There is a movement coming. Axel Foley is coming.
I’ve been trying to get over my most recent trampoline accident and my cat circus just went bankrupt… BUT!!! One of my favorite cites (DETROIT) is having a renaissance. I got Iraqi, German and Chicago in me, yes. But I’m thinking that maybe I watched Beverly Hills Cop too many times and listened to too much Motown, because I got definitely got some Detroit in me too. In fact, I feel the need to go undercover to find out what Detroit’s new secret is. Maybe in drag?!?!
If those Chrysler ads don’t pump you up then YOU HAVE NO SOUL. I want cars that talk back to you. DETROIT CAN GIVE YOU THAT! And I want a lot of things back in my life. I want sideburns back. I want Paul Reiser and Judge Reinhold back. And though I don’t smoke, I want people to bring smoking indoors back!!!
This song has nothing to do with Axel Foley, nor the Motor City, but something about it makes me feel like I’m in the mitten. (Or is Michigan a glove?) Anyway, it gets me pumped up for my second city so much that when I hear it I can’t help but take a swig of a cold Samuel Jackson before pouring a little out for Jack Kevorkian and Gilda Radner. (I was going to mention Barry Gordy here but I just googled him and he’s still alive!!!)
The freaks are coming out! Lions, Tigers, and Wolverines …oh my! This is the best gift life could ever give our fellow RSBS writer, Allen.
The Tigers!!! Verlander makes me woozy. Miguel Cabrera is the Natural. And bad@$$ Jim Leyland is The Marlboro Man! If Sam Elliott had turned down his role in The Big Lebowski, the Coen Brothers would have had ol man Leyland on the phone in a jiffy.
His Tigers can do it all. And if you want, they can also chain you to a wall in a sex dungeon and make you watch two octogenarians go at it with mayonnaise all over them. NOW THAT’S PROGRESS.
Michigan State basketball couldn’t save Michigan but Emmmminnneeemmmm, the Lions and Verlander will by golly.
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“All I can tell you is, I wish I had a dime for every dime I had.”
To commemorate my hopeful demise of the mighty money juggernaut that is the Boston Red Sox, I have decided to use one of the greatest films ever conceived to explain my feelings for this occasion.
I’m also here to remind the world of the hurt and pain that Russell Brand caused me by pissing on my childhood by remaking this classic. BASTARDDOOOO.
The Red Sox are falling apart. The Tampa Bay Rays are in pursuit of the wild card and I couldn’t be happier. At the beginning of the season, I, like the rest of the baseball universe, had the Sox winning it all. That being said, I love this Rays team. I’ve loved the last three or four Rays teams. LOVE Joe Maddon. He almost makes me like Florida. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate tha SAWKSSS. I’m just a bit tired of everything Boston. NO MORE BOSTON!! No more Red Sox! The Town, Conviction, Gone Baby Gone, the Patriots, The Departed, Ben Affleck doing Madden ads. I NEED A FAWWWWWWWWKIINNNNN BREAK!!!
“If you and your undershirt will walk two paces backwards, I could enter this dwelling.”
Oh yea. Forgot about Edge of Darkness, The Fighter, and Danny fawwwwwwkkkinnnn Woodhead!!!! I feel like I have had a Fenway Frank shoved up my giggy for the last ten years.
“I race cars, play tennis, and fondle women, BUT! I have weekends off, and I am my own boss.”
Theo Epstein’s bright idea was to punch in Erik Betard. BRILLIANT? No. Can Jon Lester be everywhere at once? Josh Beckett is hurty. The BLOWN RANGER! John Lackey is awful. This staff is not quite in dire straits but…
“Ladies and gentlemen… I’m sorry… As you probably have surmised by now… there will be no wedding. The bride… has had second thoughts… and has decided not to marry me… Most of you know me… Can you blame her?”
Carl Crawford has been my personal joy killer. One of my favorite players of the last seven years, he hasn’t quite been worth the money. Hitting third in this lineup has been a problem. He’s a leadoff hitter!
“Isn’t this fun? Isn’t fun the best thing to have? Don’t you wish you were me? I know I do.”
The rise of Jacoby Ellsbury has been nothing short of TRANSCENDENT — an absolute bright spot. And I couldn’t be happier for the kid who has struggled through injuries. He or Curtis Granderson would be fine choices for MVP. (I’m sorry, Verlander.)
And now, one last fleeting thought for my beloved Cubs. Both Sox teams have won championships and so have the current champ Giants. My thoughts on this?
Gloria: My mother died when I was six.
