anything Victor Conte could whip up in a lab. Two drops of his freak of nature sweat would cause even a normal man to grow hair on his chest and wrestle a grizzly bear. God knows what it would do to someone that uses the cream like Jergens. As an added benefit, this method is far more discrete than going Jason Giambi with a syringe in the arse in some random clubhouse stall (especially in San Francisco).

Since I'm a Barry Hater and, as such, a huge racist, I hope he spontaneously combusts sometime in the next 5-7 days, but I'd be a petty fool if I didn't recognize and applaud such a fantastically creative effort.  

Good on ya, Barry! Keep it up.

Ain't No Other Man

Is it necessary to explain how amazing Andy Pettitte is or can you figure it out for yourself? Because if you can't, I will happily make a case! .... Alright then.

Now, I could make a case based on stats or opinions... if I go with opinions, they'd be tainted with bias because he's my favorite Yankee of all time and I'm also interested in bumping off his wife and replacing her in the middle of the night. But if I choose to go with stats, you'd stop reading. So let's go to a world where most meatheads like myself fear to tread -- science!

Hypothesis: Andy Pettitte is God.

Data: Andy Pettitte doesn't have the arm strength of Chien-Ming Wang, the arsenal of Mike Mussina or the element of surprise of rookie Tyler Clippard but he doesn't need it. He comes to the game with a fastball, cutter and an assurance that he'll die before he lets you down. Unlike Moose, who wets himself these days against the likes of Julian Tavarez, Pettitte brings that Jordanesque "time running of the clock" quality to the mound. Give him the ball when it matters most, and he'll deliver.

Though he started the season looking like another overpaid oldster with waning skills, Pettitte has since turned on the magic. He'd be the Cy Young favorite right now, sitting somewhere around 6-1 with 8 quality starts in 10, if the bullpen didn't go all Heathcliff Slocumb every time he was on the mound. True, he's only struck out 35 batters in 64 1/3 innings (including a mere two against the Sux last night), but he has surrendered just 64 hits and boasts and ERA of 2.66. Some may call it good defense and a little luck but as far as I'm concerned, he's been nothing short of amazing. And last night, he showed us exactly why he was signed -- to beat the Red Sox and prevail after a loss.

A huzzah to you, sir! 

Theory: Andy Pettitte is an angel sent by God to help the Yankees snag the Wild Card.

Okay, that wasn't remotely scientific but you have to give me points for using "hypothesis" and "theory" in the right order.

A Near Slip Into Yank Fan Douchebaggery

I'm wearing my Pettitte home jersey today. Normally, my wardrobe is not worthy of comment but I was just heckled for it at Outback by this sodding rotter with a cowboy hat, a wad of dip in his lip and a Texas sized belt buckle that was hanging on for dear life. By the time I spotted the tufts of hair sprouting out the neck hole, I was through. He was like a hybrid of Carl from Aqua Teen and that terrorist that they dragged out of a German apartment, topped off with a little redneck style.

Carl: "How's that Mary-ann-oh Rivi-era pitching this year? Oh, I remember. Not as well as a young man named Bobby Jenks!"
Me: Yeah
C: You know about him?
M: Yeah
C: So what're them Yanks about 11 games behind Boston now?
M: 8.5
C: Who's that jersey you're wearin?
M: Andy Pettitte
C: Well ain't you a find! A girly fan wearin a jersey of somebody that's old enough to be her daddy!

To this point, Carl didn't said anything I didn't already know or wasn't willing to acknowledge. Frankly, I was just glad he was so tame. There's nothing worse than being made fun of when you don't have a response other than that which is fit for obnoxious fanboys that can't form a real argument.

Look, I have total faith that the Yankees will come around. I know the Sux have gone off the deep-end but 75% of the season remains. If we can just get the hitting squared away and get a couple streaks and sweeps (like NOW), we're gonna be all right. This team was built for a post-season run and we're going to need to be 20 games out in September before I give up hope. But I'm smart enough to understand that you can't come to an argument with ifs, buts, faith and hope. So I kept up this, "yeah, well we'll see" response while he prattled on about the obvious.

C: That's what's wrong with you Yankees! Y'all won't ever win a World Series!...and Clemens, heeee-whoooo, you'll regret it. You'll regret it...the pitching is HO-rrendous!... Y'all deserve this.

And that's when I heard it. This voice in my head that yelled, "26 Championships! Tell him THAT! Tell him 26 championships! That's what we have! HIS team doesn't!" I didn't want to. I'm better than this! But my hand started to shake. I bit my lip and tried to ride it out but the inner monologue wouldn't shut down. As he continued, I only heard bits and pieces... random, typically unoffensive phrases that left me on the verge of a breakdown:

Carl: ... couldn't happen to a better fanbase
Inner Monologue: We have the classiest fans in baseball!
C: ... complainin and you don't even know what you got!...
IM: 9 straight AL Easts! I think we know!!
C: ... Yanks are over.. you've had your time you know what I mean?...
IM: We're only the greatest dynasty in sports... 26 fucking championships
C: ... and what's his name? Cashmens?...
IM: TWENTY-SIX
C: ... White Sox just took 2 from y'all too!
C: ... Rodriguez...
IM: TWENTY SIX!
C: ... A-Rod...
IM: TWENTY SIX!
C: ... and Jeter's not even THAT good!
IM: AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! TWENTYYYYYY SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIX!

And that's when I noticed him staring at me. Apparently, I hadn't verbally responded in quite some time but had turned beet red and was blinking at an alarming rate. All I really noticed by that point was that the voice had started to fade and left a pounding headache in its wake. And I don't mean the subsurface pulsating that makes you consider picking up a Tylenol on your way out the house. This was fierce and relentless like a piston driving into my skull. I don't even know how it happened. I just internally lost it. And after looking at him for a few moments, all I could muster was a "Well, I still have hope." With that, he was out of there. I can't say I blame him.

But it's not the meltdown that bothers me. It's the thoughts that ran through my head while it was happening. There has never been a point in my life when I was confronted with anti-Yankite nonsense and nearly responded like my brain was made out of fanboy cheese. I'm completely baffled by it. Our club is in a jam but we're not so bad off that the only place I can turn is "26 Championships!" Usually, I can form cogent arguments - stats, facts, information. Usually I have something to hang my hat on. But not right now. All I have are my ifs and buts and candy and nuts. It's disgusting. I have to be better than this. Maybe I was just hungry and my slow brain function sparked all of this. Whatever the cause, I'm just glad I didn't actually vocalize those ridiculous thoughts but that notwithstanding, I am officially in a shame spiral.

Trying to Resist the Clemens Kool-Aid

So Roger Clemens is a New York Yankee once again and this time around, I don't know how to handle it. While the signing comes with a world of upside -- we're not cost any minor league talent and we can be no worse off than when Kei Igawa was on the mound -- there are three negatives that I find quite troublesome:

1. The realization that we are in such dire straits that we are willing to pay $7,500 per pitch to a geriatric egomaniac that's still frosting his tips like Lance Bass circa 2001.
   
   
2. Roger Clemens is a sodding ass. I've already devoted my "I hate your dickish personality but that's okay" good will to Alex Rodriguez. Shouldn't that be enough?
   
   
3. Accidental ingestion of Clemens Kool-Aid.

When the Yankees were sliding through April on the wrong side of the win column, there was this optimism that Alex Rodriguez's brilliance and solid hitting from the rest of the squad would helps us survive until Moose and Wang came off the DL. Everyone admitted that we'd spend some money on relievers near the trade deadline to assure a playoff run but this was something we could handle. We didn't need a Hessian soldier coming in to make things right.

But at week 6 of the season, it's getting late fast. Not only are the Yankees taking a back seat to the Mets in the press but we're also 6 games back with a 15-16 record. Something had to be done. Someone had to stop the bleeding, both in the press and on the field. Someone had to finally admit, "No, we can't do it on our own. It's time to whore ourselves yet again." 

