Oh, don’t pretend like you haven’t thought about what your walk-up music would be. Me? Depends on the mood, but right now it’d be the first few bars of Cats, Van, Bags, or anything by Slayer.
For others, it may be something more tributary. I fondly remember getting out of my seat and dancing every time Eli Marrero came to the plate with his uptempo salsa music blasting the stadium. And how could I forget my first Adam Dunn walk-up? Allen was there with me. We were both in awe by his slow Phil Collins inspired saunter!
But I just plain don’t like it when politicians try to adopt songs from pop culture. I didn’t like Bill Clinton’s use of what was once a great Fleetwood Mac song (mostly because of how it affected Al and Tipper, which subsequently made me throw up in my mouth, a lot) and I am not very fond of the current GOP’s outlandish claim to the Carrie Underwood song “Undo It”.
Hold on a sec…
* * *
Okay, I’m back. I had to go break some s***.
Undo it!?!?!?!? How about you undo the notion that the previous band of politicians wasn’t fairly elected to make some big @ssed decisions that we — the friggin PEOPLE — asked them to make.
This whole running a country thing… it isn’t a game. It’s not something to be taken lightly. So I propose that the new majority spend less time thinking about what they want their walk-up music to be, and more time finding out how to pay for health care; because I think I broke my hand a minute ago breaking some s*** and now I need to go to Urgent Care.
Also, Carrie Underwood is too damn sexy to be associated with… Glenn Beck.
Hate me. I don’t care. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Or how about back in 2004, when all the Democratic party had to do was put a solid candidate on the podium in order to beat the impish incumbent, Dubya, and they gave us John Kerry, who flip-flopped and stuttered his way to crapdom?
Well, maybe the lesser fits winning over favorites is a Texas thang… in which case, I wouldn’t mind seeing it go away.
Because an 18 to 4 shellacking from Houston (just one of seven losses — and counting — at the hands of the otherwise laughable LOLstros in 2010) is just too much for a playoff-contending team to take… especially for its fans.
My ears are already full of sand… so I’m hiding elsewhere until the pain, the torture, the embarrassment ends…
No. I’m not telling you where I am. It hurts too much.
Hate me ‘cuz you can, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Even Clinton, despite his somewhat suspect taste in women, knew how to play the game. Cigars in the Oval Office, blue dresses. The man had been perfecting the craft with Paula Jones and Gennifer Flowers and there was no way Monica had a chance against him.
But now? John Edwards cheats on his cancer-stricken wife, gets the lady pregnant and videotapes it. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he still had the balls to think he could make it through the campaign without anyone finding out.
And if we can believe recent reports, it seems that boring old Al Gore might be the worst of the lot. It’s not just that he hid it all along while subjecting us to that interminable kiss with Tipper. It also appears that he plain and simple has no game. Let’s look in on a Chinese animated recreation of the events in Oregon on the night of October 24, 2006:
Yep, real classy, Al. And when a lady compares you to a sex-crazed poodle, that’s usually not a compliment. Even if I have been known to take it that way.
I really haven’t had that exciting of a life. There
are a lot of things I wish I would have done, instead of just sitting
around and complaining about having a boring life. So I pretty much
like to make it up. I’d rather tell a story about somebody else.
— Kurt Cobain (1964-1994)
Instead of complaining about who isn’t going to the All-Star Game, I’d like to tell you a story about someone who is going to the All-Star Game:
Luckily, one of my best friends is a Cardinals season ticket holder. And besides being the proud owner of Quincy, IL’s finest bar and grill (a place where even Mike Shannon has been known to drink) he also has a kind heart and agreed to take me along for all of the All-Star thrills, including acting as my official wing-man in my misguided quest for Erin Andrews glory. Yes, that is still going on. Admittedly, overcoming such built-in adversity will not be an easy assignment; it will be easier than overcoming the struggle against Nazi Germany (don’t tell Al Gore) but, dear readers, it will not be easy — especially since so many deserved, albeit inconvenient, All-Stars will not be present.
