For you Jewish Viagra takers, Pesach no longer means ignoring the special look from your mate that let’s you know “it’s time.”
Rabbis have risen to the occasion and found a way for men who want to enjoy their Passover to take the erectile dysfunction medication Viagra without violating the laws about consuming hametz (leaven) leaven during the holiday. Four years ago, The Jerusalem Post revealed in a widely quoted story that taking Viagra during Passover was forbidden by Jewish law because its coating was made with hametz. Rabbi Menahem Rosenberg, the rabbi of Clalit Health Services, then confirmed that Viagra (sildenafil citrate) was not kosher for Passover because of the coating.
Rabbi Mordechai Eliahu said the pill can be swallowed if it is encased in a special soluble kosher capsule first. Viagra’s Israeli manufacturer, Pfizer Pharmaceuticals-Israel, said swallowing the capsule does not breach Jewish law because the Viagra would not come into direct contact with the body. Viagra’s Israeli manufacturers said they sought an answer after receiving queries from worried religious men. [Jerusalem Post]
Now I don’t know where you get these capsules; I doubt you can find them next to the gefilte fish at the market. But given that sundown has arrived, you’d better get on the case.
The 2004 BoSox had players with intangible qualities that I wished I could root for.. that I wished had been wearing pinstripes. Johnny Damon was one of those players. I didn’t like the whole caveman thing and I openly bashed him because I’m immature and annoyed that he doesn’t play for New York but I like his heart.. I like his grit. And apart from being a member of the World Champion Boston Red Sox (this is the first time I’ve said that without being overcome with nausea), I’ve never had a valid reason to dislike him. Until now.
In interviews, Damon always seemed rather charming and friendly. When he spoke of his love for the game, Boston, and his twin 5-year-olds, I thought, “Good guy. Wrong team.” At times I even lamented that he played for the Sox… secretly wishing that he’d somehow occupy Bernie Williams’ ever-aging body and revitalize the glove at centerfield. No one can deny that he plays the outfield like a gazelle… he doesn’t have the strongest arm and his OBP isn’t great but, hey, maybe it’d be worth it.
But then someone called my attention to the following Damon quote: “‘Idiot’ is considered a cool term now you know, Green Day came out with its “American Idiot” song. Idiots have a whole different image now. Being the village idiot doesn’t seem so bad anymore. When we thought about the Yankees and what we were up against, we really weren’t that good. But when we just went out there and played and didn’t give a shit about anything, we really did well.” After reading it, I shook my head… Obviously he struggles with lyrical interpretation but what can one really expect from somebody that appears to be better off hopping on the USA Network train with Huckleberry Hound? I gave it all a laugh and dismissed it… that is, until I discovered that Johnny authored a book. At first I thought, anytime there are more books about a championship team than there are players on said team, the squad could be in trouble. That’s good for the Yankees, so hurrah! But then I figured, hey, he’s probably writing about being a complete waste of space for the bulk of the ALCS until a Lazarus style resurrecton made him a hero. Sadly, that notion did not last. Johnny’s book reveals him to be anything but the dimpled, moronic caveman many have come to respect and love. What’s new, right? He’s a professional athlete…
(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.”
Clearly Johnny is not just an idiot but also a classless moron. It’s not his activities that agitate me (well they’re bad news but I have enough skeletons that I can’t judge)… it’s the way he brags in hardcover; beaming with pride for kicking his partner of 15 years to the curb in exchange for 3 years of readily available ass, only to find himself locked down – again – in a furniture picking situation that he thinks will work out.
I think I found the right girl. She captured everything about me – my eyes and my heart. I think I’ve found a winner.
Such glowing reviews… I hope she’s still a winner after the warranty runs out on her new tits.
I am a New York Yankee fan. Through blown saves, choked series, hired guns, and motivational coaches, they are my team. Laugh, poke fun, and hate me all you wish, but no one can convince me otherwise. I love the New York Yankees, absolutely and without equivocation. But loving them means that, at times, I must question. At times, I must criticize. And then there are times like these.
As all the world is aware, the Yanks are off to their worst start since 1991 [I remember 1991. I was a 9 year old with a mini-Mattingly jersey, pigtails, and new front teeth... the only time I knew something was wrong with the Bombers was when my father ranted at dinner (or wherever else), citing that we were dead last and dysfunctional and calling whatever manager that had floated through the turnstyle that week, a bum. In '91, it was Stump Merrill ... he was actually a "fucking bum," at least, until my mom heard overheard the comment and slapped my father in the back of his shaved head. He tried not to whine about it but the smack still echoes in my mind. Seeing his pain, I tried to support him by saying, "He IS a bum, daddy" but it didn't seem to help the situation. His eyes glistened and he gave me an endearing look... that red handprint was on his head for two days. Oddly, I've never heard my dad say "fucking" since. In any case, Mr. Merrill was clearly a downgrade from "goddamn bum," Bucky Dent... We'd not yet had the pleasure of upgrading to mere bum, Buck Showalter. But I digress.] and Sunday, we had our asses handed to us yet again. This time by Tejada and the Orioles… a squad that I was sure had been shamed out of existence after Palmeiro started schwinging for the fences. After the game, the Big Stein got vocal (read with Larry David/Seinfeld voice):
“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.”