And while I love the signing because, like I said before, this is all upside, signing Clemens is like admitting defeat. And it's upsetting to me that the smug bastard and his little K-family is getting the satisfaction of preying on our pathetic desperation. That notwithstanding, I will work hard to make sure Rocket receives my full backing. Because, like A-Rod, even though he's a bleeding rotter, well, he's ours.

Now, when I was little, doctors advised my mother put me on ritalin because I was overwhelmingly hyperactive. She disagreed, opting instead to keep me outside as much as possible and, when I was indoors, far far away from sugar. That meant Kool-Aid was out for me. But whenever I saw it - especially the cherry flavor, whose sweet elixir tasted like liquefied cherry Jolly Ranchers - I had this unbelievable urge to put my entire face in the pitcher and drown in it. That is exactly how this Roger Clemens signing feels to me. It's like I'm at the kitchen table again having milk while the other kids get Sunny Delight and then the Kool-Aid man bursts through the wall promising me and only me eternal, delicious happiness.

I want to climb on and dive in. I want to drown myself in the possibilities. But I have to keep reminding myself that Roger Clemens - while a great boon to our prospects - is not some fix-all. Signing him doesn't assure us a World Series or even a trip to the playoffs. The truth is, I don't think we'd be in such dire straights if someone could put a freeze on Joe Torre's push-button style of bullpen management. He's like a cracked out Dusty Baker down there (Or is Baker a cracked out Torre?) and no one seems to notice. It's been quietly ruining us since he began overextending Rivera (2003 aside) in 2001 and there are no signs that it will ever end.

This is heresy but after this season, it's time for Torre to be put out to pasture. Please spare me the World Series rings and Hall of Famer arguments unless you can explain his brain function (or lack thereof) in the dugout these days. It's like he's sitting down there thinking of the best way to water his lawn instead of actually focusing on important matters like, oh, I don't know, not destroying the only relievers that have a lick of skill.

I know that the starting pitching has been shite in recent years and that has forced Torre to burn up some arms. But when you have an 8-1 lead like the Yankees did last night and you plant Scott Proctor on the mound for 26 pitches instead of using instead of using Colter Bean or Luis Vizcaino to hold down the fort, there is a problem. "Hey, Scott, aren't you one of the few relievers that we have that is worth a damn?" "Yeah." "Have the ball, son. Wear yourself out."

High leverage pitchers in low leverage situations. It's Joe Torre's anthem. Where is the sense in that? It's one thing to use up your pen when the starter leaves in the 4th or 5th inning but it's quite another when the other team has already packed up and gone home and you're still gassing out the best options in your relief rotation. This happens enough to make me wonder if Torre's even trying anymore. Maybe this is a case where he needs to retire but just can't let go or maybe karma is out to get us for four championships in five years. Either way, I've had enough.

*I don't know what any of my last paragraphs had to do with my initial concerns. My apologies.

HT: Coz - stimulating conversation  

My Apache Half Is Indifferent to Bonds But My White Half...

So much has been made of the recent poll showing stark racial divisions in how Barry Bonds is viewed and supported. ESPN only bothered to poll 799 people, 203 of which were black, so this wasn't the most scientific of studies. Still, the Worldwide Leader of Hype & Bunk is telling us to take this seriously and since I'm a lemming, it's time to do just that. 

According to the poll, just four in ten people are rooting for Bonds to break the most hallowed record in sports but when you look at it across racial lines, it breaks down like this:

Whites supporting Bonds: 28%
Blacks supporting Bonds: 75%

Whites believing Bonds took PEDs: 75%
Blacks believing Bonds took PEDs: 33%

Whites believing Bonds has been treated fairly: 60%
Blacks believing Bonds has been treated fairly: 33%

Of those who think his treatment has been unfair, more blacks and whites say it is because of his alleged steroid use than because of his race.

Now, I have long hoped that Barry Bonds would get hit in the face with an aluminum softball bat and then spontaneously combust or maybe even be eaten by sharks before reaching 755. But I can't say I ever had a reason for it beyond hating him for being a cheating, contemptible puddle of spunk - at least, I never thought it ran deeper than that until those twats in Bristol told me otherwise.

As it turns out, I'm rooting for Barry Bonds to fail because the white half of me is a big ole racist. This comes as quite a shocking blow, as I'm sure you can imagine. My Indian side, however, is not involved in this conversation and is waiting patiently for me to get into a debate about Jim Thorpe. Ah well. I'd ask how I'm supposed to reconcile being at odds with myself but ESPN hasn't put out a poll on that yet. Maybe next week.

Well, Steinbrenner Had to Fire Somebody, Right?

I didn't get the Yankee game on Tuesday night (MLB tv is becoming more appealing by the day), so I watched a few episodes of "Rome" instead. It's a little early in the post for me to go off on a tangent but let's get it out of the way. I don't know how many of you have seen Rome but it is absolutely amazing.

I'm in the middle of season one and am completely captivated by it. Since I'm too much of a tightwad to buy the actual dvds, I have to rely on Blockbuster Online to provide my fix... this means I can only watch a three or four episodes a week. But when I'm not watching Rome, I sit around fantasizing about what life would be like in Rome. I've come to the conclusion that if I was ever whisked away to ancient Rome in some fantastic sci-fi event, I'd be happiest in the role of Atia of the Julii - I am not only willful and cunning but I also have no problem with being sexually voracious and totally amoral.

My other option, as I see it through seven episodes, is being a madam whose brothel caters to high-society clientele. Big money, relaxed lifestyle. Anyway, let's move on. 

So sometime Tuesday evening I got a text from my buddy Coz: "Yanks are snakebit...I'm sick to my stomach." Didn't make much sense. As far as the mlb.com gamecast was concerned, Philip Hughes was blistering through a no-hitter. What's so tragic about that? Crazy, melodramatic Coz, right? No, stupid slow gamecast.

Fully intending on writing back to mock him, I checked the Yanks website just to cover my arse. That's when I saw this headline in 24 pt. bold font: "Hughes Leaves Game In Seventh With Injury." I went back to the gamecast and it had finally updated -- the Yankees only hurler not using Just for Men had left the game in the middle of an at-bat. I looked at the headline and then at my phone and then the gamecast. Headline, gamecast, headline, phone, headline, headline, headline. The next thing I knew, my phone had the misfortune of encountering a nearby wall.

But while my phone snapped back together in less than 4-6 minutes, the Yankees rookie pitcher will be out with a severe hamstring for 4-6 weeks. Hughes is the third Yankee hurler to suffer a hamstring and the fourth player overall, with Hideki Matsui also turning in a hamstrung DL stint earlier this season.

Two players succumbing to the same strain is bad luck but when it happens to a third, you begin to wonder. When four players are taken down by the same issue in less than a month, there is a serious problem - or - as Brian Cashman put it, "It got to the point where the perception is there's a problem here." 

No Brian, that is not the perception. That is the reality. In five weeks, five key Yankees have suffered from muscle-related injuries and even more are struggling. It's bad enough that 3/4 of our roster qualifies for MLB's AARP package. Now our youngsters are going down for the count, too?

Chien-Ming Wang is 27 and Phil Hughes is 20. There is no reason for their muscles to be a hot mess. Somebody has to swing for that and since Steinbrenner already vowed not to fire Joe Torre and Brian Cashman (this week), happy trails to Marty Miller. Miller is, er, was a strength & conditioning coach. Our genius staff plucked him out of del Boca Vista Ballen Isles Country Club in Palm Beach Gardens, where he was posing as a fitness instructor (read: water aerobics instructor for my Bubbe and her friends)...

Ya know, sometimes I get the feeling that Steinbrenner & Co. are just trying to see how far and ridiculous they can take things before it all goes to pot. I wish they'd stop; it's just not funny anymore.

Gary Sheffield Gets on Hank Aaron's Case

How Hank Aaron chooses to deal with Bonds hitting 757 is his business - unless you ask Gary Sheffield. While on the Worst Damn Sports Show Ever, the mustache weighed in on whether Hank Aaron should show up when Barry Bonds breaks his home run record:

"I wish Aaron would. We've been through a lot as African-Americans, and I just believe we should support each other."

