Back in April, if you would have told me that our Democratic president would support a federal resolution that would forgo taxing the über rich while opening the door to make major cuts to programs like Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid, I would’ve thought that I’d perhaps gotten a bit too tipsy during happy hour.
But I’m as sober as a Mennonite on Christmas.
Might not be too bad of a deal though really. I mean, back in April, reflecting on the season ending injury to Adam Wainwright, I also thought the Cardinals didn’t have much of a chance to get anywhere in the 2011 postseason — that they might not even get there at all. Add Pujols’ early struggles and several untimely injuries to Holliday, Skip, Punto and Berkman and I thought we really were just on borrowed time.
But John Mozeliak went out and made things happen this past week. He sent Colby (and his dad) packing to bring us Edwin Jackson, Scrabble, Octavio Dotel and Corey Patterson, plugging up some bullpen holes while bringing in a surging starter and a journeymen utility man, TLR’s favorite type of player. Then Mo went out and made shortstop better by bringing in a healthy Rafael Furcal.
The Cardinals went out and took care of business.
Now I know my malleable and oft gloomy colleague, Mr. Allen Krause, would like to think, as he put it, that the Cardinals had a “lack of trade deadline imagination”, but let me assure you: he is blind.
And when it comes to imagination, his beloved Tigers are full of it if they think a 3-12 Doug Fister is something to get excited about.
Hate me. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Fear not, my dear and trusted readers, for I also feel the sentiment of pain and worry caused by Mr. Krause’s latest right-field reclamation. While it is common for seedy men in prominent positions of power to manipulate their stances on a particular subject in order to woo the masses, this one goes far and beyond being just a simple cause for alarm.
One minute Mr. Krause is doling out his undying hatred for the “evil” Yankees; the next he’s praising New York’s golden boy, Derek Jeter (nice work on catching Lou Gehrig, by the way). And the worst part about it? He substantiates his softness by claiming the “Kalamazoo” connection.
To get to the heart of this conspiracy, the RSBS interns and I have toiled hard to unlock the mystery of Mr. Krause’s secrecy. So just go with me here…
Kalamazoo. While this is the city where Mr. Krause and I first met and became friends, this is also close to the home of a minor league baseball team: the West Michigan Whitecaps, affiliate of the Detroit Tigers.
Tigers. This is the team Mr. Krause supposedly loves. This is the team that was defeated by the St. Louis Cardinals in the 2006 World Series. This is the team synonymous with backwoods alcoholic racists. This is the team that lost 119 games in 2003.
119. If you add up the individual digits of this atrocious number, you will get 11. The word “eleven” has six letters in it, three of them “e”s, eerily akin to the word “seethe”!
Seethe. If anyone has the ability to foam at the mouth from agitation, it is Mr. Krause. Some would even call him a shape-shifter — like he showed us in his last video, which proved he has a special place in his heart for Colby Rasmus (and cross-dressing).
Colby Rasmus/Cross-Dressing. Only in Mr. Krause’s world does this combination sound like a great way to spend a Friday night. And Al loves Fridays.
Fridays. If you are a woman and you go on a date with Mr. Krause, this is where you will go. This is Al’s place to spend big. Pay special attention to his overbearing recommendations of anything and everything from the “Jack Daniel’s Grill” menu. Al loves him some Jack Daniel’s.
Jack Daniel’s. This is the only key you need to unlock Mr. Krause’s mind.
Mr. Krause’s Mind. Der-ek Je-ter *clap-clap-clap-clap-clap*… Der-ek Je-ter *clap-clap-clap-clap-clap*… Der-ek Je-ter *clap-clap-clap-clap-clap*
Yes, folks, that is what Al was trying to say.
He loves Derek Jeter.
And if Ozzie Guillen can kiss a dude then I have absolutely no problem with Al lovin’ on Jeet. Just come out and say it; and don’t blame it on geography.
Hate me ‘cuz I pull back the layers, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
I don’t know how my feeble and oft fallacious colleague, Mr. Allen
Krause, managed to pull this one off but the following video proves
that a) he did indeed pull it off, b) amazing things can be done with
makeup and special effects these days and c) that his Detroit
Tiger-lovin’ front has finally been debunked.
The truth comes out as Al puts on the ritz:
If you just survived that then you will definitely agree that it was the longest four minutes of your entire life (not to mention the most ill-spent).
Hate me ‘cuz my investigative work is unparalleled. Hate me ‘cuz I
exposed Mr. Krause’s crossdressing scheme. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m
P.S. Could someone pleeeaaase tell me why the above abomination has more views than the epic gansta rap “Jesus Hates the Cubs”?
Unlike Ernest Hemingway’s poignant parlay into the world of non-fiction, mine hath not the slightest utterance of death today… unless, of course, you consider the thousands of Cub fans who felt stabbed through the heart after their sloppy loss to the St. Louis Cardinals.
For today was a celebration, not only for the Redbirds’ ultimate triumph, but also for good company. Indeed, dear readers, I have friends who don the Cubby blue, like one soon-to-be-wed Adam Marshall — talented author of Our Man In Los Angeles — who was crazy enough to arrange for 22 Cub fans and one Cardinal fan (me!) to stake our claim amongst the bleacher bums at Wrigley Field on what may have been the most beautiful day of the year.