This is a big shot in the dark but could the reason be that they aren’t true Yankees? I’ve been watching New York all my life and I still don’t know what makes a true one. [Go with me on this. I'm about to reach... far.] It’s like Justice Stewart’s attempt to differentiate porn from erotica.. I know it when I see it. Pornography inspires lust… raging lust that leads us to engage in various activities with partners or simply ourselves (oh shutup, you know you do!). Its the movies that play in our heads, the things we wish we could do. Whereas erotica, sexually explicit though it may be, isn’t that way; it’s the examination of what we actually do, for better or worse. It has merit beyond its ability to arouse. It is sex in its full breadth and depth, an ongoing discussion of who we are in bed. Apples and oranges, I guess. It’s not like you can really compare them… bad porn is as horrible as an undercooked slider from White castle. But erotica is always choice, crafted with skill and care.
I’m sure I’ve lost some of you by now. Those that have hung on, thank you You can see where I’m going with this. Porn is the Yankees since 2002, a gang of overpaid hookers bought by the General after Arizona Diamondbacks made him lose his mind. Sexy and pricey, they became Yankees for two reasons alone: so no one else could have them or because no one could afford to pay them. Kevin Brown is a nasty personality and a psych job to boot. Jason Giambi is a $17M albatross that fields like my 4-year old nephew. Alex Rodriguez has been solid and put up with the madness of being moved to 3rd base. I give him credit for that. But he isn’t a leader like Jeter is and he isn’t a gamer like O’Neill once was. His defining moment in Yankee lore (or perhaps Sox lore) is a rather effeminate slap play on a pitcher with an identity crisis. He is symbolic of a failed $205M experiment, nothing more.
But the Yankees of the 90s… They were full of class, clutch performances, and the idea that you play for the pinstripes and not the number on your back. They played with guts, bravery, and determination. They were boys of summer that commanded respect and gave everything they had on countless epic nights. That was erotica. Jeter, Posada, Williams, and Rivera, players groomed in a once solid farm system, are what little we have left and the latter two are fading fast. Sure, we have Tino, Mike Stanton, and Ruben Sierra again but too little, too late. We’re a porn squad and George Steinbrenner has made us this way.
Maybe all of this madness will be a wakeup call for Steinbrenner. Maybe we’ll go back to developing talent in our farm system rather than shopping out our best prospects for mercenaries with a 2 year shelf life. Maybe we’ll go back to erotica. Or maybe I’ll have the wakeup call and stop being so bloody idealistic.
John Rocker, the overgrown frat boy and previously unrepentant redneck that slurred and sulked his way through the 2000 baseball season, has re-surfaced in Central Islip, as a pitcher for the Long Island Ducks. That’s right, Long Island If he does well, he might find himself with a contract from the Mets. In a fascinating coincidence, he no longer possesses any ill feelings toward New Yorkers and wants to “bury the hatchet.”
Here’s a recap of his “old” feelings (I like to read it with a Foghorn Leghorn voice.. it’s much more enjoyable):
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?”
As Foggy would say, “This boy’s as strong as an ox…and almost as smart.” Think he’s changed? Me neither. But his return to baseball isn’t any concern to me. People that get stuck with lifelong labels suffer in a hell that I can’t begin to fathom. While I’d probably prefer to be known as a knob polisher than a bigoted degenerate, neither fate is favorable and he’s probably received enough punishment. But my hope is that he’s learned how to shut his face and let his pitching do the talking… allow his pitching to spark a rivalry. I remember his 95-mph fastball and that nasty slider that seemed to hang just “right there,” screaming “Crush me!” at every batter, only to veer off like a whiffle ball on a windy day. I wonder if he can do it again. I doubt it.
So, how did this come about, you ask? After being sent to the minors, called back up, shipped off to Cleveland, then to Texas, back down to the minors, in and out of Klan meetings, and then off to the surgery table for rotator cuff repair, John Rocker has been shopping his services. Apparently he had offers from numerous organizations (that have yet to identify themselves) but chose to schlep his skills all the way to Babylon to make his paper. Duck’s owner, Frank Boulton, made him an offer based on the WWJP2D principle… Simply put, it was the Christian thing to do.
“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.
John Rocker: Irony’s bitch.
