The events of this past holiday weekend finally confirmed a suspicion I had harbored for a while. God is screwing with us.
Oh yes, I know this is blasphemy. And to make a statement like this during the advent just adds fuel to the bonfires already being stoked for heretics like myself. But it doesn’t make it any less true. Look at the facts.
On Saturday Michigan lost to The Ohio State University for the seventh time in a row. And it wasn’t even close. Consecutive defeats would be bad. Four in a row is unimaginable. But seven straight times? That’s ludicrous. Terrelle Pryor will graduate (or at least leave OSU) never having known the stinging scorn of the Ohio State fans because of his performance in a loss to the Maize and Blue. Sure, the Tigers may have picked up Victor Martinez and stolen a little bit of Ohio’s soul in the process. But seven straight losses? By comparison, that almost makes this palatable:
No god that actually liked us would let Leslie Nielsen die on Thanksgiving weekend. That’s not funny. That’s just mean. Sure, Nielsen may not have done anything recently but his work with OJ in the Naked Gun movies made him a legend. To die at this point instead of at the very capable hand of Mr. Simpson just seems cruel.
This all leads us to the final and indisputable fact which proves without question that god is screwing with us. He purposely messed up an NFL game yesterday. Yeah, really. It would be easy to believe that Johnson just plain and simple dropped the ball. Just like it would be easy to believe that a 14-year old virgin gave birth to a kid a couple millennium ago. But the truth is, it’s just god screwing with us.
Anyway, get out there and live it up this week. Have fun, go crazy, don’t stop. And if something does go wrong, just remember that it’s probably god screwing with you.
Do you think there’s some 30 year-old alien living 100 million light years away writing on a series of tubes that his fellow aliens can read and do read because the alien planet’s first passion is their planetarian pastime, a game of rounders perhaps?
Happy BIG BANG Friday, Y’all!
(vid link from BuzzFeed)
Relax. Breathe easy. Enjoy this, fellow Yankee haters: Cliff Lee and the Phillies have given us another precious day of hearing “twenty-six rings” over the inevitable “twenty-seven”. And remember, God made a “firmament” in just one day. Think of what we can do with ours!
Because let’s face it, whether it happens on Wednesday or it happens next year, the year after that or whenever (it’s gonna happen in your lifetime), the Yankees are going to get their twenty-seventh ring. That’s fine. I’m okay with that. The franchise more than deserves it. You see, if you spend a billion dollars on something, it will work. Ask our government. And if I spent a billion dollars on something in just 9 years I’d expect that something to at least win me a trophy of some kind, or get a bill named after me, or land me a free room at Holiday Inn Express (they still make me pay there).
The point is: the Yankees will win… sometime… eventually…
Until then, A-Rod, Party Boy, Mo and Tex… you will have to wait patiently for this hater (me) to shower you with praise.
Speaking of people who want to shower me, I believe Mr. Krause lost the World Series of Metaphors and owes the winner (also known as Me) a meritorious essay on the topic of why I am awesome.
Hate me ‘cuz I flash a flair of fetidness, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
The world premier… of an RSBS original…
Produced, shot and edited by Theo Roll.
Directed by Jeffery Lung.
Starring James Tierney as Jesus.
Performed by Mauf Tauk.
Mauf Tauk is Jeff and Theo.
**Pass it on, folks. Let’s get the word out. Please send this link to everyone you know. We make this thing go viral and more RSBS baseball-related hilarity will certainly flourish.**
*Note: Kirk Gibson won the MVP in ’88, but it doesn’t rhyme and we’re cool like dat so get over it.
I have been punched in the back of the head. I have been called a f^g. I have been kicked in the legs while relieving myself in the men’s room in between innings.
I have been told my mother will rot in hell. I have had beer thrown on me. I have been spit on.
So it is certainly no surprise to me that a bunch of Wrigleyville yahoos placed a severed goat head atop the infamously scary Harry Caray statue on the corner of Sheffield and Addison yesterday.
The curse of the billy goat — still haunting the not-so-friendly-if-you-wear-Cardinal-red confines — lives on, dear readers; and apparently, people still take it seriously. Very seriously.
They take it so seriously that they are willing to act like bigger a-holes than they are already perceived to be.
But such is life as a “lovable loser”, I suppose.
Impressed was I last year, before the National League Division Series, when the Cubs went for a more subtle approach to ending their poor luck: praying to God. After the Greek Orthodox Reverend Father spread holy water throughout the clubhouse, Ryan Dempster responded by quickly walking seven batters; and the Cubs went on to lose three straight lackluster games to the Los Angeles (perhaps Holy) Dodgers.
Guess God don’t like no posers, ya’ll.
I was just thinking, Cub fans: perhaps ye should combine thy wasted efforts into one successful go-for-all. Call on Bishop Tom Burns and his iconic regimental mascot (a goat no less) to bless thy dump of a field in that oh-so-vigilante neighborhood and ask him to pray for your forgiveness — for all thy slander-slinging, grudge-grovelling and curse-coveting.
Couldn’t hurt, right?
Well… nah… I just realized, when your fan base is more known for this…
…than winning baseball games, you really don’t have a prayer, do you?
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Produced, shot and edited by Atonal Studios.
Special thanks to Theo Roll.
Very special thanks to Sam Adams, for getting us where we wanted to go.
And yes, to answer your question in advance: I had an itch.
(For best playback results, watch in High Quality)
Pope Benedict XVI’s Good Friday address was what most of us expected it to be: warming, inviting, aggressive. And since my esteemed secular colleague, Mr. Krause, already achieved his annual civic duty of offending the Catholic church, I will refrain from continuing such questioning threads… except to say: WHAT?!?!
