I am not so full of myself that I believe everyone wanted
a piece of me during yesterday’s All-Star festivities; but wearing
throwback gear from a team long dead certainly gave me an edge. As a
walking memory, representing Gary Carter, Andre Dawson and Delino
Deshields with porn ‘stache swagger, I was definitely drawing
attention. Unfortunately, the security people holding me back at field
level, blocking my attempts at getting a word with Erin Andrews did not
find me as irresistible.
“I need to talk to Erin Andrews.” I told them with confidence.
“Because, it’s my destiny.”
“Get the hell outta here before I throw you the hell outta here.”
well. Had to keep my head up. I was part of the Homerun Derby. Busch
III was electric. And despite all the partying, I was somehow still
The Derby? Well, it was what I thought it’d be: very
exciting for the first half hour, then pretty boring after that.
Several balls came close to us in our right field seats, but one guy —
the SAME GUY — caught two balls (one from Ryan Howard and one from Joe
Mauer) and after standing for the three hour event and being
shot down by Erin’s handlers before I even had a chance, I ended up
leaving Busch III ball-less… well, sorta. Anyway, here are some pics
from Fanfest and the evening’s homerun contest. Click on them for
Okay, y’all. I’m gearing
up for the big game tonight, Molina jersey on my back, praying the that
the National League doesn’t embarrass me… again. This would be as good
a time as any for us to win this thing (not that I really care) and I
have a feeling I’ll have a better shot at meeting President Obama than
I will Ms. Andrews.
She doesn’t know what she’s missing.
Hate me ‘cuz I’m here, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Make one declaration to the worldwide interwebosphere about how you’re going to do everything in your power to land a date with the most beautiful woman in sports broadcasting and suddenly you’re considered a creepazoid stalker who could use a lesson or two in social tact.
Creepazoid? Maybe. Tactless? Probably. Stalker? No, sir.
I made my intentions very clear; and I’m pretty sure I was a perfect gentleman. It’s 2009, y’all, and the internets is where it’s at. I mean, you can do everything on this crazy series of tubes: order takeout, save money on your car insurance, get Twitter-blocked by Barry Zito. Why should chasing Erin Andrews be any different?
“But, Jeff,” my mother said, “what if your girlfriend reads this?”
“My girlfriend does not read this blog, Mom.”
Boy, was I wrong.
I tried to play down my actions of sneaking around my girlfriend’s back to get a real shot at Ms. Andrews, but she wasn’t as understanding as I had hoped. At least now she knows; and I am happy to report that she hasn’t broken up with me over this so things are working out pretty well. I mean, let’s face it, a couple of cigarette burns to the chest are well worth her allowing me to continue on with my special project.
Still, there is just one small problem: Erin Andrews is a lot more mobile than I. And, well, ESPN hasn’t helped me with passing on my messages (sweet as they all are).
What Fulbright Scholar would let such foibles deter him from accomplishing his task?
Indeed, I have a plan. You see, I bought tickets to the 2009 All-Star Game in St. Louis. I’ll be there for all the fan festivities: old-timers game, home-run derby, futures game — four days of pure debauchery — and a possible encounter with Ms. Andrews herself… that is, as long as Joba Chamberlain doesn’t get in my way (but who would make him an All-Star this year anyway?).
Hate me ‘cuz I got skillz, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
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.
***SEND US YOUR FILIBUSTERS****
Something on your mind? Want to see Jeff and Al sweat (separately, not together, eww)? Think you got a real stumper? Send us your Filibuster question(s) by commenting or emailing them to us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
***Pictures of Allen doing something bad also welcome.