*Credit to Matt Geiger for the amazing Rocker picture
Some middle-aged Canucks in a beer league called the “Wednesday Nighters” are suing for the rights to play for the Stanley Cup… trouble for the Nighters is, well, aside from their age, lack of skill, naivete, and whatever side effects come with Cialis, they don’t have goalies. This is a shot in the dark but that just may hurt their credibility with the courts.
“We do not take this lightly,” said Gard Shelley, an amateur hockey player in his mid-50s. … “I’m frustrated as most hockey fans are that the NHL and the NHLPA lost the season. I don’t know which side of that issue I’m on. I’m just frustrated with the fact that there is no hockey being played. I don’t think that’s what Lord Stanley intended. I think he had a higher purpose for his donation.”
Surely, the Nighters are in the realm of Lord Stanley’s higher purpose. The good thing is that if they win their suit, the Nighters will be ready to go, as they plan to battle for the Cup in classic white jerseys vs. black style… Spy vs. Spy may also volunteer their services in order to add a little flavor to the outing.
No goalies… unbelievable. Tomorrow I’m gonna go out and try to bowl with no pins. Maybe they’ll let me on the PBA tour.
So my fantasy team is in the shitter and it’s like day 8. I know, I know – only a week has passed.. be patient.. it works out. Sod off. This sucks. My team’s performance thus far is so abysmal that it actually hurts my feelings. How can they treat me this way? I mean… I had so much faith in them. I believed! Following painstaking research and analysis, I found these players to be the best candidates for my Team of 5×5 Dreams. Something about this is quite criminal… isn’t it? Hell if I know.
The thing is, I can get over the hurt feelings, bruised and damaged though they may be, but what about my pride? My opportunities to gain respect? As the only girl in my league, I represent the whole of female-dom .. from our butch, East German counterparts to the complaining, whining, non-sports-understanding twats that have the nerve to schedule a wedding in the middle of the Final Four [Alexa Kellogg: I'm speaking to you] and every girl in between. I had high hopes… my draft went well, I got the majority of players that I wanted from my lists, and my final round fillers were solid.
But then the comedy of errors and unforeseen madness began.
Lance Berkman and Eric Gagne went straight to DL-town, followed soon by the dizzy, discombobulated, Justin Morneau. Chase Utley was moved into a platoon with a $4.6 million contract drain whose name sounds more fitting for Desi Arnez’s band at the Tropicana than 2nd base. Johan Santana and Joe Nathan did well while Mark Mulder and David Wells got shelled like a bushel of peas. Edgar Renteria started the season 0/8 and has since managed to improve to a mere 5/28, batting .179 with 1 run and 4 RBIs. Thanks, Edgar. Ass. Adrian Beltre is picking things up, as is Javy Lopez, but JD Drew? I think you might find his skills outside Turner Field, having fallen out of his arse somewhere between the Braves clubhouse and his car. Nice .074, big guy.
Needless to say, I’m bitter. I’m angry. I want justice. But having gone through multiple Serenity Nows and chi harnessing routines, I know that I must remain calm. It is only week 2, after all, and my team is comprised of players sure to prove themselves worthy over the long haul. (right?) I should remember to have faith. I should remember that this is a marathon, not a sprint. I should remember any other applicable cliches that you’ve thought of and I have not. Besides, this whole rage thing probably isn’t too attractive anyway.
This is a fitting moment for a sigh. Not one one of the melodramatic, all-hope-is-lost sighs.. just the kind where you tip your head back, shout a powerful obscenity or two, scowl at the heavens (ceiling, whatever), and go back to watching tv. I think the best thing for me to do right now is to take a walk to CVS and fill that Zantac prescription.
23 weeks left.
From this day forth, each episode of Sesame Street will begin with health tips regarding healthy eating and physical activity and appropriately so… one in every three American children is overweight and well on the way to adulthood obesity. How admirable of Sesame Street, preaching to youngins that have little to no control over their snacking ways. To show its dedication to children worldwide, Sesame Street opted to broaden the “eating habits” of your favorite fiend and mine, Cookie Monster. “C is for cookie, that’s good enough for me, yeah!” isn’t gonna cut it any longer… Cookies are now a “sometimes” food and Cookie Monster even has a song about it. I weep.
“We are not putting him on a diet, and we would never take the position of no sugar,” said Dr Rosemarie T Truglio, the show’s vice president of research and education. “We’re teaching him moderation.” BBC News
Moderation. For Cookie Monster. Is nothing sacred? Is this what we’ve become as a society? Cookie Monster has been reduced from a junkie to a supporter.. a fan. Christ, he can’t even be an enthusiast! He’ll just have to go back to being plain old Sid – you see, that was his name before he took his first bite of cookie. The only thing Cookie Monster is really allowed to do nowadays is give cookies a thumbs up… sometimes. What’s next? Will Oscar the Grouch enroll in anger management and take up life in a halfway house? That whole pissed off gig in the trash can has got to stop. What about that stoned out, depressed wooly mammoth, Snuffleupagus? His borderline suicidal attitude is making a real mess of things. I simply don’t understand this. Cookie Monster with less cookies is like The Count with less things to count. “ONE! AH AH AH…. and that is all.” In one episode, The Count’s sheep went on strike because he wouldn’t stop counting them. In another, he spent the night at Bert and Ernie’s but counted all night, preventing Ernie (I’m suprised he and Bert haven’t come out yet) from getting his snoozes. Bastard!
