wasn’t enough, every single division race is still up in the air. Is
it me or has the world gone crazy?
Well, Percy, I gotta admit: you sure lost me with the whole Russia and Pakistan thing. What is Pakistan anyway? Any relation to pachyderms? Or pachydermia? I think one of my sisters has pachydermia. Sores. Lots of ’em. I think…
I know that I’m a US American, man! Heck, nowadays, you can just label me as a plain, old ‘Merican. Stuff my face with apple pie, stick me in front of the tube to watch baseball, let me marry three chicks at the same time and let’s make a damn reality show out of this highfalutin awesomeness!
Has the world gone crazy?
The world has been crazy for as long as I can remember, and it just keeps getting crazier. I mean, we live in a world where aggressive foreign policies are based on bronze age fairy-tales — a world where Kyle Farnsworth always has a job — a world where the Texas Rangers are running away with the AL Western Division title!
Of course, the world has gone crazy, Percy! Of course! Look around!
We live in a world where technocracy trumps physicality — a world where Elisabeth Hasselbeck is seen as an authority on social issues — a world where I can have 600 “friends”… without ever leaving my apartment… EVER!
Crazy?!?! More like frightening, Percy! Frightening!
Ya see, if I could have it my way I’d live on a self-serving farm, surrounded by nothing, accompanied by a sole transistor radio beaming exciting play-by-plays of men laboring in wool uniforms hundreds of miles away while I sip away on barrels of whisky.
Yeah. I think I could get by on that.
But this is 2010, Percy. And 2010 has iPods and Blagojevich and MLB.TV and Glenn Beck and Facebooks and Lady Gaga and Twitters and… and… whaddya call it? Pakistans?
Yes, the world has Pakistans.
And Pakistans are crazy.
Hate me ‘cuz I ain’t down with holy wars, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
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Oh, I know… cover the Clark and Addison entrance with a giant picture of Lou Piniella’s distended belly.
It’s historic. It’s sentimental. It’s old timey.
Where else can you pay ten times the market price for a 20 ounce can of Old Style? Where else can you gather around a trough with a hundred other men and urinate in drunken unison? Where else can you go to hear D-list celebrities butcher a classic song by singing out of tune?
Only at Wrigley Field.
I was p!ssed when they added the Bud Light Bleachers (bleacher tickets should not be $44 a piece, people)… I was p!ssed when they added the Captain Morgan Club… and with the addition of these gaudy action portraits, I am beyond p!ssed at the team I love to hate.
People like Wrigley because it’s authentic. It’s classic. It’s historic.
And because the Cubs lose there.
But slowly, as they add an advertisement here, a sports bar there and a fully functioning urinal there, Wrigley Field is slowly becoming just like every place else…
Not Wrigley Field.
So don’t hate me… ‘cuz I’m right.
During a recent social outing, a Cub fan friend of mine (yeah, I know; I ain’t perfect, folks) mentioned how much he enjoyed RSBS now that I had seemingly lightened my unadulterated bashing and verbal vexing toward his beloved Northside team.
Upon reflection, I realized that I had indeed let my guard down… and noted that a good old Cub ego squashing was well overdue.
So in the confounded interests of being hack — carefully considering the fact that hack sells — I reluctantly invoke my inner Jeff Foxworthy in order to remind Cub fans just who they really are.
- If you pop your collar, skip class and hang out at John Barleycorn with a pocketful of GHB, you might be a Cub fan.
- If you remind Southsiders about the 1919 Black Sox scandal at least once a day, you might be a Cub fan.
- If you think Wrigley Field is anything other than a dilapidated craphole with more falling parts than Amy Winehouse after happy hour, you might be a Cub fan.
- If you consider urinal trough diving an official sport, you might be a Cub fan.
- If you do not work yet can afford season tickets, you might be a Cub fan.
- If you are my brother-in-law and you made a baby with my sister, you might be a Cub fan (thanks a lot, Patrick, for ruining the Cardinal blood line).
- If you think the word “choke” only applies to baseball teams and has absolutely no physiological connotation at all, you might be a Cub fan.
- If you think a baseball game is just an excuse to shotgun Old Styles and annoy anyone within ten feet, you might be a Cub fan.
- If you think Magellan is the name of a shoe insert, you might be a Cub fan.