Yet that does not mean they should not be recognized for their All-Starredness, no matter the capacity… so here are your RSBS All-Star snubs of 2009 whom I will proudly represent in St. Louis next week:
Just like that frat guy named Hunter and his impervious flesh pursuit at the bar on $5 pitcher night, yeah, he strikes out an awful lot. But he also surprises you every once in a while and hits some big-time bombs… or bombshells, whichever the case may be.
Stealing bases is one thing. Stealing taxpayer money to bankroll an 8-year long international affair? Now that’s All-Star material… because, well, it takes balls. Balls of steel.
Being the most popular man in Major League Baseball without ever having played a Major League Baseball game is certainly something to tip your cap towards. Just wait until you see the kind of velocity he can generate with those ears! I promise you: he is the best pitcher EVER in the HISTORY OF THE WORLD!
No one likes a quitter, but unlike Manny Ramirez, at least Palin looks good while doing it.
As an unabashed Cardinal fan, there are about about 30 million reasons why this guy is a true All-Star. Obviously, not one of them includes playing good, fundamentally sound baseball.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
***SEND US YOUR FILIBUSTERS****
Something on your mind? Want to see Jeff and Al sweat (separately, not together, eww)? Think you got a real stumper? Send us your Filibuster question(s) by commenting or emailing them to us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
***Pictures of Allen shot-gunning Old Styles also welcome.
Although I hate to be the bucket of cold water on the porn ‘stache discussion that has been heating up our personal interweb for the past day, it felt necessary that I write a small tribute to the most recent passing amongst our ongoing rash of celebrity deaths. In fact, you could say that there might not even be a Red State Blue State without the contributions of this person because many of the decisions he made led directly to the epic divide that has come to define our country.
I consider it fair to say that the Vietnam conflict was a watershed event in US history and the domestic response to it created a fault line that still divides the red from the blue states. Each presidential election since that time has been a refighting of the battle and even much of the argument about Iraq recycled the same terminology used in discussions of Vietnam. And no one was more instrumental in creating those discussions, arguing those arguments and fighting those battles than Robert McNamara.
There’s no reason to go all that in depth because if you really want to get an idea of the man, there’s no better place to go than Errol Morris’ 2003 documentary, The Fog of War, where you can hear McNamara describe what happened in his own words. Nearing ninety at that point, McNamara’s lucidity and razor-sharp reasoning are almost stupefying. Love him or hate him, you have to admit that he ain’t no dummy.
So, despite the ambivalent feelings Mr. McNamara may inspire and despite his troubled legacy, we still salute him. He is at least as responsible for RSBS as Al Gore is for the internet.
Last year I made the mistake of placing my faith in the savior apparent of the Detroit Tigers, a man I lovingly referred to as my big, black baby Jesus. He rewarded my faith by issuing more free passes than a scalper outside a Washington Nationals game. But after some time in the minors and a stint on the DL for an “anxiety disorder,” Dontrelle Willis finally made it back to the big leagues last night. And didn’t do a whole lot to allay our fears.
It’s rare that we see our heroes crumble into dust and then reemerge as a better version of themselves. Al Gore and Andre Agassi are good examples of how that works out at it’s best but, unfortunately, the Dontrelle Willis route is much more common. Something happens, something disappears and suddenly the person is a shell of their former self. It’s like the final episode of Seinfeld. We recognize it as being Seinfeld but its essential Seinfeldness wasn’t there.
That’s why I especially appreciate it, though, when heroes of my childhood reemerge in a better if not stronger form. Sergei Fedorov leads the Red Wings for years and then plays his heart out for the Washington Capitals. Kirk Gibson lays it on the line for the ’84 Tigers and then comes back and provides the spark for the ’88 Dodgers as well. But if I have to choose only one hero who has come back better, stronger and faster, well, I think this video will explain:
Willie Tanner: a poor man’s Eraserhead.
