If Pujols went to the Cubs would there be protesters in St. Louis as there have been in Cairo?
Confessions of a She-Fan
While I am quite certain the baseball gods would never conjure up such a foul situation as Albert Pujols dressed in sCrUBBIE blue pinstripes, I cannot say as much for the public. Deep down, I think we humans tend to envision the worst, to see where our minds might take us after glimpsing death and destruction, because we’re a curious (and mischievous species) hellbent on imagining every scenario possible, even the ones that are completely ludicrous.
But that hasn’t stopped me from having nightmares about it.
Because, as Roger Clemens taught us many moons ago, anything is possible when you’re nasty enough.
Now I don’t think Albert is being nasty in this case. No, not at all. But as long as he doesn’t have a new contract, we’re all going to be speculating what uniform he might be wearing next year. The MLBlogosphere is full of talk, the tweets are all a buzzin’… and Phil Rogers of the Tribune has his finger stuck on the “vomit inducing dribble” button on his keyboard.
Oh well. Not everyone can form a clear, independent thought.
No matter what uni my man-crush Albert will be donning in 2012, I am preparing for the worst.
I’m preparing for the worst by taking a trip.
A trip to…
Take it away, Lauras…
And yes, Jane, you can bet the rioting will be much like we’ve seen in Cairo… only, fatter. And more beer.
Hate me ‘cuz you can, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
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Yeah, I got a big mouth.
Sometimes it gets me in trouble. Sometimes it gets me… opportunity.
So that’s why when I told Confessions of a She-Fan author, Jane Heller, that I would throw all my postseason fandom towards the Evil Empire as long as she celebrated series clinchers with pics of she boozin’, I didn’t even think to… well, think. At least, not too much anyway.
But what’s done is done. And now I’m in. With the Reds eliminated, I don’t have anything to lose this postseason… so gimme an interlocking “NY” and watch me chamelonize into a slithering, spoiled, seedy Yankees fan…
Jeff as a Yankees Fan, DAY 1:
I put aside my normal breakfast of greek yogurt and blueberries for an authentic New York Jewish bagel. It’s so authentic, it insults me and tells me to go back to Hobboken.
I tune into Sportscenter and am pleasantly surprised to see my newfound team featured in every, single, friggin’ segment. Yeah, son! Yeah!
Riding the bus, I see some chumwad in a Red Sox cap. I am brought to my knees with an overwhelming sense of disgust, nausea and uncontained anger. I march right up to him and say, “Hey, buddy, how’s the number 27 sound to ya? Huh? Yeah! Eat it, son! Eat it!” Then the bus stops and I get off as fast as I can.
The office manager was able to send out five faxes, five emails and five phone calls to our customers — all within one work day! So I showed him I cared by giving him a shaving cream pie in the face.
I turn on Sportscenter and am pleasantly surprised to see my pinstripers featured in every, single, friggin’ segment!
Some jape wearin’ a Twins cap walks by my house so I yell out “Go Yankees!” and he flips me off so I moon him then he throws a rock at my window and then I shoot him. In the face.
Ohhhhhh what a day. This Bronx Bomber stuff is really taxing; but it is good to go to sleep knowing that I rest on top of the sports universe — that all professional sports franchises in all corners of the known galaxy must look up at me, in my great big pinstriped bed. Happy and relaxed, I flip on the t.v. and let Sportscenter and its endless Yankee-love-fest woo me to slumber.
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To be continued…
My challenge to you, Jeff, is to get a date with Erin Andrews. Or at
least get her to answer your email/Tweet, Facebook poke, etc.
Confessions of a She-Fan
Dear readers, this week is no exception.
Indeed, my freakish obsession with sports’ most beautiful sideline reporter, the one and only Erin Andrews, has finally left the long creepish confines of my mind and unleashed its potentially psychotic repercussions on the public. For Jane Heller of Confessions of a She-Fan has thrown down the proverbial gauntlet and kicked my poor self-esteemed ^ss into working my hidden magical charm to — at the very least — make contact with her highness… and see where the magic takes me (us).
Fear not! I am no Joba Chamberlain. While my advances may be thwarted on a regular basis, they never cause the receiver to curl her lip in disgust (that generally takes place only once I’ve gone on to the next
victim lovely lady).
So, how will I go about this endeavor? Jane suggests “email/Tweet, Facebook poke, etc”… and while those tools will certainly find good use in my mission, I would like to start with a banging first impression:
When it comes to the religion of baseball, I am anything but laodicean!
Oh, and when it comes to the dance floor, dear Erin, I got moves galore.
Hold on to your seats y’all… this is gonna be one
scandalous shameless wild ride.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
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The Pittsburgh Pirates managed to lose a game the other day to a local
community college. Granted, it wasn’t their best players on the field
that day but they did still lose to a community college. Now, we’ve
spent a lot of time talking about the highlights we expect to see in
the upcoming season but what are some of the bloopers and sob stories
you are looking forward to as well?
The Pirates’ saving grace (after losing to a community college) is the fact that they themselves are a team better suited for the community college circuit. Boasting players most of us have never heard of like Nyjer Morgan, Brandon Moss and Ross Ohlendorf, is it any surprise that the perennial underachieving Buccos start the season picked to win a mind-blowing 65 games? I think not.
