He must have been a Pirates fan.
Yet spring training is supposed to be that time of year when every team has a shot at being the best, every team has the opportunity to go all the way, every team can hope to be champions — well, every team not named the Pirates, Royals and now: The St. Louis Cardinals.
That’s right, folks. The Cardinals were big losers before they even got to camp thanks to one General Manager John Mozeliak. It is no secret that I hold little regard for the man who did nothing to better our ball club during this off-season, so I will refrain from further condemning him back to the bookish hell from which he originally oozed.
What I will do instead is make it easy for you, dear readers, Cardinal lovers and Cardinal haters alike: those days of St. Louis fans harboring perennial playoff hopes are long gone. And all that remains is an empty, blown-out pipedream much akin to that of one Theo Roll, modern dancer extraordinaire.
Don’t know who Theo Roll, modern dancer extraordinaire is?
Watch and learn (at the 1:35 mark look for some fine, world class, Academy Award worthy acting):
Get my drift?
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Mr. Allen Krause may have a point when he defines me as the saddest man in America whilst the St. Louis Cardinals front office gives new meaning to the word “crapjob”; indeed, watching a team known for its unbridled winning tradition falter into a debilitated trance under the penny-pinching antics of John Mozeliak is not only gut-wrenching, it’s depressing as well. For unlike Mr. Krause and his coveted haphazard sports franchise affiliations (namely the Detroit Tigers and the Detroit Lions), we Cardinal fans expect great things from our team every game, every day, every year.
We’re not poster children for the Buddha’s life is suffering mantra.
And we’re certainly not dumb enough to make statements like “we’ll both revel in the genius that is Dave Dombrowski” before the most expensively bad team ever took the field. That’s just plain irresponsibility in ten words or less.
If anyone should apologize to the dear readers of RSBS it should be Mr. Krause, who was so brazen in his blogging, so careless in his quips, so insensitive in his irrationality that he completely forgot about the 86 years of purely agonizing, flesh-eating hell that Red Sox fans went through before their ultimate redemption. In essence, he called them whiny crybabies who cling to their guns and religion.
Didn’t you learn anything in 2008, Al?
I learned that there is no substitution for retribution.
And you’re old.
MySpace Countdown Clocks
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
It happens. Not very often, but when it does, it’s Pure-land Buddha bliss or 净土宗 as I like to say; and when it is, I get a great big… smile. On my face. It’s true.
On this one single night the Cardinals won (against a Tiger team that looks like *this*), the Cubs lost (at Wrigley!) and the Sox won (in L.A.!). Not only that, but the bus came right as I arrived at the bus stop this morning, my inbox was free from hate mail all day, I had gongbao jiding for lunch, Obama showed improvement in overall US American support and Bill O’Reilly was banned from ever opening his mouth again.
Okay. That last thing isn’t true — but the rest is.
So before I go too far and screw up the stars’ alignment, I will do something that has never been done before in the entire history of RSBS: just this once, I will rest my case… and take a moment to reflect on the almighty Amituofo name. Because after all, the Buddha is the one responsible for the Cardinals’ and Sox’s success so far this season… the Buddha is also responsible for the brainy combo of LaRussa/Duncan, Lazarus reincarnated as Alexei Ramirez and that pesky little goat that will bring the Cub faithful to their knees in agony… again.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right. This time, I got the inside edge.
Peace & 南無阿彌陀佛,
You all know what I’m talking about: the morning after a long night out, you wake up in a strange bed with someone whose name you didn’t quite catch. Quietly, as not to wake said stranger, you put on the same sweaty, rank clothes you wore the night before. Your back hurts and your leg is numb. The taste in your mouth is probably what the inside of an ashtray inside a toilet inside a Taco Bell might taste like and your hair is sticking up on one side and you have strange cuts on your face that weren’t there before and there is a loud thumping in your head and now you have to find the front door and make a discrete exit only to face a bright, loud sunlight that makes hiding absolutely impossible.
That’s what I’ve felt like all day (sans the stranger and her strange bed; see this link as to why those two are not in this real life catastrophe) as the White Sox got swept by the Cubs in part one of the Windy City (or Crosstown) Classic.
I’d like to extend a special thanks to all of those US Americans who wrote me emails, called me and texted me over the weekend just to make my life miserable, to pour ketchup in my canker sores, to ridicule me and chide me for my pain. I must especially thank you, Laura, for providing me with the proper instructions for killing myself. Had I not had a Tombstone pizza in the oven, I probably would’ve followed them.
Seriously though, I really appreciate the sentimental salutations — mean and cruel as they were — that I received from everyone.
Now I hope you all die.
That’s not true. I don’t hope you die. I mean, yes, you will die — someday — but I won’t have anything to do with it. That I promise. Don’t feel bad. I will die too. It will probably be on the #8/Halsted or #62/Archer bus. If you don’t hear from me for a while, check the Metro section of the Tribune for ‘tragic bus accidents caused by irresponsible paparazzi chasing a self-promoting, egotistical MLBlogger’.
Back to the series, the best part of this weekend was that I wasn’t in Chicago for the melee. No. I was on a farm in the middle of nowhere hanging out with good friends, which included about 20 Romanian nationals intent on getting me to play soccer, eat loads of garlic and listen to Madonna. Apparently (and this is straight from the Romanians’ mouths) these are the three Romanian national pastimes — in that order — and there is no deviating from them (*note: drinking is an integral part of each pastime. In fact, drinking is an integral part of everything Romanian). So, I did what I do best: I fit in.
I ate a ton of garlic (you can probably still smell it through the interweb).
I listened to a lot of Madonna (Hard Candy is awesome… and so is the new album).
But like all good things, Romaniafest had to end and once back in the Chi, there was no hiding from the shame and despair we Southsiders were made to endure. That being said, I am thankful that I missed seeing the series in person. Apparently, the usual suspects (Cub fans) were up to no good and I can only imagine what type of trouble would’ve found me. As you all know, I’m a sucker for basebrawls.
The Buddha taught: “Life is suffering.” Without knowing agony, pain and destruction firsthand, how can one ever really know what happiness feels like? The same goes for the flipside, which explains why Cub fans born after 1908 (almost all of them now) don’t really know what real misery is; they’ve never felt happiness.
Sucks to be them.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.