We've been through a lot? What, does Hammer not realize this? Has he not lived and breathed it every day of his seventy-three years? I suppose a life where growing up in the Deep South, suffering daily injustices, and then, in his greatest hour, battling death threats, persecution, and untold amounts of opposition from racists and ignorant malcontents wasn't enough for the old guy to catch a clue. Guys like Aaron, Jackie Robinson, Willie Mays, Satchel Paige, Buck O'Neal, and Frank Robinson are the ones that went through a lot as African Americans, they are the ones who endured unimaginable hardships. Their bravery and courage gave African American athletes the opportunity to chase any record they choose without fear of facing the same adversity. But it also gave jerks like Gary Sheffield and privileged brats like Barry Bonds the opportunity to cheat and then whine when people don't let them get away with it. And these players - the Bonds and Sheffields of the world - are a disgrace to those that came before them.

"You're right, Gary. I think Bonds cheated his way to a record that I walked through the pits of hell to achieve and normally, I wouldn't want to be associated with or caught supporting such egregious behavior. But since he's also African American... well, hmm, let's call it bygones."

That's not how it works! Stand by, support, and cheer anyone that's fighting like hell for glory. If you share the same race, great. But when that person is a cheating, fraudulent abomination that is making a mockery of an institution, as well as accomplishments for your own race of people, any sense of obligation needs to fall away. Shame on anyone who tries to guilt people into thinking otherwise.

Put Gary Sheffield down on my list of people that need a swift steel-toed boot to the face. 

The Sky Is Falling In the Bronx

Abandon ship! Fire Cashman! Fire Torre! Give Clemens $70 million! Trade A-Rod for young pitching! Red Sux in first with no sign that they'll ever lose again! Abandon ship!

We're 8-11, last in the AL East, got swept by the D-Rays, and if I closed my eyes, I'd swear that our bullpen was replaced with girls from my high school softball team. Maybe the Mets will take A-Rod for Endy Chavez and Aaron Heilman... that Chavez is a speedster and Heilman's got moxie. Or wait, what about the entire Tigers rotation plus Joel Zumaya! Yeah, that'd be the trick! But are they too smart to let that pass? Damn. Just wait until A-Rod gets off this hot streak and the pitching STILL sucks. We'll be in extra last! It'll be curtains for the Yanks then. Looks like it's time for me to cancel MLB TV and my XM subscription because at four games back in the fourth week of April, history tells me that it's all a wash:

2000: 15-27 record in May and June, 3-15 record at the end of the season, David Cone started and went 4-14 with a 6.91 ERA, worst record of all teams in the playoffs. Outcome: World Series.

2004: 8-11 to begin the year, swept at home by Boston, worst starting pitching of any 100-win team in the history of the game. Outcome: Worst playoffs collapse in the history of sports.

 

2005: 11-19 to start the season, 3-9 midwest road trip in early June, splintered clubhouse, Gary Sheffield's mustache, 54-28 record after the All-Star game with a 16-5 run to erase a four-game deficit at the close of September. Outcome: Nauseating playoffs display against the Angels.

1. Boston and Baltimore get off to a torrid start, leaving New York, Toronto, and any other schmucky team in their wake. Fans squawk. Yankees finish April below .500.
   
2. Tampa Bay bends us over and violates us. Blame A-Rod.
   
3. Yankees pitching staff is patchworked with prospects, has-beens/never was/never will be's, and oldsters that live on the DL. Losses pile up.
   
4. ESPN douchepumps and opposing fans whisper that the wheels are finally falling off
5. Yankees get hot (except when the D-Rays show); rest of AL East gets cold
   
6. AL East Champion: New York Yankees
7. Shameful playoff exit
   

Frank Thomas Deemed Too Violent for Innocent Canadians

Those peacenik clowns up in Canada have struck again. The politically correct, anal retentives at the Television Bureau of Canada - the watchdog that approves TV commercials for private broadcasters - have refused to air a 30-second commercial featuring Frank Thomas that promotes the start of the Blue Jays' new season. It seems that the Big Hurt's excessive display of pillowfight violence is not acceptable for the private broadcasting crowd.

Shocking brutality, isn't it?  

Until the violence is removed, TBC won't air the commercial. But if you ask the television group, the Blue Jays shouldn't be surprised at this outcome. Advertisers are required to meet several guidelines for approval and must "keep the best interests of young children and youth in mind when producing commercials. Because children and youth are very impressionable, commercials should not contain any visual or audio portrayals which are detrimental to their well-being."

To make matters worse, TBC, who also believes "even comedic violence" is crossing the line, refused to approve another of the Jays' commercials, this one featuring pitcher A. J. Burnett, until the word "dramatization" was added to the spot.

What is wrong with these people? Your country is rooted in hockey and beer! How can a country that condones the existence of Labatt - which is Canadian for assmilk - Tie Domi, and Celine Dion have the audacity to deem this too violent? Here's how I see it... Frank Thomas' performance in this commercial made me laugh. Commericals involving Celine Dion make me want to kill myself. I think it's pretty clear what type of commercial should actually face banishment.

Hat tip: The hot blokes at Sportscolumn Blog

Turning In My Hater Card (for A-Rod)

Last Saturday, I decided to call it a career as an Alex Rodriguez basher and with the Yankees' first game just an hour away, it gives me a weird feeling inside.

Ten years have passed since a boy named Kevin Graham approached me in math class and said, "Derek Jeter sucks dick! Alex Rodriguez is the best short stop basically in the universe." Resolute in the belief that no one in Major League Baseball could exceed a Yankee at any position, I seethed with anger and started hoping that this boy, this blasphemer, would get hit by one of the buses after school. I was vaguely aware of A-Rod’s existence but I knew that I’d be damned if he was going to be the best short stop basically in the universe.

And so it goes that since that fateful moment in Mr. Harless' 8th grade pre-algebra class, it hasn’t really mattered what A-Rod has done… whether his actions have been good, bad, or otherwise, I have found a way to completely hate and, in turn, mock him for it. But in the mean time, Rodriguez has become the best short stop basically in the universe and so remains, his current status in the Bronx notwithstanding. 

So when we signed him, I got a lot of these "what're you gonna do now? You can't cheer for that guy can you?" questions. Part of me wanted to. He's a once in a generation talent. But at the same time, I was dying for a legitimate reason to hate him. The 8th grade rage still burned in my soul. Besides, I didn't want to be that tool that bashes a guy until they suit up in my team's colors and then suddenly sees the light  on all of these magical qualities. As a result, I spent the 2004 season in relative ambivalence until the ALDS where Rodriguez all but carried us against the Twins, hitting .421/.476/.737. How can you bash that? Hired gun or not, there's nothing not to love. 

But then this happened:

And then this:

That's when I went off the deep end with thoughts like this:

"This guy is a wanking arse with no sack. If he's pulling THAT much money, he should be hitting .850 with 213 home runs, 400 RBI, 80 steals, and a serious love for playing out of position. And if he can do all of that AND hit Curt Schilling with bolts of lightning from his arse while both are in their respective dugouts AND make the sun shine on my birthday then that MIGHT justify me smiling when he comes to the plate... What do you mean, 'he can't do that'? What a fucking clown. We'd be better off with Troy Glaus."

And that's how I've been until now - an irrational, hypocritical asshole that used anything possible as justification for hating the greatest player of his generation. Purple lips? What a jerk! Saying the right thing?  Screw this guy. Not being Derek Jeter? Hang him. Why? Because he embodies this failed $200 million mercenary experiment and deserves all the abuse anyone dares dish out...

I now hang my head in shame. 

I'm finally accepting something I've always known -- Though a complete head case from time to time, Alex Rodriguez busts his ass day in and out, playing out of position and hustling on every play to earn a paycheck that he more than deserves. And when he comes up short, when he's making errors or going through a cold streak, he doesn't shirk the blame. He doesn't blow it off. He works and fights to return to form. How many professional athletes can claim as much?

