A couple of days ago my piously pithy colleague, Mr. Krause, decided to undermine my loyalty to the St. Louis Cardinals. He spewed verbal chum as if I were cheating on my dear Redbirds by patronizing the White Sox.
Juvenile, Mr. Krause. Simply juvenile.
Look. This is known. I’m a Cardinals fan. A St. Louis loyalist. A redbird lifer. No question.
But I don’t live in St. Louis. I live on the Southside of Chicago, mere blocks from Sox Park. And I love baseball. So I’m going to see a lot of White Sox games over the course of a season. Call me a cheater, call me a liar, I could care less. Baseball is baseball, no matter what color the unis are.
So yeah, I’ll say it again: I’m a Cardinals fan, White Sox supporter. Eat it, Mr. Krause. The only time said allegiances will ever raise concern is this October when the two teams meet in the World Series, at which time you’ll find me with my Molina jersey and an interlocking STL on my cap. I don’t even have to think about it.
Now, Mr. Krause on the other hand, finds himself in a bit of trouble. At the suggestion of Mr. Jonestein, the RSBS interns and I were more than quick to disprove his most atrocious declaration, which I will repeat here for dear readers galore:
“Me, I bleed Tiger blue and often experience stigmata in the shape of an
old English “D.” I am faithful to the Tigers to the point of willful
ignorance concerning the other 31 or however many teams there are in
Major League Baseball.”
Okay, first of all, dummy, there are 30 teams in Major League Baseball, not 31. Second, zombies don’t bleed, so I don’t know how you can bleed ‘Tiger blue’ (is that even blue or is it just light black?). Finally, the interns’ research usurps your ability to wiggle out of a lie.
And I have proof:
Yeah, okay, Mr. Krause. I guess when you refer to the English “D” you’re implying that it stands for DECEIVER.
If there’s a Tigers hell (they’d show constant reruns of all the 2006 Tigers’ World Series fielding errors), you are definitely goin’ there, brother.
So don’t hate me, ‘cuz you know I’m right.
I just threw up. On myself! Tastes like chalk from all those chalky heart candies.
Do you know hearts are not really shaped like that?
Now, in spite of my distaste for this putrid ‘holiday’ designed to remind me I ain’t gettin’ any tonight, I’ve decided to spread some love anyway — RSBS style, of course.
Yesterday marked the two year anniversary of RSBS‘ virgin birth (yeah, it was virgin so don’t ask no more questions), and I think it’s pretty clear that we wouldn’t have lasted this long without some strong support from our dear readers and fellow paupish writers, so to celebrate that, I’m just going to point out some great blogs that I feel should get some more attention:
Prince of New York
Paul “Prince” Lebowitz not only knows the game of baseball better than anyone you’ve never heard of, but he also personifies the perfect balance of brass balls and sheer smarts. I read his site every day. You should too.
Baseball, Apple Pie, and Lobster
Jonestein is the king of not pulling punches. He hits and he hits hard, often sending me into helpless bouts of laughter. Anti-big-government, anti-religion, anti-antics-in-general, BAPL has something for everybody. Okay, maybe not everybody. Still, his thoughtful articles have never disappointed moi… I only wish there were more.
Okay, this one has nothing to do with baseball or politics or anything at all remotely close to the amorous RSBS, but for some reason it always gets me thinking, smiling, feeling. You may see it as girly (lots of fashion photos, motifs, vocab), but I don’t. I see it as soulful. And the sky gods know I need something to fill this soul. This is it.
And don’t hate me, ‘cuz I’m right… and I know when I’m right.
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**DEAR READERS! ALERT! ALERT! ALERT!**
The Filibuster is baaaaaaack! To celebrate pitchers and catchers reporting this week, Mr. Krause and I will once again be taking your questions for the Filibuster segment, posted every Sunday! If you have a burning question, thought, plan for world domination, etc., please email us at firstname.lastname@example.org or leave us a comment mentioning the Filibuster.
In this epic best of three game battle of metaphors — mixed, extended,
absolute and beyond — Jeff and Allen pair wits and leave it to YOU,
the dear reader, to decide the champion.
The humbled loser will be forced to shower the winner with a carefully constructed essay of praise.
And now… the FINAL MATCH…
The Topic: Phillies Fans v. Yankees Fans
Suggested by: Jonestein from Baseball, Apple Pie & Lobster
Yankees fans are the U.S. Military. Backed with billions of dollars and stacked with the Nation’s finest, these chiseled warriors are built to destroy. And while it’s going well, they tout themselves as being the very best EVER. When things aren’t going so well they pretend none of it actually exists. Phillies fans? These are the relentless Jihadists. Playoff bound or not, they will blow you up, they will eat your children, they will terrorize everyone and everything around them; and they won’t feel bad about it, for at the end of the explosion waits paradise with 72 Shane Victorinos.