Pardon me for being brash, but it’s certainly no secret that the group mind of the Phillies faithful is about as unruly as the world markets are on this fine Friday afternoon. And while I’ve never been to Citizens Bank Ballpark, I have seen the drunken exploits of Phillies fanatics in St. Louis as well as here in Chicago. In fact, one of my fondest baseball memories is seeing two Phillies fans fight two Cubs fans outside of Haray Caray’s Tavern on Sheffield and Addison. Quite the conundrum as I didn’t know who to root for: the two ^ssholes in Cubs jerseys or the two ^ssholes in Phillies jerseys.
I don’t remember who won the fight; I do remember I wanted to stay as far away from them as possible.
And that hasn’t changed one bit.
So in reading Mike Bauman’s column this morning — where he theorizes that in order for the Dodgers to come out of Philly with a win someone other than Manny Ramirez has got to hit the ball — I chuckled when he passively mentioned the x-factor of drowning out the noise of “the extremely vocal support of 45,839 of their [the Phillies’] closest friends.”
Touché, Mike. Touché.
As one highly respected blogger put it earlier this year: Philadelphia Fans Don’t Deserve Championship Teams.
And after watching this I have a hard time disagreeing with him:
I know my esteemed colleague, Mr. Krause, has equated the Philly message to that of Barack Obama and even picked them to run the table all the way to the Championship but I can’t stop myself from thinking how crazy that comparison actually is. Philly fans, obviously, have no qualms about fighting back while Democrats seem to be inherently meek (see Al Gore 2000, John Kerry 2004, Barack Obama 2008). Philly fans are hardly known for their eloquent speech whereas the Democrats bank on it.
In fact, I think the only thing that Philly fans and Democrats have in common is that they both lose when it really counts.
Let’s hope that one of them doesn’t this time around.
Go ahead, Philadelphia. Go ahead and hate me. It’s nothing I’m not used to. Really. But don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right (and please stop firebombing my house).
Again, my hat is tipped to the Chicago Cubs, their players, their front office and yes, even their fans for winning the National League Central Division title. Job well done. I’ve commented on blogs galore, I’ve shaken your hands, I’ve stopped calling the cops when you fire bomb my house.
Congratulations on doing what you were supposed to do. You were picked to win the Central. You went out and spent a lot of money to win the Central. So, it should be no surprise that you did indeed win the Central.
But I have absolutely no patience (nor the stomach) for this kind of crap sprawled across my Sunday paper:
If it weren’t for my sadistic infatuation with the shooting incidents finely described in the Metro section, I’d cancel my Chicago Tribune subscription in a New York methamphetamine minute because their escalating sensationalist style of journalism is growing too tiresome to be considered real reportage.
Publishing a new book entitled This Is The Year?
The year for what!?!? Winning the division? Because that’s all you’ve done so far. Congratu-friggin-lations on that. You won the NL Central. You did that last year too. Remember? Where’s the book for that great feat of baseball achievement? Oh, there isn’t one? Well then, let’s write a book about this year then without having actually done anything of real importance?!?!
Is this for real? What else have you done this year that warrants a book banking/hoping/praying you’ll win the NLDS and then win the NLCS and then… win the WS?
This is exactly the reason why Cub fans hate themselves. They let the media and the hype and the curses and the exploding payrolls inflate their egos beyond the realms of sanity, so much so that they actually believe “this is the year” when they’ve still got a whole lot of work to do… just like they did when all they had to do was record five outs against the Marlins or win three games against the Diamondbacks or whatever the case may be this year.
Sure, it’s been a hundred years and the media loves this kind of story… look: I get it. But, don’t you think publishing a book called This Is The Year is a bit like asking that girl you like but haven’t talked to yet to marry you?
Yeah. Good luck with that.
I’m sure your manager, “Sweet” Lou Piniella, one of the smartest, classiest managers in the game, is loving your gung-ho holier-than-thou approach to the toughest part of the season. Because we all know (cue the sarcasm) that the playoff games preceding the world series crown are really meaningless, especially if you’ve got a book called This Is The Year.
Nothing guarantees a victory like premature jubilation.
Just ask Al Gore.
And don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.