Arthur: [bangs his fist on the table] Son of a bitch! Don’t they know what they do to kids?
Gloria: My father raped me when I was twelve.
Arthur: So, you had six relatively good years? I’m sorry. Listen, my father screwed me, too.
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Dear Lord Baby Jesus and Taco Bell I’m Playing a Guitar Solo On Top of a Moving Train
In honor of the football lockout ending, I’ve decided to tell the world about the dumbest things in sports. I consider myself a world class dope, and this stuff blows even my face off.
Glasses on top of the hat in a baseball game when it’s sunny.
GUH… Ezequiel Carrera did this Sunday in the Indians/White Sox tilt. Amazing. He had sunglasses on his hat, didn’t wear them and then lost an easy popup in the sun that cost the Indians the game. I understand that the flip-down glasses aren’t cool and you feel like an octogenarian wearing them, but sorry, Eqequiel, you’re stupid. So stop it and wear them or continue to look like a fool and drop fly balls in the outfield and fumble about looking like a drunk college girl at a VH1 summer bash in Cancun.
Touchdown dances that occur before ACTUALLY SCORING A TOUCHDOWN!
DeSean Jackson did this during a Monday Night Football game and foiled the hopes and dreams of about a thousand fantasy owners who were trailing by 4 points or fewer. I WAS ONE OF THEM. He started dancing and gyrating and flipped the ball in the air before crossing the plane, and of course, he dropped the ball. Right then I wished and prayed a vampire would eat him from groin to chin.
Jacking up threes when being pulled.
Guys who ride the pine in the NBA do this constantly and make their coaches go mad. Basically, when a guy sees his replacement come up to the scorer’s table and knows he is about to be taken out, he calls for the ball and takes an awful shot to pad his own stats for the night, with no concern for the team. This makes me have bad-basketball-diarrhea.
Bill Belichick’s weekly undisclosed injury report made up of made-up things about players who are ALWAYS on my fantasy team because god and unicorns have no soul.
I’m reminded of this because EFFFFING FOOTBALL IS BACK!!!
Andrew Luck staying in college instead of PLAYING IN THE NFL
He wants to finish his last year of school. To become an architect. His brain will be mush after large men sit on him before he can fulfill his dream to become the next Gaudi. Real architects work something like twenty years making forty grand a year before they ever get to create anything. They also work 90 hours a week and have no lives. That sounds way more awesome then being a starting quarterback in the NFL, getting tons of action and making MILLIONS OF DOLLARS.
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his brain will be mush after large black men sitting on him before he can fulfill his dream to become the next Gaudi.
All it took was a new NFL collective bargaining agreement to make my globetrotting and oft voguish colleague, Mr. Allen Krause (9 year-old version pictured above), rejoice like he was at a Justin Bieber concert. Now that we know there will be football, Mr. Krause can use his soon-to-be Detroit Tigers disappointment as a perfect segue into yet another Detroit Lions season of disappointment.
The world will be good.
Still, I have a hard time congratulating a group of unionized millionaires on doing what they should have done to begin with. I know the owners were skimming and scheming, but these things need to be addressed and taken care of PRIOR to a lockout, PRIOR to pissing off a Joe Six-Pack fan base, PRIOR to holding my sports news hostage.
DIDN’T THEY LEARN ANYTHING FROM THE 1994 MLB STRIKE!?!?!
Look, I nearly died in ’94. I was crushed like a man forced to watch his lover in bed with another man. I went so far as to QUIT baseball for the entire 1995 season. If it weren’t for an Albert Belle sized tub of syringes and a jheri curl renaissance, I might still be hootin’ and hollerin’ over the CICL.
But, as is usually the case, no one cares how we, the fans, feel. As long as we keep schleppin’ out the dough, sports franchises and the athletes who make them will continue to spit on us. Because they can.
And, I can attest, a certain Mr. Krause would be the very first in line with a pocketfull of benjamins for some Matt Stafford lugeys.
Hate me. It’s cool. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Tracy Tzu: You’re acting like a child.
Stanley White: Well, a great man is one who in manhood still keeps the heart of a child.
There’s no baseball till Thursday. At all. Do not tell me there is. YOU CANNOT DISSUADE ME.
So this week I thought I’d let you kids know what has been filling the void in my life and I’m sure without a doubt you WANT to know this crap because everything is about ME.