Yankees fans are Allen, dedicated but with a statistically significant percentage of ostentation. They claim to love their team but sometimes you wonder if that love is as intense as it should be. Phillies fans are Jeff, always spoiling for a fight and ready to punch you before letting you bad mouth their team. You never doubt the love but you wonder if maybe they’re just a little off.
But both have one thing in common. They think they deserve to be number one. Like Jeff and Allen, though, it doesn’t always happen.
Please vote! Tell your friends! Storm town hall meetings!
That’s right, dear readers. White Sox manager Ozzie Guillen is joining the Fox Baseball Pre & Post Game Shows as an insider analyst during the World Series.
I can’t see how this could possibly go wrong.
Unless, y’know, Ozzie tells Chris Rose that “Hees a garbage and hees children ees a garbage” or if he mentions to Mark Grace that “Hees a f^ggot” or reminds Eric Karros that “hees head ees as beeg as those peeg rats at Wreegley Feel.”
No matter how many times they have to hit the bleep button while Ozzie is on the air, I imagine his self-sacrificial lampooning for a Fox ratings spike will be less likely to fail as Glenn Beck would acting as a PETA spokesman:
Note to Mr. Beck: Don’t be killin’ no frogs on live television yo!
Hate me ‘cuz I transleeterate Ozzie’s lingo, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
***IMPORTANT PROGRAMING NOTE***
Suggested to us by the always hilarious Jonestein at BABL, Mr. Krause and I will be competing in a World Series Metaphor Competition — a Metaphor-Off… yeah, let’s call it that.
Why? ‘Cuz we can. And we will.
But we need your help! As you know, Al and I champion ourselves as masters of the meandering metaphor; and we need your suggestions. What do you want to see metaphorized? (Yes, that’s a word. I made it up.) It could be something as simple as an individual player, a team, a rule, a concept, whatever. We want your ideas. Email us at email@example.com, Twitter us at @RSBS or kindly comment on a post with your suggestion. After selecting a trio of your topics, Mr. Krause and I will then post our metaphors during the World Series and YOU the reader will vote for the winner in this best of three competition.
Don’t just sit there…. suggest, suggest, suggest!
Baseball, Apple Pie & Lobster
While still behind the modern US American game in terms of global appeal, Japanese baseball does have a special place in the universe of our national pastime. Indeed it has evolved much beyond the infant and fundamentally challenged Chinese game and the linguistically worldly fella in me likes to think that even Japanese basebrawls tend to be a bit more aggressive than their Korean counterparts’ elusive yet intriguing pitcher’s mound chicken dance routine. Still, there is more to it than that.
During my first year in China, I had a Japanese roommate named Hayashi Nobuhide. Nobby — as we white devils called him because, well, it was easier to pronounce — was a rabid baseball fan. In fact, our friendship, which was predestined to be rocky due to 60 years of bad history, was solidified by our matched passion for the game.
Some of my fondest memories revolve around us getting up at 5am to watch the 1999 World Series during which he vehemently professed his equally tired hatred of the New York Yankees — for they were, to Nobby and his Japanese brethren, holistically representative of “all that’s bad with America” (his words, not mine, though most probably true, especially when considering the likes of Roger Clemens, Chuck Knoblauch and Tony Tarasco).
And that year, Nobby cheered on the Atlanta Braves just like any other rabid Japanese nationalist: while wearing a Seattle Mariners cap.
Ichiro! Ichiro! Ichiro!
“But what about Hideki Irabu?” I asked.
“**** that traitor! Go Ichiro!” he replied.
“But Ichiro’s not playing.”
“He should be! ICHIRO!!!”
To hear Nobby tell it, Ichiro Suzuki was more popular, more influential, more inspiring than Jesus Christ himself (not to mention having a better stylist). Everything about Ichiro, from his odd pregame warmups to his ritualized on-deck routine to his classic power pose at the plate was unequivocally all-things Japanese: systematic, graceful and proud.
Consider the fact that this undying allegiance came during the height of the steroid era, and I gotta admit, Nobby had a damn good point:
Sensationalized as the above may be, the truth remains: Ichiro is powerful.
And now, that power has multiplied. The Japanese gifts continue to grace diamonds all across US America. From Ichiro Suzuki to Takashi Saito to
Kaz Matsui Kosuke Fukudome Hiroki Kuroda, the game has plenty of room for Japanese imports.
If we’re lucky, maybe someday we can even borrow the Hiroshima Toyo mascot; ‘cuz nothin’ says powerhouse baseball like a wet, smelly Carp.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.