How did we survive childhood and how are we making our way through life with such crappy role models? Cookie Monster treats cookies like crack-cocaine. Looney Tunes and Tom & Jerry are too violent. Popeye ate all that spinach just so he could defend the honor of an ugly ho that made him babysit a child that wasn’t even his. Surely my life has been adversely affected by watching such things… You’d think the PC Police could find a way to wake up and engage in a legitimate fight against the obesity epidemic. A fight where they go after the true criminals in this fiasco – the parents… parents who believe that parenting is a sometimes job; parents that allow their children to eat and eat while they plant their chunky rear ends in front of the telly all bloody afternoon.
I grew up with Cookie Monster just the like the rest of you and while I know nothing about moderation (you all know how I eat), I know everything about being forced to go out to play, about not being permitted to snarf down Cheetos and Easy Mac all afternoon, about not being babysat by the Power Rangers and idiot l33t speakers on the internet. How many fat kids do you remember when you were little? There were always a couple, right? The “husky” section kids that sometimes thinned out over time. I had to read a story and give a little talk to a class of 3rd graders a couple weeks ago and I’d say 40-50% of them were husky – at the very least. I asked the kids what they were gonna do after school (it was a nice day). 16 of them (out of 30) were planning to play video games or take in the wide array of shitty excuses for anime. Only 4 children planned to play outside. I remember coming home from school and my mother forcing me out the door, prohibiting me from going inside until the sky was pink.. that meant it was time for dinner. And in the summer it was even worse. Between breakfast and dinner, the only break you took was to come inside to get lunch and sometimes water because it was just too damn hot outside. If you weren’t riding your bike, you were engaged in epic battles of baseball, basketball, and kickball. There was Marco Polo in the pool and Capture the Flag at night.
But that’s all gone now. The kids are sedentary and fat and the dietetically flawed Cookie Monster is part of the blame. I appreciate Sesame Street’s efforts to help curb this epidemic but it’s not their responsibility. Cookie Monster is not the cause nor has he ever been a worthy contributor in either direction. He’s a puppet on a channel most kids don’t even watch anymore that gets about 3 minutes of face time when Sesame Street needs to pimp the Letter C.
Leave him alone.
In case you didn’t know (and you probably don’t because this has been swept under nearly every media rug), Michael Vick has herpes… though this is something I could have concluded simply by using my common sense, I’m amused nonetheless. More specifically, he has Herpes Simplex 2… the gooey genital kind. When confronted by the angry STD recipient, Vick had this to say, “That wasn’t in the playbook… but it shooooould be.” Okay that was a joke.
His real response was, “I’ve got something to tell you. I’ve got it.” Don’t you wonder how he said it? Did he emphasize “it.” Was it an italicized and bold statement? What if he was really dramatic and Young & the Restless about it? “I’ve got something to tell you (long pause.. glance into the clouds.. a bite of the lip.. tears welling up in the eyes)… I’ve got it.” He nods at her and purses his lips as if to say, “Baby, this cuts me real deep too. I know I was bangin all them hos but you’re my heart!”
What I’m wondering is, if you’re hooking up with a man that gets offered ass 182,000 times a day and he was so discriminating in his choice of women that he picked YOU up at the club, wouldn’t wrapping his shit up be priority #1? Who is enough of a crackass to think his bag of tricks can truly be trusted? He’s Michael Vick. You’d best double bag it or take his sorry ass to the free clinic.
What should not be left out of this commentary though, is the fact that Vick uses the alias “Ron Mexico” “for the purpose of herpes testing and/or treatment.” Ron Mexico. I’ll let you muddle through that one yourselves
In any case, it looks like it’s a brand new day, Mike. It’s about time Valtrex got a new commercial anyway.
I know this is a crass subject but ya know something, it’s absolutely fascinating that this is what it takes to prevent you doofus Y chromosomes from peeing all over the walls and the floor. Is aiming really all that taxing? … Upon further thought, save it fellas, I don’t want to know.
One of these things is not like the others,
One of these things just doesn’t belong,
Can you tell which thing is not like the others
By the time I finish my song?
Did you guess which thing was not like the others?
Did you guess which thing just doesn’t belong?
If you guessed this one is not like the others,
Then you’re absolutely…right!
[lyrics from Sesame Street, by Joe Raposo and Jon Stone]