Through years of tradition and arbitrary custom, decisions in the United States are often made by random groups of people whose legitimacy owes itself to nothing except that tradition. Exhibit A, the Electoral College. Exhibit B, the House of Representatives. Exhibit C, the Baseball Writers Association of America.
The first one isn’t going anywhere and except in random cases like the 2000 election, hasn’t actually thwarted the will of the people. Sure, it does give outsized importance to states like Ohio and Florida that really should be sold back to the French and Spanish, respectively, but it doesn’t make me hate myself.
The House of Representatives, on the other hand, is where intelligence and common sense go to die. Take Rep. Paul Broun of Georgia who sits on the House Committee on Science, Space and Technology as an example. Rep. Broun’s membership on a relatively unimportant committee wouldn’t matter too much except for one thing. He believes that “evolution and embryology and Big Bang theory, all that is lies straight from the pit of hell.” Broun also has stated that he believes that the earth is about 9,000 years old. That an idiot of this magnitude could be elected to Congress, and is running unopposed this year as well, is indicative of the collective intelligence of the body (and the American people, unfortunately).
Need more proof? Take the House Republicans’ hearing on Libya that took place last week in which they not only failed to resolve anything but also managed to blow the CIA’s cover in Benghazi in the process. Seriously, this is more appropriate to the plot of a Coen brothers’ movie than it is to the lower house of of our esteemed national legislature.
And finally we come to the Baseball Writers who have the power to hand out post-season awards as well as decide who is elected to the Hall of Fame. Considering that the list of members includes Woody Paige and Buster Olney, I’m not inclined to give much credence to anything they say. The only good thing about having them around is that there’s a good chance they’ll give the AL MVP to a Detroit Tiger for the second consecutive year, despite the strong case that could be made for Mr. Trout. And, at the end of the day, if I had to wish for the unholy death of one group of people, I’d probably give the nod to the House over the sportswriters. That could all change if Miggy doesn’t get the MVP, though. Writers, you have been warned.
And so in this Podcast brought to you by Lifestyles…
The RSBS crew celebrates its 30th episode by taking a stroll down podcast memory lane, remembering things that busted our (and hopefully your) guts. AIDS salad and Ron Santo’s memory get rehashed while new memories (like gay ponies v. horsicorns, an iguana named Dudley and how you can cure your foot problems) are created! Jump on board the RSBS crazy train! No stops til you question how you spend your free time!
Don’t forget to getcho Crown Royal and enjoy some happy time!
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Subscribe to the RSBS Podcast by clicking *HERE*
Subscribe via iTunes by clicking *HERE*
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Recorded Saturday, November 26, 2011
The Drah-mah in Bahhhh-ston
Leave it to the Red Sox to be all dramatified in the offseason. As if their 2010 free agent signing flop and subsequent September fail-to-the-finish that included video games, fried chicken and an “Adios, Tito!” (let’s leave the beer out of this, shall we?) wasn’t enough drama for one year, they had to go and add to the pile by involving Bobby Valentine in their managerial search. Don’t get me wrong. I love Bobby V and I really hope he gets the job ‘cuz he’s a bad@ss whose mere presence makes the league better (and more entertaining); but he also comes packin’ drama. And the fact that the owners interviewed him before allowing new GM Ben Cherington to have his say suggests that the drama between ownership and the front office will continue to rival that of its on-the-field representation.
Pepper Spray: “It’s a Food Product, Essentially”
Fox News host Megyn Kelly should consider a move to the Food Network. I think spraying Emeril Lagasse with a jumbo-sized canister of pepper spray would add some much needed tension to their programming. And besides, pepper spray is “a food product, essentially”.
At a time when a Lil Wayne-impersonating white dude from Pittsburgh is tops on the music charts — in effect CRUSHING my hope for a revival of real, genuine rap music — I would like to personally thank the Toronto Blue Jays for coming back to earth, for finally being real. When you have a classic look, there’s never a reason to change it. The Yankees have managed this. So have the Cardinals. Sure they update to keep up with trends, but the core design never changes. The Blue Jays had one of the classiest, cleanest, most memorable unis in all of baseball.
And then they changed it all for… black and gray?
It’s good to see them making good decisions again.
Throw the Spaghetti in the Machine.
I’m a burning bush. I’m a wildfire. I’m singing in the rain and dancing again. Like Tim Tebow, I have a big god. BIGGER THAN ZEUS. I can put away my Club Confidential and stop pleasuring myself while crying. My iguana, Dudley, is beside himself too. We’re throwing confetti on each other, plowing through our best box of wine and eating marshmallows off the floor. For at least one week we’ll stop throwing flares at cars, getting arrested on our skateboards and falling asleep in alleys.