Year of the Dragon. This is when Mickey Rourke was absolutely killin it in the mid-eighties and was on his way to becoming the next Marlon Brando. He’s volatile, violent, smooth, exasperating, and so un-George Clooney that real men felt they could be him. After this film, he had a bad boxing career, messed up his face, had multiple plastic surgeries and started living in a closet with his poodle before eventually reinventing himself. If he had died when he was 30 (and I’m shocked that he didn’t) he’d be mentioned in the same breath as Hendrix, Morrison, and Cobain.
Film Score that hurts it’s so good:
Either watch Vertigo or just check this Bernard Hermann link. Between Jimmy Stewart’s obsessiveness and the awesome direction of Hitchcock, the music from this movie makes me weep like when I watch a Derrick Rose crossover. It goes from wispy to dramatically sad to the most desperate feeling music could ever make you feel.
Watch Lombardi on HBO. As a Bears fan, spending and hour and a half focusing on a Green Bay legend was a little surreal, but it was so good I was swept up in the majesty of his greatness. He was also a genuinely well-liked guy. I would have put on a jock strap for the skipper. Or is it gipper?
QUESO FUNDIDO WITH CHORIZO. This stuff is unbelievable and I get it mostly at El Cid in Chicago or Arturo’s Tacos. Hot gooey cheese and meat you slather on tortilla chips. Eat it fast or else it turns into playdough.
Sea Salt Brownies from Trader Joe’s. They won’t make it home. At least not all of them. I’m not a sweets guy but these are so good I’d submit to the true death True Blood style if its my last meal.
Casey Anthony is not hot, but I’d probably do some shots with her.
So that’s what I did so far this week because there’s NO BASEBALL!!! I mean Jeffy and I still watched the fake game that decides the fate for home court advantage in the Super Bowl but that’s just because we like to snuggle and eat salty brownies.
Sad news: only one more day until the world ends, dear readers. Indeed, it’s days like today when I really wish the Mayans knew what the hell they were talkin’ about.
Instead, we all wait in weary anticipation of a 2,000 year old Jewish zombie (they call him “The Jesus”) so he can come down from the skies and act as Judgey McJudges-a-lot.
Ordinarily, I ain’t much of a judgmental person. I let folks be as they be, even if they be crazy. But if The Jesus — a supposed paragon of virtue — is gonna come down and act a judgin’ fool, then I’d like to get in on that action too, just for today.
So here ya go. Let the judging begin!
Yankees fans, I’m judging you. You lost six measly games in a row and suddenly the sky is falling?! When my Cubs fans friends (yes, I have a few) watch their team lose six games in a row they call it “April”. And don’t even get me started on M’s fans or Pirates fans… jeesh.
Mitt Romney, I’m judging you. Come on, dude. How can you pass universal healthcare in your state and still call yourself a Republican?!? Not only that, but how am I supposed to take you seriously when you believe in a book that was “translated” by a whackjob “aided” by an invisible bearded man in the sky?
National Football League… oh yes, I’m judgin’ the hell out of you. Didn’t you learn ANYTHING from baseball?!?! Good grief! Don’t you know that the strike of ’94 nearly KILLED the national pastime? You may benefit from having less intelligent constituents, but even the ignorant have a hard time forgiving betrayal. Just ask Whitney Houston.
Donald Trump, I’m judging you. The birther thing, well, I can see past that. But your hair. Seriously. It’s not funny anymore. It’s disturbing. I’m sure there’s a crime being committed there.
And finally, as we prepare to say ‘see ya’ to the cosmos…
MLB throwback uniforms, I’m judging you. If we’re gonna bring back the baby blue road duds… if we’re gonna bring back the Oakland puke yellow tops… if we’re gonna bring all this stuff from the 70s and 80s back in earnest, then we need to stop making them in the baggy size. Everyone in his/her right mind knows that those only work if we can see some protruding jock action.
Hate me ‘cuz it’s Thursday, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Regardless of who wins the Super Bowl, we, the people, the Joe Plumbers and Jane Six-Packs of the world, will most definitely be subjected to interview after interview after interview of big dummies with fat paychecks who don’t actually say… anything.
This is nothing new, dear readers. The gene pool is ridiculously consistent in its distribution policies. Sure, I can’t throw a football 60 yards on a line to a moving target, but I can speak three languages. I can’t hit a curveball over the left field wall, but I can read books and formulate coherent thoughts through the power of writing.
It’s a balance thang.
And though I often harp on my dislike of hearing my favorite professional athletes speak (Albert Pujols and his non-stop Jesus mouth comes to mind), I sure as hell hope Big Ben or Aaron Rodgers will follow South African rugby star Brendan Venter’s lead:
By the way, Mr. Venter is a medical doctor too.
And don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.