My first stop was to pay homage to the wondrous artwork to the right, found at the Addison Red Line stop, depicting heroic Hall of Fame icons Ryne Sandberg and Ozzie Smith in a too-close-to-call play at second base. I scrounged through the melee of already drunk Cub fans and snapped this amateur photo, hoping it would bring me good luck.
Dear readers, I have been going to Major League Baseball games my entire life and I have never, ever caught one ball, be it foul, fair, or B.P. Never.
Once inside the cathedral dump also known as Wrigley Field, I went straight for the beer man, bought myself a cold one and swarmed through the slew of drunkards to find an open seat. Entering to an onslaught of “F*** your mother”, “Go back to St. Louis”, and “Cardinals su<k”, I did my very best to make sure my Bud Light did not spilleth over. While perfecting this baseball ballet, I noticed the crowd around me take to a chorus of oohs and ahhs, duck and spread. I looked up and there it was: a ball coming straight towards me at a rifling speed. With no time to react, I simply stuck my chest out, felt a thump, looked down, and in my left hand was a baseball!
After 30 years, folks, I finally caught one.
A Colby Rasmus batting practice homerun at Wrigley.
And my beer did not spill one drop.
And it was, if you consider sloppy defense good. In fact, Cardinals left fielder Chris Duncan put on a clinic of how not to play the position. Then again, so did Alfonso Soriano. And in the end, Duncan’s bat powered the Redbirds to a win.
Of course, no Cub game would be complete without crying; and Milton Bradley came on late with the bases loaded, looked at six straight pitches without swinging the bat, then whined like the spoiled brat child he is before getting tossed.
Cards win. Cubs lose. I live.
Oh, and those crazy bleacher bums oft known to take an afternoon dip down the urinal trough? They were out in full force. There were a few tiffs and tussles, some skiffs and struggles. They were loud. They were obnoxious. They were obscene. Business as usual… like this clever diva who scribbled out some nonsense on a piece of cardboard and passed it off as truth:
Apparently she was too intoxicated to realize that the Cardinals won the game… or the fact that Wrigley Field’s peanuts are quite savory and that any Redbird would be a fool to not at least try them… just once.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Finally, there is something to distract me from the escalating woes of St. Louis’ bullpen, the blooming ERA of the White Sox pitching staff and the rumor mill officially known as Veepstakes!. Yes, dear readers, it is time for another Olympiad. The story lines are plenty, but first and foremost my focus will be on whether or not the Chinese follow through on their promise to change the weather to their specifications. They have made great strides in weather modification (I heard the North Koreans gave them a hand with the necessary plutonium) so I really look forward to seeing them turn off the rain and turn on the sunlight. I am also curious to see how successful they are in duping athletes into thinking that the ominous, smoky, gray haze really is just fog and not smog like the big bad foreign devils claim. And of course, we all look forward to watching sappy melodrama after sappy melodrama, narrated by Bob Costas, featuring Olympians who overcame war, severed limbs and mange to compete on the world’s stage.
Interesting as the above may be, still, as a proud US American, I must say that the two main story lines I looked forward to the most will not be present in Beijing. And this, dear readers, makes me sad.
Because ever since Deadspin made her an internet sensation, I have long dreamed to watch California pole-vaulting vixen Allison Stokke turn multicultural heads. When I found out she didn’t make the USA team, I was crushed. In my depressed stupor, I chugged a 40 oz., plucked out a few of my eyebrows, and drunk-dialed everyone I knew.
No one answered the phone.
If you’re one of those people unfamiliar with the greatness that is Allison, you don’t need to know much. These pictures will provide all the necessary information:
Besides Ms. Stokke, the presence of St. Louis Cardinal top-prospet Colby Rasmus will also be missed. Touted as the ‘next big thing’ in the Cardinals farm system, I have been ravenous to watch him play. With a measly .249 average and just 11 homeruns in 329 at-bats, I know he hasn’t had quite the year everyone expected him to at Triple-A Memphis, but there’s no telling what putting on the Red, White & Blue uni could do to a player. Unfortunately, a leg injury will keep him from making the trip so I will be left to watch Davey Johnson manage the likes of Gronkiewicz, LaHair, Segovia and Bacsik — very US American-like names that I’ve never heard before.
Of course, there will be one big name I’m glad I won’t have to see play, whine, cry, shoot-up, whatever and that is Roger Clemens. There was some hinting that he might make a run at pitching for Team USA and all I can say is that I am very pleased that general manager Bob Watson quickly dismissed any potential shenanigans involving Mr. Clemens. After the Marion Jones fiasco, the last thing US America needs is to have another steroid scandal — especially one involving the most detractive PED user this side of the Atlantic.
The decision to keep Clemens at home with his underaged and/or married love affairs was elementary my dear Bob Watson and I thank you for making it. In fact, I, and the rest of US America, applaud you for it. That being said, I don’t quite agree with your hasty acquisition of Chewbacca for the starting pitching rotation. His fastball is a little weak and I’m not so sure he’s from our country — or planet for that matter. Did you check his birth certificate?
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I ask the tough questions, Watson, and don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
U-S-A, U-S-A, U-S-A!