I'm not one of those Project A13 Pollyannas who believe that supporting Alex Rodriguez will cause the heavens to rain candy and rainbows nor am I about to become some obnoxious fangirl -- I reserve that insanity for Andy Pettitte. But I am woefully behind the curve on showing the best shortstop since Honus Wagner the respect he deserves. It's going to take some time to get used to this type of thing but I'm looking forward to it... not being a complete jackass probably feels pretty neat.

Johnny Damon Tells Lies, Remains Braindead

Those that have been around here long enough have watched my seething hatred for Johnny Damon dissipate into tempered enthusiasm and random bouts of annoyance.

Believe it or not, I used to be a fan of his when he was in Kansas City. That said, my rooting interest had nothing to do with his skills and everything to do with his supposed ethnic background. My cousin Alonso told me that Damon was an Indian and he used our fathers as proof -

"Look at their faces," he said. "They're the same! He's probably from the nation and everything!"
"But his baseball card says he was born in Kansas."
"You were born in Idaho. Are you a Coeur d'Alene?"
"No."
"See???"

Like any 13-year-old feeb, I took Alonso at face and immediately convinced myself that Johnny Damon would be the greatest Indian athlete since Jim Thorpe pwned the universe. Of course, this never happened.

Around the time that I headed off for college, I learned that Damon wasn't Indian at all -- he was half Thai and half white. You all know what a huge racist I am, so you won't be surprised to hear that I fell off the bandwagon straight away.

I remained indifferent to his existence until he wrote "Lord of the Idiots, an Autobiography." That's when I started hoping he'd choke on a bag of dicks.

Ironically, he responded by signing with the New York Yankees. Over the last year, I've come to appreciate his presence on the team and have somehow managed to defend him from time to time. But he has yet to endear himself to me enough that I'll ignore his lies and stupidity.

In an interview with MLB.com, Damon professes that he couldn't be happier with his situation; he's fitting in with the team and he's getting healthy. Huzzahs all around. If you're a Yankee fan, that's all you want to hear. But Johnny doesn't stop there -- he keeps laying it on. 

"In the end, every part of me is happy. ... I knew the Yankees and always wanted to be a Yankee, even dating back to when I was a [Kansas City] Royal." - Johnny Damon, February 20, 2007

"There's no way I can play for the Yankees, but I know they're going to come after me hard. It's definitely not the most important thing to go out there for the top dollar, which the Yankees are going to offer me. It's not what I need."- Johnny Damon, May 1, 2005

What a fucking liar! It's as if he doesn't realize that we're in on the gag and big Johnny Trickster has pulled the wool over our eyes yet again.

Newsflash Johnny - we know you're here for the money. In five years, the warranty on your wife's tits is gonna run out and you'll have to foot the bill for a new pair. That's a lot easier to do with a paycheck coming in twice a month from an organization that uses the pages of Moneyball instead of Charmin in the executive bathrooms.

Hattip: Babes That Love Baseball

Johnny Damon Hatred:
Lord of the Idiots
Schillings, Damons, and Scarves
Down With Chris Berman
Lord of the Idiots Is Off to the Bronx
I Gotta Lotta Problems With You People

Please, Bernie, Just Retire

Bernie Williams has been a New York Yankee for more than half of my life. I have a vague recollection of his 1991 debut, which is to say I remember little more than hearing my dad say his name once or twice.

But as long as I have been an engaged fan, Bernie has been there, conducting himself with humility, passion, and class. His mastery with the bat, selflessness, and calm demeanor were instrumental to New York's success over the last sixteen seasons, but there comes a time when that's no longer enough to warrant a roster spot.

Bernie claims that he is neither ready to retire nor willing to play for another team, so when the Yankees offered him a minor league contract with a non-roster Spring Training invitation, I thought he'd jump on it.

Sure, twenty-year-olds playing for the Trenton Thunder can manage as much but what better way to prove the front office wrong than to take the offer, tear it up in Tampa, and earn a spot, right? Nah. Turns out that's an insulting proposition. Williams rejected the offer, or is leaning toward doing so, at the very least. To make matters worse, he plans to stay in shape at home until the Yankees call with a guaranteed contract.

Williams said, he would maintain a waiting game of sorts by staying home, staying in shape, spurning offers of guaranteed contracts from other teams and waiting for the Yankees to change their minds and offer him a guaranteed spot on the roster... - New York Times

Hey Bernie, unless the contract is for a one day stretch, they're not gonna call. You've been around two years too long and everyone knows it. And it's not just the front office, it's also the fans. The wild cheers for you at Yankee Stadium over the last two years have been as much a sign of love, respect, and appreciation as gentle nudges out the door.

Since 2003, I've been concerned that something like this would happen but never thought Bernie would be the type to allow it. Someone had to step aside when he made the 25-man roster 16 seasons ago and I assumed he'd realize when it was his turn to do the same.

So when Johnny Damon came into the fold and Cashman gave Williams a one-year extension, I figured the end was nigh. 2006 would be the Bernie Williams Farewell Tour. Then in 2007, he'd return to Yankee Stadium for Bernie Williams Day, John Sterling would yell "Bern, baby, Bern" across the radio waves one last time, and we'd say our final goodbyes to a legend. Sounded like a plan, yeah? But no. That's not how Bernie is choosing to play it. Instead of walking away from the game with class and dignity, he's taken on the "rip the jersey off my back" mentality, which only works on an organization if you're Brett Favre.

At 38 years old, Bernie Williams is no more suited to play center field than first base. His slow legs and noodle arm make him a defensive liability and while he can still be effective at the plate, he can't provide what the Yankees truly need and have lacked on the bench for so long - the ability to pinch hit, steal, or lay down a bunt. The only thing Bernie's rocking right now is a fading talent for batting against left-handed pitchers and he doesn't even bat all that much. Please tell me how that aids our side in a World Championship run.

Now, it'd be nice if the front office could do a one-day, send-off contract but with Williams still thinking he's a gold glover, he'd probably take that as an insult as well. The truth is, the front office has treated him with respect and done their due diligence. They didn't want to reach the point where Cashman had to say,"Hey fella, you're the #5 outfielder and you aren't good enough;" where Joe Torre had to unceremoniously cut him before Opening Day; where Bernie would get the dubious honor of the non-roster Spring Training invite.

They tried to nudge him gently, they tried to push him quietly, but he refused and here we are. Bernie was a great Yankee and I've loved and appreciated what he's given us but his time is done. Soon enough, he'll see that being kept on this team as a reward for years of production would be a disservice to his legacy. And as callous as it sounds and likely is, I applaud the Yankees front office for recognizing this and putting sentimentality aside to do what's best for this team.

My Boyfriend's Back! New York Signs Pettitte!

Andy Pettitte has been my favorite player since his New York debut in 1995. Though there were plenty of players, both young and old, deserving of my loyalties back then, he was, and still remains, my man.

In the beginning, my affections for Pettitte had nothing to do with his skill. I was thirteen years old; he was my first crush. I'd say it had to do with him being left-handed like myself but that would put 80% of the MLB population up for crush status. Anyway, while most girls were drooling over Derek Jeter's intoxicating green eyes, I was all about Andy and the hole in his chin. Thinking back, I'm a little embarrassed... Liking Jeter is what normal girls were supposed to do.. what I was doing dreaming about Andy riding up to my house on a white horse, glove on his right hand and ring in the other, to propose and make little Pettittes is beyond me.

But as time passed, I came to appreciate his abilities on the mound and he became my favorite for all the right reasons. And when Pettitte departed for Houston, I was absolutely gutted. I felt betrayed. I felt used. "Why would he do this to me? I'm his biggest fan!"

Like any person with an abnormal obsession, I moped about for the better part of a month before muddling through four of the five stages of grief (I was sane enough to understand that "bargaining" was impossible). And after coming to terms, I contemplated buying his Astros jersey but couldn't bear it. By the time opening day rolled around, I was back in my NY version and through all the name-calling and ridicule, I've worn it with pride.

And now, Andrew Eugene Pettitte is a New York Yankee once again. I couldn't be happier. 