But as my sludge-dredging colleague, Mr. Krause, so coyly alludes to, this will be just one of the many “sob stories” we baseball fans are looking forward to in 2009. Now I am no soothsayer; nor am I blessed with magical powers allowing me to predict which gaffes and gripes will take centerstage this season; but let’s face it: some things are just a given. For example:
The Orioles and Blue Jays Will Simply Disappear
If they haven’t already, by the time we hit the month of May, I foresee that all relevance of baseball in Baltimore and Toronto will cease to exist. After a steady diet of Yankees, Red Sox and Rays is slammed down our throats, who will care that Brian Roberts is a shining star in a sea of apathy or that J.P. Ricciardi is single-handedly destroying what was once a proud baseball organization? No one. That’s who.
Cub Fans Will Be Whining About Something
They always do. They always will. They never stop. Whether it’s invoking the spirit of Cub castaway Steve Bartman, repeating ye ole circa 2003 mantra: “Prior and Wood, Prior and Wood, Prior and Wood” or just getting too drunk to know what’s actually going on during the game, Cub fans were born to lose. And in personifying their joyous moniker of “Lovable Losers”, they love to whine. Sure. They’ll win the division. How can they not? But they’ll find a way to blow it in the playoffs and we sane baseball folk will be subjected to yet another lengthy offseason of wouldas, couldas and shouldas — a century old Northside tradition.
Gary Sheffield Will Say Something Stupid
Happens every year, folks. He might even box someone too, that is, if he can find the strength to walk from homeplate all the way out to the mound. And if he plays in more than 114 games, there’s a good chance that he’ll add even more guts and gore to that Phillies/Mets rivalry we’ve all come to enjoy over the last few years. Sheff is certainly setup to give new meaning to the phrase “choke artist”. All Cole Hamels has to do is open his mouth.
Joba Chamberlain Will Try His Luck with Erin Andrews — Again — and Fail Miserably — Again
I know, I know. Ms. Andrews said it was nothing, but we saw the video (which has conveniently been erased from the entire interweb) and let’s face it: Joba struck out like Adam Dunn after an all-night bender. Having been in that situation myself, and being a guy, I think it’s safe to say Joba will go there again. Men are stupid. Ladies, am I right?
Yet looking into my crystal ball, dear readers, the one blooping gaffe that is bound to come up again and again this season is almost too easy to call:
Kyle Farnsworth Will Be the Laughingstock of Major League Baseball
They hated him in Chicago. They hated him in New York. They hated him in Detroit. If the Royals had any fans, they would hate him in Kansas City too. But at the end of the day, no one can deny that Farnsy has become the whipping boy of baseball sadists all across US America. When a kind-hearted She-Fan openly in love with her beloved Yankees rips the man to death in her best-selling book, it is safe to say that Kyle Farnsworth is and always will be fair game. He should’ve known better: “There’s no crying in baseball!”
Hate me ‘cuz I can be an ^ss, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
What could possibly be funnier than a holocaust-denying bishop exchanging blows with an Argentinian reporter?
I can think of many things.
But in the end, what is making my side split today is the announcement that Condoleezza Rice (what’s the second “z” for anyway?) has signed a book deal with Crown Publishers to write three — count ’em three — books detailing her tenure in the White House as well as delving into her oh-so-saucy personal life.
Crown issued this statement:
“Rice will combine candid narrative and acute analysis to tell the story
of her time in the White House and as America’s top diplomat, and her
role in protecting American security and shaping foreign policy during
the extraordinary period from 2001-2009.”
Extraordinary? You betchya! That was an extraordinary, poorly structured sentence!
When Crown Publishers says “candid”, what they really mean is “bullhickey” and when Crown Publishers says “acute analysis” what they really mean is “a cute anal cyst”.
I am going on record with that.
Ah yes, the moment we have all been waiting for, my friends: the inevitable onslaught of uninteresting, embellished memoirs (see James Frey) from Bush administration cadres who would be much better off hiding under that blanket of destitution they collectively weaved over those eight long years.
Dick Cheney’s memoir: I Screwed Over My Own Country and Got Away with It
Donald Rumsfeld’s memoir: Blowing Up People Is Fun
Dubya’s memoir: I Am Smarter than a Fifth Grader Because I Am Way More Educationified
I suspect these tell-alls will not tell all and that they will all be as candid and truthful as an Alex Rodriguez/Katie Couric interview.
If you want the truth, read the battery of explicit facts spewed by one Jose Canseco. He seems to be the one with all the info and up to this point, he has been the most accurate when disclosing the inner workings of a poorly policed administration.
Speaking of good stuff, I am and always have been a reader (how else do you think I became so intelligent?) and though I enjoy some good fiction every now and then, my true passion is reading about real life. These days I can be found reading Jane Heller’s Confessions of a She-Fan. My busy schedule of Cub fan hounding and John Mozeliak thrashing has allowed me to only read a little bit each day, but I can honestly say that I am thoroughly enjoying it.
And since we are all about telling the truth here at RSBS, I am not going to withhold the fact that while reading Jane’s book during my commutes on the Chicago Transit Authority, I do my absolute best to hide the chick-lit-esque cover boasting a female fan donning a Yankee cap, looking up at an invisible monster whom I can only assume is Theo Epstein. The cover lady’s eyes are dreamy. She’s definitely into me. But I still force myself to cover it up. I live in Chicago after all. Like the rest of the blue collar cities, we hate ‘dem Yankees… don’t get me wrong, the book is great and all…
Just remember: I have an image to uphold.
Luckily, my stealth allows me to take in Confessions and really enjoy it. And while I may not have the desire to date a Yankee, as author Jane Heller once did, I sure would not mind dating some of the Yankees’ leftovers.
Believe me, that would be way more interesting than any Condoleezza Rice book.
So go ahead. Throw the book at me; just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.