Acknowledging the world’s escalating progressive temperature towards logic and science, the Pope warned the masses that Western society is currently collapsing into “a desert of godlessness”.
I think not.
Admittedly, I am not your typical religious type; yet I do have the propensity to ponder the existence of higher powers. One need only examine the current state of the greatest game on earth to realize that indeed, something “other” is at work:
Kyle Farnsworth still has a job.
J.P. Ricciardi still has a job.
And Bartolo Colon is pitching today.
Yes, dear readers. Today, Comiskey is my church, Colon is my vehicle and baseball is my savior.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
God hates Detroit. As if there were any doubts about this fact after watching last year’s Detroit Lions, Michigan Wolverines and Detroit Tigers, all you have to do is check the Detroit skyline every October 30 or read the newspapers today. Yes, god hates Detroit but it appears there is a good reason. Detroit hates god right back
And now it also appears that god has decided to flex those omnipotent muscles a little more in smiting Detroit. In the past five days, not only did Dontrelle Willis and Joel Zumaya land on the injured reserve, Gary Sheffield is also looking for a new home. Granted, Sheff has often been a cancer in the clubhouse and both Willis and Zumaya had less than impressive stuff last season. But these are not the kinds of things that Detroit and the state of Michigan need right now
However, I have a couple solutions. Perhaps we just need to butter the big guy up a little. How about a little of this to help out:
Or maybe we just have to really hope that Nietzsche had it right. What I do know is that things can always be worse. At least I’m not a homeless guy in Detroit.
Hold on to your money-makers, dear readers… this is gonna be a thrashing ride reminiscent of Clint Malarchuk’s 1989 throat-slashing — the first and only image on television that made me actually throw up.
Verily, NBC gave her demonic highness, Ann Coulter, the greatest public relations gift in the history of the human race by banning her for life from their network and all like-minded lefty-linked affiliates. This decision was made in lieu of Coulter’s new book which attacks the media as being a farcical, one-sided (left), pretentious boys club incapable of stomaching any of her ranting diatribes, most of which we learned folks have grown to just call ‘crap’. Strongly suggestive of fecal matter or not, Ms. Coulter is still a US American, one who is astutely literate in the land of fantasy writing and one who has the same exact rights that all of us share in making our voice and our opinions known. Nothing good can come from this. She’s going to run with it ad nauseum and in this case, NBC clearly proved the exact point she’s been trying to make all along.
And it might not make me want to vomit as much as the above, but Pat Burrell is now a Tampa Bay Ray and in doing so virtually shuts the door on my boyhood hero, Ken Griffey, Jr. ever getting another shot in the playoffs. Having shored up their veteran/DH hitting needs, I doubt the Rays will have much interest in Junior now. In my mind, this can only mean he’ll likely end up with that cyclical hell-hole of a franchise known as the Seattle Mariners (for nostalgia’s sake — yack). Sorry, Junior. I really am.
And just as sure as I was that the Democrats’ insatiable desire for unwanted negative attention had already met Biblical proportions, it got worse when Rod Blagojevich appointee and prophetic puppet, Roland Burris, said he was the junior Illinois senator because “the Lord has ordained” him. How come the Lord is always talking to everyone except me?
Maybe he’s been talking to Al Franken too. No matter what, the Minnesota senatorial feud will be nothing short of a long, drawn-out, party-dividing legal and social battle that will only make us hate politicians that much more, if that’s even possible… wait, yeah… yeah it is… because there’s still this guy:
And of course his team is just one passing physical away from putting another ice pick in my chest and signing Milton Bradley to a three-year deal. In essence, the Cubs continue to get better, continue to open their change purse, continue to be savvy in all their dealings.
Note to John Mozeliak: You might want to consider waking the hell up!
And no, Mr. Mozeliak, I do not consider your signing of left-handed bullpen scrub Royce Ring, who finished 2008 with an ERA higher than Method Man and Redman on a Saturday night backstage (his ERA was 8.46), to be a “savvy” move.
(*insert dramatic pause while I take the time to puke… again.)
So what do I do when the world around me crumbles like Amy Winehouse during happy hour?
I tune into the wondrous world that is Red State Blue State…
But, folks, it ain’t always pretty. And it’s painfully obvious to anyone with a remedial math education that whether I’m younger by twelve years or twelve days or twelve hours than my cooped-up colleague, Mr. Allen Krause, I am and always will be younger than he, and more eloquent, and better at baseball. That’s just the hard, undeniable truth.
And yes, just as Mr. Krause stated in his low-blow, I did indeed spend some quality years without a steady girlfriend. This I cannot deny. But to call me out on the transgressions of the past without expecting a wicked rebuttal is quite juvenile.
Alas! Mr. Krause has long been the New York Yankees of meaningful romantic relationships: he was always in one, always spending too much money, always on top (so I hear).
Equally, I have long been the Tampa Bay Rays: never actually in the race, always flirting with free-agent wh0res who weren’t worth the inflated dollars, always on the bottom (cuz that’s just how I roll).
But (and I think we can all see where this is going here) like all facets in the grand scheme of life, balance ultimately plays a most crucial role. And nowadays it’s pretty apparent that I’m on top (with a hot girlfriend) while Mr. Krause wallows in the despair that is not making the “playoffs” for the first time since 1993. Don’t worry, Al, I’m sure they seat parties of one on Valentine’s Day somewhere in the nation’s capital. If not, you can always give Eliot Spitzer a call. I’m sure he knows some “people”.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.