Now, don't get me wrong - I'm under no delusions that Andy will magically return to his 90s form. He's a 34-year-old with an elbow on the verge of implosion and if this were any other player, I'd have a mind to send bomb threats to Yankee Stadium. But this was the first man in my life (he has no knowledge of this) and I couldn't be more excited to see him make $16M to close out his career as a New York Yankee... I just hope his left arm still works when he does.

Jessica Simpson's Alimony to Own Tacoma Rainiers

When Nick Lachey's big face started popping up at every sporting event in the known world, I blamed Jessica Simpson. From NFL halftimes and MLB All-Star games to presenting at the ESPYs, Lachey was there.

For a while, he was the Law and Order of the sports world. It mattered not the date, time, or channel, Mr. Jessica was on the air, smiling and offering up his unique brand of Average Joe "analysis." When the frequency of his appearances began to increase, I said, "Ya know, he must be getting his name out there in preparation for the day they divorce. He'll need a job when Nick & Jessica's Family Christmas is off the table."

Soon enough, the marriage was in shambles and thanks to his efforts in gaining pre-divorce exposure, Nick is the one coming out on top.  

While Jessica has spent the last year looking like a meth case, giving it up to Maroon 5 and Johnny Knoxville, and getting a guy who looks like a character from Where the Wild Things Are to acknowledge her existence, Nick has been moving up and moving out.

Having secured the love of Vanessa Minnillo, he's now buying into the Tacoma Rainiers, the Triple-A affiliate of the Seattle Mariners.

Surprisingly, this isn't the first time Lachey has tried to get involved with a sports franchise. When the Cincinnati Reds came up for sale a couple years ago, he made a bid to join the new ownership but had yet to cash in on his wife's new fame.

But now Lachey is liquid, so thirty-three percent of the Rainiers organization will be controlled by Jessica Simpson's alimony payments. This shouldn't bother those in Tacoma, however, as Lachey wants to make it clear that he doesn't "want to be one of those meddling owners who is trying to give his influence where it's not wanted." Instead, he plans to expand on the role of sycophantic hanger-on that he famously perfected on the USC sidelines by becoming an "active investor."

Tranlation: he'll be practicing with the team.

"That's the biggest perk," he says. Sure, maybe for him but not for guys trying to make it to the bigs. Nothing says preparing for the next level like batting practice with Mr. 98 Degrees.

Unless Minnillo will be attending practices with a throng of hot, available friends, something tells me the "active investor" role won't sit well with most players. That said, when Lachey starts pumping What's Left of Me through the clubhouse, the issue could become moot.

I Know I'm a Yankee Fan But... Can I Get A Pair?

My desire for these has nothing to do with the Detroit Tigers' victory, my wish to tattoo "I told you so" onto the foreheads of every Yankee fan that told me I wasn't worthy of being one because I didn't believe in the $205M experiment, or anything else related to baseball. 

I'd just like a pair for the weekends.

Hattip: The Futon Report

ESPN Can't Find a Comb for Eric Byrnes?

I'm going to preface this brief post by saying that Eric Byrnes seems like a really good guy. I watched him and Barry Zito play some shoddy "how well do you know your teammate" game on ESPN a couple summers ago and he told the host that Zito's most odd physical feature was his "womanly, child-bearing hips."

When told of the comment later, Zito blushed and Byrnes giggled like a 15-year-old who knows you're about to sit on a whoopee cushion.

It was cute. I was amused.

But this, boys and girls, is neither amusing nor cute!

(Picture Courtesy of GC at Can't Stop the Bleeding)

Look, I get that Byrnes is probably a free-spirit mountain man type. He probably likes to ride four wheelers around the tundra, eat hearty stews, and thumb through the North Face catalog for the latest in rugged gear. And when you're a guy like this, taming your unkempt locks probably goes against your principles. That's fair.

But when your agent says, "Hey Eric, you're gonna go to ESPN and share your opinions during the playoffs as the resident player/analyst," you make yourself presentable.

You don't want a haircut? Fine. You don't want any mousse or gel or styling product that'll have you looking like Barry Melrose? Okay. But look like you bathed. Look like there isn't a nest of bees hiding behind your right ear. Look like you didn't just wander off the set of Harry and the Hendersons.

I hate to be harsh here, Eric, but we've got to do better. 

As for ESPN, nice lookin out! For years they've managed to tone down Stuart Scott's dead eye from freakish to unnerving, hide Chris Berman's dorsal fin and Killer Whale markings, and make Tony Reali look more like a human being instead of a plastic man.

They clearly care about the appearance of people on their programs. With Byrnes showing up like this, do they mean to tell us that no one on the set was able to pass him a comb, brush, pick, or even a barrette over the commercial break? Now, maybe they tried and it got stuck or broke off at the handle.. I suppose I can accept that. But when I tune in tomorrow, my hope is that they'll have done their due diligence and fixed this issue.

Having said that, when has anyone in Bristol done their due diligence?

All we (or maybe I since I might be the only person caring about this) can really hope is that Eric Byrnes has a girlfriend who bothered to tune in to watch her man in his analyst debut. I can't imagine she was anything other than horrified and embarrassed and will have this turned around in short order.

That is, unless, she's into the Neanderthal thing.

Chicks Dig the Long Ball

This video has nothing to do with anything other than amusement, as I have neither a stirring nor rage-filled commentary on Mark McGuire's current situation. But I will say that it's pretty funny to see how young Greg Maddux and Tom Glavine used to be and to know that even then, they were in the middle of their careers... nowadays, their craggly, crinkly faces look like old catcher's mitts...

*Note: While it's true that chicks dig the long ball, when you sound like you haven't hit puberty yet when yelling "Cy Young winners over here," you may not fare too well with the ladies.

Paul Katcher's "Your Baseball Jersey is Talking"

"Tuesday's All-Star Game in Pittsburgh allows for two rare happenings: actual baseball talent in Pittsburgh and a chance for fans of different major league teams to congregate since they last saw each other at Tampa-area strip clubs during spring training. It's the most touristy event on the baseball calendar, so you can expect to see fans from all parts of the U.S. and Canada adorned in baseball jerseys and assorted regalia."

The above was an intro taste to what my fellow SportsbyBrooks contributor, Paul Katcher, has running on ESPN's Page 2 in his article about what your baseball wardrobe says about you, as well as the multitudes of uniform wearers that will be in the crowd at tonight's All-Star game.

I know ESPN is my enemy but today, we must embrace it. Be sure to stop by Page 2 and give PK's "Your Baseball Jersey is Talking" a read. It's good stuff.

*For you Yankee fans, don't forget Paul's NYY version - What Your Yankee Jersey Says About You. It's a gem.*

Griffey Has Choice: All-Star Game or Vacation with Adam Dunn

There was a time when Ken Griffey, Jr was a mainstay of the All-Star Game and fans could count on a week of events featuring the show-stopping, gravity-defying centerfielder and the prettiest swing in the game.

But when he moved to Cincinatti, Junior contracted Grant Hill disease and suffered a multitude of injuries, three of which were season-ending, and hasn't managed a season without significant DL time. [I'm trying to find a way to link his problems to his proximity to Cleveland and the cloud of suck hovering over the city but have yet to find concrete proof.]

Given the way his body has failed him the last 5 years, it's probably reasonable to assume that The Kid never expected to play in another All-Star game. So I suppose it shouldn't be too surprising to learn that his Monday was ruined upon finding out that he won't be taking a family trip to the Grand Bahamas this year during the All-Star Break. The poor guy probably assumed he'd be on the DL by now.

What should be surprising, however, is that he was planning to spend the week with not only his family but also teammate Adam Dunn. And no - not with Dunn's family or with Dunn and his wife and/or girlfriend. Just Adam Dunn.

Something about this reminds me of when my parents would let me take a friend with us on Spring Break, so I'd have someone to hang out with while they acted like douchebags on the beach. But what about Dunn?

My first problem with this is that Dunn is 26 and he's hitting his prime. Making the All-Star game should be his goal, year in and out. Will he always make it? Probably not but he needs to plan like he's going to be there. When you're in his position, arranging to go on vacation during the break is like Derek Jeter making reservations for a trip to Europe at the beginning of October.