Because, for once, baseball took an unconventional route and picked fire-fire -flame-flame tapdancing bad@ss Justin Verlander as MVP. When we lost Buster Posey early in the season, Dudley and I had to act fast to find a baller we could have an unhealthy OBSESSION over; and Justin was our guy. He was the Hannibal Lecter to our Clarice. We even bought a special chianti.Dudley and I rarely missed a Verlander start. In between great Chrysler ads, he sat on my lap as we watched the Motown hero pitch deep into games, mystifying hitters, dropping jaws like change-ups. He was like Fast Eddie Felson in The Hustler when he came back to take down Minnesota Fats. Nailed every rail. Hit every spot. Geometry and speed to perfection. (Fitting that Minnesota is in the AL Central too. See what I did there?)
It would have been easy to pick an everyday player like Granderson or Ellsbury. Sure, they had splendid seasons. But this was the year where a starter — the first since Roger Clemens — gave everything needed and CARRIED a team to the playoffs.
While defense in football can be boring, pitching and defense in baseball… I LIVE FOR IT. I wasn’t around for Bob Gibson and Sandy Koufax. Wasn’t alive yet. But I love when the game offers pitchers whose starts you just can’t miss. When Pedro Martinez was in his prime I would’ve rather eaten my dinner off a urinal than miss a start.
And for next year? I’m looking at you, Stephen Strasburg. Throw the spaghetti in the machine and eat the children…
Follow Johanna on Twitter!
What better way to celebrate the return of contemporary television’s greatest comedic achievement than to steal one of its taglines for an hyperbolic thrashing of the MLB seasonal awards?
That’s what I thought.
American League Cy Young
Um… no brainer, y’all. Justin FRACKING Verlander. Anything else is just… stupid. And dumb. And Cubbish.
American League Most Valuable Player
Though my repugnant and oft pedantic colleague, Mr. Allen Krause, would like you to believe Mr. Verlander is the “most valuable” to his team, let’s not lose sight of what’s really going on here. You can argue semantics all you want, Mr. Krause, but we all know that the MVP is reserved for a position player. How do we know this? Because the pitchers ALREADY HAVE THEIR OWN AWARD. And that, my friends, is a deal breaker! So the MVP goes to Curtis Granderson. Close your eyes and imagine the Yankees without him this year. Scurry, ain’t it!?!
National League Cy Young Award
Halladay or Kershaw or Halladay or Kershaw or Halladay or… wait, Kershaw? It’s a fine line. And my gut says Kershaw; however, upon further review (and I know using stats from 2010 isn’t fair, but who says I’m fair?), in a galaxy far, far away, Adam Dunn took Kershaw deep. Twice. In one game. And THAT’S A DEAL BREAKER. Congratulations, Roy Halladay. Again.
National League Most Valuable Player
My instincts say Ryan Braun deserves this award BUT Ryan Braun is a Brewer and yep, that’s a deal breaker! So Matt Kemp, come on down! In fact, if Lance Berkman hadn’t done such a nice job, I might also hand Kemp the Comeback Player of the Year Award because, let’s face it, compared to ’09 and ’11, he was nothing short of regurgitated fecal matter last year. Think about it.
Yes, they have other awards too, like, Manager of the Year, Silver Slugger, Gold Glove, etc… but honestly, who cares? Quick, name the 1989 National League Manager of the Year. See, you can’t. ‘Cuz nobody cares (it was the Cubs’ Don Zimmer).
And if nobody cares, well, then THAT’S A DEAL BREAKER!
Hate me, it’s all good. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
And so in this Podcast…
…the fullest, rawest, most awe inspiring podcast yet, RSBS convenes as Jeff, Allen, Johanna and special guest Mark Piebenga from Second City all come together for one rip-roarin’ time! Among the topics of conversation (sponsored by Lifestyles and encouraged by Miller Lite) are strains to one’s right glute, burning one’s hand on the hot stove, hiding one’s pain with the NBA… and much, much more!
All to make you smiley face!
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For more on Mark’s work on RSBS‘ Ninemen’s Morris series, check out this story then click on the Ninemen’s Morris tag at the bottom for more early 20th century hilarity!
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Subscribe to the RSBS Podcast by clicking *HERE*
Subscribe via iTunes by clicking *HERE*
*Special thanks to our PodMaster Keith Carmack. You can check out Keith’s wicked podcast and his subsequent film projects at Undercard Films. The dude has mad skillz, so you might wanna pay attention. Do it! Now!
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Recorded Wednesday, November 17, 2010
In honor of Albert Pujols’ second consecutive MVP award, RSBS wanted to congratulate him and his self-proclaimed biggest fan. And when faced by such a daunting task we turn, as we often do, to poetry.
‘Twas the eve of Thanksgiving and all over the net,
Writers were scurrying to finish posts and then get.
Jeff sat at home, quietly nursing a beer,
Mourning the end of yet one more year.
Leafing through catalogues and picking out faves,
Hinting at presents that could sure make him rave.
When out in the blogsphere the bloggers set a-chatter
And Jeff knew immediately what was the matter.
His eyes both lit up like a bulb in a fixture,
Then swiveled then focused on a framed Pujols picture.
Picking up Albert and dancing around,
Weeping tears of joy as he fell to the ground,
He toasted himself and thought “This truly is living!
More hardware for Albert, what a happy Thanksgiving!”