- If your team’s biggest fan is an impeached corrupt politician with Lego hair, you might be a Cub fan.
And of course, the most obvious sign can only be this:
If you sincerely hate my guts, you must be a Cub fan.
Go ahead and hate.
Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Clearly established is the fact that perhaps nothing is what it seems these days. From Alex Rodriguez gallivanting around the Dominican streets with his cousin scoring steroid sauce because he was “young and stupid” to Larry Craig simply taking a timeout in an airport restroom because he needed to “relax”, we, as US Americans, would be doing ourselves and our country a great disservice by not postulating the underlying motives and behind-the-scenes shenanigans that make up our anti-apotheoses of leadership.
Guilty until proven innocent?
Why not? This is America after all. We do what we want, when we want (see Iraq, Guantanamo, “W” for more information).
Baseball, democracy, Erin Andrews being all hot and sexy… these are as astutely American as a Paris Hilton reality television show; so it should be no surprise when they eventually fall victim to our insatiable desire for dirt.
So why not celebrate the fecundity of our backpage headliners… bring them together, assemble a stellar nine to barnstorm the backwoods, villages and small towns of this great nation?
Well, I have thought about it and I am all for it and I am doing something about it, damnit.
Marion Barry — CF
At the top of the lineup we need speed; and who better to give us speed than a bonafide crackhead? Believe me, folks, Barry will get on base — perhaps even manage to free-base — all the while giving pitchers (and Washingtonians) nightmares better fit for an episode of The Wire.
Eliot Spitzer — 2B
He’s scrappy, he’s fast, he leaves his socks on. With a name like Spitzer (see Roberto Alomar), Eliot’s the guy I want at second base. As patient in the number two hole (wink, wink) as he was hypocritical during his gubernatorial reign, Eliot is a surefire shot taker whom I definitely want on my team because he knows where to buy all the hot chicks.
Kwame Kilpatrick — 1B
The bigger, the fatter, the sloppier the man, the better the first baseman. Well, at least that is how they do things in Detroit. And Kwame, though once a sharp dresser, now looks a bit haggard after those 99 days in jail. The fact is, defensively liable players often end up at first base. On the plus side, Kwame is a big target and he has the agile hands of a 14 year-old text messaging champion.
Bill Clinton — 3B
No one knows his way around third base better than Slick Willy. Besides, this position requires a bit of flash peppered with a sprig of charm… not to mention an oh-so-faint cheating character. Of course, there are doubts that Clinton could handle the duties of a clean-up man (refer to the stained blue dress) but if we know anything, we know that Bubba is always full of surprises.
John Edwards — SS
Protect a cheater with a cheater: enter John Edwards.
Rod Blagojevich — DH
Now here’s a guy who comes to play, pays to play, forces others to pay to play, whatever; he’s a player. Widely known as a bit of a primper, Blago manages to fill the flashy DH role better than most. His only drawback: if you take him out of the game he will continue to run his idiot mouth.
Roland Burris — RF
Admittedly, the only reason Roland has a spot on this squad is because he’s in tight with the DH; but by now we all know it didn’t take long for Burris to wield his own personal bat of corruption and make a stately name for himself. And let’s face it: Burris has quick feet, able to change his story faster than you can say Chicago Democratic Machine.
George Ryan — LF
Bringing up the rear of our team’s famed corrupt Illinois politician trifecta (CITP) is the always forlorn oft uninteresting George Ryan. He’s fat. He’s slow. He’s a left fielder. But the man knows how to sell contracts, licenses and leases on behalf of his team, so it’s always good to have a guy who can get things when you’re on the road half the season.
Dick Cheney — C
The scowling shot-caller. The calloused captain. The man who hides behind a mask. With the entire field in front of him and myriad opportunities to talk s*** behind people’s backs, it is quite evident that Cheney was born to catch. More fierce than a misguided, misled, mishandled bombardier, he’ll chat the opposing hitter up as much as possible, flashing his hunting rifle from time to time to gain a psychological edge. Arrrrggghhh.
Larry Craig — P
Bringing up the rear, ahem, Larry Craig is one of those subversive anomalies of the baseball-politico reality. Sure, he can pitch; but he can catch too, which makes him all the more valuable to a team going long and far down that dirt road called destiny.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.