My next issue is I don't know any 26 year old guys looking to spend a week with 36-year-old when that guy's wife and three underage children are along for the ride. On no level does that sound like any fun, even if that guy IS Ken Griffey, Jr! Is Dunn simply running short on family to visit or friends to see or, Christ, girls to hunt and gather? Maybe the Griffey's adopted him... true, he looks a tad out of place but hey, home is where the heart is, right?

At first I thought Dunn just wanted a free trip to the Bahamas: "If you go to Pittsburgh (for the All-Star game), I'm still going to the Bahamas on your boat with your family and I'm going to call you four times a day."

But then I remembered that Dunn has his own millions of dollars and can probably swing a trip to the Bahamas whenever he wants. Given Griffey's response to Dunn, I'm suspicious that something weird is going on: "If I don't go (to the Bahamas), you don't go, either. In fact, I may insist that you come with me to Pittsburgh."

This scenario might make sense were this some buddy comedy with Danny Glover and Mel Gibson but I'm completely lost here. I don't mean to imply that they're gay or that Adam Dunn is some kind of Griffey family pet or something. This just seems awfully strange where the behavior of grown men is concerned. Before you cite some random example in sports of one man vacationing alone with a teammate 10 years his senior and that teammate's wife and kids, ask yourself, do you do it? Would you do it?

But what the hell do I know? Knowing Junior's luck, he'll pinch another testicle in his jock strap next month and miss yet another All-Star game.

Dunn should keep his bags packed.

Carl Crawford Throws Tantrum, Injures Knee

Who knows how long the Devil Rays' Carl Crawford will be out for this piece of idiocy but this seems like a fitting time to look at other ridiculous injuries suffered by those great "athletes," those fine physical specimens known as baseball players:

• Pitcher Adam Eaton stabbed himself in the stomach as he was using a knife to open a DVD wrapper.
• Sammy Sosa was disabled after a violent sneeze caused back problems.
• Reliever Larry Anderson strained a rib muscle jumping from the bench to join a brawl.
• Shortstop Clint Barmes fell down some stairs and broke his collarbone. He was unable to break his fall because he was cradling a package of venison given to him from teammate Todd Helton.
• Speedster Rickey Henderson allegedly missed several games in August due to frostbite.
• Outfielder Ken Griffey Jr. missed a game after his cup slipped and pinched a testicle.
• Outfielder Glenallen Hill received cuts over much of his body after he fell out of bed onto a glass table. He was having a nightmare about being covered in spiders.
• Pitcher Rich Harden strained his shoulder turning off his alarm clock.
• Hall of Fame pitcher Phil Niekro was injured while shaking hands.
• Pitcher Doc Gooden missed a start when a teammate accidentally hit him with a golf club in the locker room.
• Wade Boggs hurt his back putting on his cowboy boots.
• Pitcher Mike Remlinger missed 15 days because he broke his left pinky in a clubhouse recliner.
• John Smoltz burned his chest while ironing the shirt he was wearing.
• Nolan Ryan missed a start after being bitten by a coyote.
• Outfielder Vince Coleman missed the entire 1985 World Series after being rolled up in the tarp machine at Busch Stadium.
• Hall of Famer George Brett broke a toe on a chair when he was running from the kitchen to the living room to see baseball on TV.
• Future Hall of Famer Tony Gwynn missed several games because he smashed his finger in the door of his luxury car, on the way to the bank.
• Pitcher Carlos Zambrano was diagnosed with carpal tunnel syndrome after spending as many as five hours daily on the Internet.
• John Kruk has one testicle due to a gonad obliterating baseball pitch

I was surprised to find that no baseball player got injured while adjusting himself but who knows, maybe that's how Griffey went down for the count with a pinched testicle. As much as I love baseball and respect the men who play it, I've gotta say, they have to be the most fragile group of men in sports.

Mussina Gives Torre the Treatment

Mike Mussina pitched a gem in Detroit last night, scattering six hits over a complete game. But in the bottom of the ninth with only one out left in a bid for his 24th career shutout, Alex Rodriguez made an error that allowed Placido Polanco to score. So naturally, Torre tried to come out of the dugout to make a pitching change, which is what you'd expect that right? A pitcher loses his shutout bid and since it's not 1940 where the starter goes until his arm falls off, you send in the closer. But no, not here.

Torre hardly got a foot on the field when Mussina got aggressive and shouted, "Get back in there!" According to Moose, "They shouldn't have scored at all, so I just wanted to finish it." I know Torre had already been out there once and Moose really wanted to do this on his own but damn! Check out the fury:

Who knew Mike Mussina had such rage? Who could have guessed that he'd fly out of his shell over something like this?!

I officially love this guy!! I know, I know - where has the love been all this time? You'll have trouble believing this but Moose has never captured my attention - at least, not at the level that he deserves. Though he's been consistently good and often great, he's never been the best. He’s finished in the top six in Cy Young award voting eight times and hasn't won the award. He’s finished in the top 10 in ERA nine times but has never led the league. He’s finished in the top 10 in wins eight times but still can't find 20 games. He's had brushes with perfection but has become the captain of the near miss. And the biggest of all, he still has no World Series. It's this "almost but not quite" career that has left me grossly (and unfairly) underwhelmed with Moose. Further, I've seen his reserved nature as a lack of passion and have wrongly attributed that to his present level of success.

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. I was wrong and am a horrible person and spoiled fan; the shame I'm feeling is immense. But I'm all over the Moose bandwagon now. That counts for something right? Yeah... probably not :(

*Update: YouTube video

In other news, remember that Seinfeld episode where Jerry and his girlfriend made out during Schindler's List? His parents were in town and they didn't have a place to hook up, Jerry had 3 weeks of blue balls and ended up succumbing to his penis' will while Jews were being carted off to concentration camps in the opening scenes. Newman was there and ratted them out their parents [You were necking during... Schindler's List?!]

Well the same thing just went down during a showing of a far less powerful film with a racist, slow-witted douchepump, who, unlike Jerry Seinfeld, fears the #7 train to Shea. Last week at the Chelsea Cinemas John Rocker and his model girlfriend, Alicia Marie (who is black, randomly enough), made out like the ship was goin down during The Da Vinci Code and "spent the entire damned movie rubbing noses, kissing, biting, touching each other and feeding each other candy."

Now, Da Vinci Code is no Schindler's List but it is not, in any way, shape, or form a movie worthy of such behavior. Christ, it's not even something you should pay to see! Wait until that shit comes out on TBS and then fool around. Don't waste your hard-earned Long Island Ducks dollars sucking face and eating Milk Duds while Tom Hanks gives the worst performance of his career. That is madness.

Shame on you, John Rocker. Even though you're in an interracial relationship now and supposedly live in Queens, I'm still giving you a thumbs down. You probably didn't even bother to take off you trucker hat while you got it on. Wanker.

Please Barry, Pass The Babe Today!

In the beginning, I was insensed that Barroids was going to juice his way to the greatest record in sports but, ya know, I simply don't care anymore. The articles, columns, and books.. the crawl on ESPN with the "Chasing Ruth" section, Bonds on Bonds. How much more will we be forced to endure?? I've decided to start cheering for Bonds. It sounds crazy and I know he's a cheating dickbag but hear me out. Unless someone snipes Barroids from the top of the stands or Jeff Gilooly's him when he gets to 713, nothing, not even the bone chips floating freely through his outer extremeties will prevent him from passing Babe Ruth. As such, I've realized that the faster Barry Bonds meets and surpasses 714, the happier I'll be, as the fuss will go away and will likely take Barry with it. If just for a week, I want his bone chips to heal. I want his knee to get better.. If he can heal long enough to hit 4 more home runs, life can return to normal and we can get back to talking about things like.. well.. I don't remember what we were talking about pre-Game of Shadows but I bet it was good!

Now some of you may be wondering what will happen if Bonds' healing isn't temporary... if he magically gets better and forces us to endure his campaign to pass Hank Aaron.  ... Did you ever see the movie "Death Becomes Her?" Probably not. It stars Bruce Willis, Meryl Streep, and Goldie Hawn and the actresses play women who were friends in their youth but become rivals after a man (Bruce Willis) gets between them. Goldie Hawn gets depressed and fat, Streep turns into a movie star, and twenty years later, Hawn discovers a magic potion that reverses the aging process and gives immortality. Somehow, Streep gets the potion also and after some issues, they're murdered and turn into a hotter version of Night of the Living Dead. Shenanigans ensue, as they find ways to keep their dead bodies from completely falling apart... they're screwing fingers back on, popping knees and shoulders back into place, touching up gunshot wounds, etc. Well, this is Barry Bonds. The slugger took his magic hormone potion to reverse the aging process and evolved from a great player into a legendary player. But now things have taken a turn for the worse and he's in the "keep my dead body from falling apart" mode, which forces him to piece himself together before taking the field. You wonder why Barry can't play a night game before a day game? He's probably too busy drilling his knee back in! His bones are chipped, his knees are plastic, he has a head that looks like it doubles as a womb for one of the creatures from "Aliens"... this guy knows better than to stay around! He's gotta retire before his limbs start falling off in the basepaths. The Hammer's record is safe and soon, we will be as well.

Julian Tavarez "Punches" Like A Bitch

I know the Julian Tavarez - Joey Gathwright thing has made the rounds everywhere but for some reason, my disconnected ass is only now seeing the pictures (Click here for the blow-by-blow sequence). While looking at them, I noticed something:

My father taught me how to punch when I was 5 years old, so I could defend myself against my siblings and other attackers, and the first thing he told me was, "Don't stick your thumb out when you make a fist. When you punch someone, it'll get broken." How is it that I know that and this prole does not? Maybe it's because Julian Tavarez is a psychotic, squelching vagina! What self-respecting man hits like that, thumb out, arm cocked and ready for a limp-wristed, flamey attempt at a strike? With that style, Tavarez would have been better off going the 17-year-old girl route and fighting like a wounded cat. He could've clawed Gathwright in the face, pulled his hair, and grabbed at his shirt... some idiot from the crowd could've yelled "Show us your boobs!" This is absolutely unacceptable. It's no wonder to me that he got beaten up by that wall! If you're gonna get tough with somebody, you'd better come correct and it's clear to me that Tavarez never will. If only those goons in the dugouts wouldn't have ruined things by clearing the benches.. Carl Crawford could have handled this situation appropriately.

Derek Jeter? Overrated & Not So Clutch

See this girl? Oh, who am I kidding. Of course you do. I should probably be asking if you're seeing the text sitting next to her. If you haven't spent much time looking at Victoria Secret catalogs lately, meet Adriana Lima - the world's hottest lingerie model and.. brace yourself for it.. Virgin.

In a brief Q&A with GQ, the Brazilian says, "Sex is for after marriage. [Men] have to respect that this is my choice. If there's no respect, that means they don't want me." I remember having that level of resolve. It lasted until I was about 18 and then it was on like Donkey Kong. Had I Adriana Lima's level of discipline and restraint, I can only imagine the things I could accomplish in life.

Now, the only reason I'm posting about this issue [aside from giving you more fantasy ideas] is that she dated Derek Jeter. Assuming she's not a liar, Captain Clutch tried and failed to hit it for six straight months and walked away a total failure. When I was in high school, I thought Derek Jeter was beautiful.. delicious even.. and I knew that if I ran into him on a sidewalk, I'd instinctively drop to my knees and give him the best I had. But as I've gotten a little older and seen more of what the world of men has to offer, I've come to realize that though Jeter's cute, he's not THAT hot, and I don't understand how he pulls so much high-caliber ass. Every time you turn around, he's with the newest, hottest thing and the gossip rags have lead us to believe he's a serial dater that baits them, mates them, and throws them away. But after this, who knows, maybe it's all a ruse. His ability with the ladies is obviously somewhat overrated and as I see it, there are three options here: 1) Derek got rebuffed from the front so he went backdoor, something that Yankee haters think he's doing anyway; 2) Lima, referred to by GQ as the "world's most voluptuous virgin," is just the world's most voluptuous beard and she and Down Low Derek like to shop; or 3) Jeter's an admirable man and the couple eventually grew apart. Since Ms. Lima doesn't strike me as a girl whose into baseball or conversations that use more than fragments, I'm ruling out #3. So what's the verdict? While I think it's option one, I'm kinda hoping it's #2. Wouldn't that be fun? :)

[Hattip: Jackie Chiles]

Fan For Hire: Exercise in Douchebaggery

So there's some dufus with a website called "Fan for Hire." He starts out with all this talk about what a diehard fan he is:

"Ok, I am a diehard Cardinals fan. I've been to spring training, had season tickets for 2005, was there when Big Mac hit 62 against the Cubs (hey, it was amazing at the time) and even had a ticket to game 4 of the World Series when my birds lost to the BoSox. Now, because of that, I pretty much hate the Cubs. I hate them with a passion. It's the whole rivalry thing it makes me act irrationally. Whenever I see a Cub fan walk by, I feel the urge to yell "Cubs SUCK!!" in fact, most times I do. Steve Bartman is my hero. 1908 is one of my favorite years. Get the picture?"

Yeah, I get the picture - that describes a REAL fan, not this bleeding rotter. According to this guy, every fan has his price. And his is $10,000 per game. For the cost of a Kia, he's willing to transfer his St. Louis Cardinals allegiance to the Chicago Cubs every time these legendary clubs square off. The $10K will I will buy him a "ticket (if needed), jersey, hat, and of course the price of suffering for three plus hours and knowing that I had rooted for the Cubs." Since a round trip ticket for a 1-hour flight to Chicago probably runs for less than $200, this makes the price of "suffering" about $9500. Now, I would think that not only would Cubs fans be insulted but Cards fans would want to boot him out of the club... but nope... not if you ask Captain D-bag! He figures that not only will Cubbie fans actually want a Cards guy on their side to help break the curse (the Cards haven't won a series since 1982 - I bet his luck is really gonna turn the tide) but STL fans will also join in so they can get "a kick out of making a fellow Cards fan root for the so called "Loveable Losers."

Ya know, as much as I wish this guy were a Raiders fan so I'd have reason to pull out my shank and give him right treatment, maybe I should find a way to put up 10 grand. It'd be worth it to have his Chicago-bound plane rerouted to Gary, Indiana in order to dump him off in the center of the ghetto. We could set it up like the movie Running Man and see how far fanboy can make it before somebody kicks out his teeth and trades them for crack.

Best Mound Charges

In honor of Dontrelle Willis beaning a player for the 21st time in the WBC yesterday, I present 9 of the best mound charges in the history of color television (according to Sports Center). [There haven't been any WBC mound charges that I can think of but, to be honest, I just needed an excuse to show this to you.]

The first incidence of a professional charging the mound has not been identified but the practice dates back to the game's early days when men were men and thugs were heroes. Can you imagine the great mound charges there must have been?! I'm a little misty-eyed that film was being wasted on Birth of a Nation instead of these revolutionary moments of sport. In any case, charging the mound is often the precipitating event of a bench-clearing brawl - a happening that leaves some men in wrapped up in the headlocks while others just hop around the outer edges looking silly and somewhat disappointed... not that I can blame them. If I ever caught myself on the outside of a brawl, I'd try to sneak in and bite a few ankles - otherwise, it's a pointless excercise and you may as well go back to the dugout and wait it out.

This strategy enables one to get his licks in before the bench (who thinks they're helping your cause) clears and ruins everything. I hope to see it in major league play soon.

Bret Boone & His Frosted Tips Retire

Bret Boone's juiced up career came to a close today in the dugout at Tradition Field. Tears welled in his eyes... "his lower lip quivering ever so slightly... something inside had told him to go home... With that, the three-time All-Star pointed to his chest, said his inner fire was missing, and announced his retirement."

Ya gotta love the writers at MLB.com. This shit is so dramatic. 

"Something I've loved my whole life has become a major, major job for me," Boone said. "I don't think it would be fair for me -- or fair to the Mets -- to continue something I've loved my whole life and had so much passion for, and all of a sudden that passion isn't there anymore."

I really love it when tanked out athletes play that passion card after they get back in competitive training. It's one thing to end your season or come out of an injury and say, "Ya know, I just don't have that fire anymore." But when you go to spring training as a non-roster invite, field the ball like Corky, and see the three youngsters preparing to send you to triple-A on a shutter, "lack of passion" becomes code for "fuck! I'm horrible and I don't have my roid juice!" Though I know it's too much to ask for an athlete to simply admit that he's gotten old and it's time to hang it up, I'd certainly appreciate the honesty.

In any case, I'd just like to thank Boone for calling it quits before I prepared my "I'll Die Before Drafting Him" list for my fantasy baseball drafts this year. Amending my excel worksheets would have been far too much to bear had he not come forth so quickly.

Boone finishes his career as a lifetime .266 hitter with the Mariners, Cincinnati Reds, Atlanta Braves, San Diego Padres and Twins. A four-time Gold Glove award winner and a two-time Silver Slugger recipient, Boone compiled 1,775 hits, 252 home runs, 1,021 RBI in 1,780 career games and was roided up for about 60% of them. 

Damn You In Advance, Mark Shapiro

The Lord of the Idiots Is Off to the Bronx

Government Drops Palmeiro In Favor of 2Pac

"We know that in 1999 a jury determined that there was a conspiracy to kill Dr. King that included our own government. To the extent that there are files available on the life and murder of Tupac, they, too should be released for public inspection. Maybe then, like the Tennessee jury, we'll get closer to the truth about the forces swirling around this young man that ended up taking his life."

ChiSox Success Kills Old Woman

Tim McCarver Must Die

Since the baseball playoffs are rolling, it'd be a shame not to share this gem with those of you who suffer through the inane blathering of Fox's chief baboon, Tim McCarver. I present to you, Tim McCarver Must Die.

Joe Morgan is God's Punishment for Something

Scott Spiezio's Freakish Tattoo

Gary Sheffield Throws Yanks Under the Bus

• The Yanks are not only lacking in class, they also have no respect for family. Apparently, this is a stark contrast to the Dodgers, where the wives are allowed to ride on the team plane and also get together for wifey-functions that create unity. Maybe we should ask Trinka Lowe how family-oriented the Dodgers are.
• Sheff concedes that he'll never pull a Jeter and dive headfirst into the stands. Boo and thumbs down on injury, says Sheffield. It might force him to do steroids again to heal up.
• Cashman insulted him by only offering a two-year, $18 million contract after a 39 HR, 132 RBI season.
  
• The Yankees have no chemistry and it's all the media's fault. No one hangs out in the clubhouse because the media vultures are clamoring for interviews. "This is the first team I've been on where no one sits at their locker. It's where you build your chemistry from, how you get to know each other, just talking about life. I'm used to having six chairs around me, but here if there are six chairs, then there's going to be 20 reporters around me."

"It happens because you're white and I'm black. My interpretation of things is different. You don't see it the way I see it. You write how you understand it, how you would articulate it, not how I, as a black man, would articulate it."

Thanks for the leadership, Sheff.

Rafael Palmeiro Busted for Steroids

In a press conference statement, Palmeiro said he had accepted his punishment and could not explain how the steroids got into his body. "I have never intentionally used steroids. Never. Ever. Period," he said. "Ultimately, although I never intentionally put a banned substance into my body, the independent arbitrator ruled that I had to be suspended under the terms of the program."

Manny Ramirez Wants Out of Beantown

Schillings, Damons, and Scarves

feelings between his wife, Michelle, and Schilling's bride, Shonda, over a spat about scarves.

During the 2004 ALCS, Shonda Schilling bought a collection of scarves and handed them out to the wives as a sign of solidarity for their men. But Michelle Mangan Damon (then just Fiancee Damon) refused to wear it and when the Yankees obliterated the Sux in Game 3, Michelle said, "A lot of good those (bleeping) scarves have done." Shonda Schilling then lost it, "Well, if you were wearing one maybe your fiance wouldn't be 0-for-16." And then hell broke loose.

Mrs. Damon probably shouldn't have commented on the scarves but I have a feeling it was said in a frustrated moment following months of positively annoying behavior from Schilling's wife and for that, I say, good for you, Michelle Damon! Don't let Shonda Schilling push you around! Like some of you girls reading this, I've spent a lot of time as a player's girlfriend. And in every group of players' girlfriends and wives, no matter the sport, it never fails that there is a pain in the neck, crafty ass that encourages the girls to dress up in jerseys, buttons, scarves, and creative hats to show unity while we support our men. This leader of the girlfriend brigade always believes these acts will energize the boys, as if we'll be able to send beams of love and devotion from our little cheer block right down to the field or court. She is powered by the idea that behind every good player is the strong woman for whom he plays (which is at least somewhat true), and if you aren't supporting him correctly at the games like the rest of the girls, you probably aren't doing a very good job of it at home... this hurts the team and it also hurts her man, who tries so much harder than everyone else. So don't resist her because when your man struggles (and he will), she'll be right there with her snide comments, wearing the button she decorated with materials from Hobby Lobby.

Now I don't begrudge the girlfriend or wife that tries to create a little solidarity amongst "the sorority," but people like Shonda Schilling are right pains in the arse that must be stopped. It's one thing to sit together, hang out, and offer support in times of need - no one knows what you go through with him the way a fellow significant other does - but Scarves of Destiny and other such items serve no reasonable purpose other than making these Martha Stewart-lites feel self-important. It's all to ridiculous. It has to end.

Ladies, have some nachos, get a beer, cheer for your man, and make sure you're lookin good when the camera pans to you after he makes a great play. Nothing else is required.

Yankee Fans: Stop Embracing "Evil Empire!"

Lord of the Idiots

(After telling his wife to leave their home near Boston and go back to Orlando, wifey came back against his wishes): I told her, "There's no reason for you to be here' ... Just to push her buttons I added, "I was with three more girls while you were gone."

"If you're good-looking and a ballplayer, girls want a piece of you [Look at the big brain on Johnny!]. For the rest of the (2002) season, I met some women, some good, some bad. I had some one-nighters that I had never gotten to experience before. It was fun. I ended up having to carry around a separate cell phone for the women to call me. I didn't want them to have my main number because my phone would have been ringing off the hook and it just got tiring."

After I broke it off with one woman, she told me, 'I don't mind if you see other girls, too.' Most women weren't so flexible. [Oh that's a shame!] I remember one who was clearly a one-night stand who'd call me up and tell me she'd told all her friends we were dating ... One other time, I was propositioned by two girls at once, but I passed. Two girls might be able to handcuff me and kill me. [You don't kill the cashcow, Johnny] Mostly, they just want more of your life than you can give them. I'm sure some of them wanted to get pregnant."

“I wanted to live, have fun, not pick out furniture.”

I think I found the right girl. She captured everything about me— - my eyes and my heart. I think I've found a winner.

Where's the Erotica?

"Enough is enough. I am bitterly disappointed as I'm sure all Yankee fans are by the lack of performance by our team...It is unbelievable to me that the highest-paid team in baseball would start the season in such a deep funk. They are not playing like true Yankees."

Foghorn Rocker

On ever playing for a New York team: "I would retire first. It's the most hectic, nerve-racking city. Imagine having to take the [Number] 7 train to the ballpark, looking like you're [riding through] Beirut next to some kid with purple hair next to some queer with AIDS right next to some dude who just got out of jail for the fourth time right next to some 20-year-old mom with four kids."

On New York City itself: "The biggest thing I don't like about New York are the foreigners. I'm not a very big fan of foreigners. You can walk an entire block in Times Square and not hear anybody speaking English. Asians and Koreans and Vietnamese and Indians and Russians and Spanish people and everything up there. How the hell did they get in this country?"

"I took all of this in and I asked myself: Does he deserve another chance?" Boulton said. "I'm a Catholic. I went to Villanova. I was watching all those people lining up this week to see the Pope and I wondered, 'What would the Pope do?' He would give him another chance.