Continuing with the end-of-year holiday tradition here at RSBS, it’s time to separate myself from my imaginary girlfriend (NSFW) and ask the interns to lock my office door so I can get down to the meaty reflection of what was the RSBS year 2011. Additionally, I must begin the sad, fiery purge of Albert Pujols memorabilia. For those of you who went to public schools, you know that maintaining a fire within a small, confined room may cause ill-fated side effects, so before I start to look like Bert the chimney sweep, let me get to it…
First of all, no year would be a good year without you, the dear RSBS reader. THANK YOU, for your readership. THANK YOU for your emails, your tweets, your comments, Facebook shares and FingerTagging! And THANK YOU for continuing to make writing about the baseball-politico world a treat for us every single day.
Like my riveting and oft rousing colleague, Mr. Krause, I too have been very impressed with our special correspondents. For me, nothing says sweet Miggy-I-Love-You quite like Mark Piebenga’s His Game Is Like Waves. It presented Miguel Cabrera in a new light — that of teacher, and, considering how much Mark has taught me about what life should be about, I continue to find its lesson fitting (and helpful!).
And though I often refer to Mr. Johanna Mahmud as “the man who introduced me to the glories of the Deftones” and “the guy who schooled me on the NBA and proved why I should be madly in love with Derek Rose”, I still have room to refer to him as “the guy who writes Setting the Mahmud“! Dude puts the “tit” in titillating with every piece. The last article he wrote was inspiring, if only because he found a way to get a naked Yu Darvish, an ugly sweater wearing
Johnny Matt Damon and a crying Paula Deen all in one place; but, like Al, I have to admit that there’s real brilliance in his Theo-fied Arthurisms. Still, I’m a sucker for equating dead people to the performances of Adam Dunn and Miguel Tejada. Good work, good sir.
Meanwhile, no year-end applause would be complete without a nod to my longtime friend and confidant, Mr. Allen Krause. Known for his cynical twists on the political establishment and undying love of all things Detroit Tigers, it has been a pleasure to write on his wing. Sometimes he’s so “on” that he finds literary genius in imagery. Indeed, that endearing Krausian wit is often highlighted by rational thought. Sometimes it points out the un-fact-checked obvious, other times it gets serious, with a real call for responsibility. And, just in case you think Mr. Krause’s Libertarian-bashing makes him a soulless, automated Obamatron, this reflective piece will convince you otherwise.
But when it comes to knockin’ ’em outta the interwebs park, I have to kowtow to the RSBS Presents series. The brainchild of Mr. Krause, RSBS Presents has enlightened us on the finer points of fandom and how to stay classy while reminding us that, ultimately, positivity has upside during times of turmoil. But the best of them all was learning how to score a Republican. And here I thought it involved finding Jesus and quoting Alex P. Keaton.
Happy Christmas, Merry Hanukkah and long live King Kwanzaa!
Okay, technically it was more of a catfight than a bidding war, but I guarantee you it was fierce. I was in college at the time, and I somehow duped two girls into believing I was A-list boyfriend material. A gnarly girlpocalypse ensued.
It was awesome.
Then there was also the time in middle school where, for a small fee of one US American dollar, I would open up my father’s Playboy collection for viewing, all in the name of health and sex education, of course.
But I’ve never been Yu Darvish-ed before. I mean, I’ve never had a bunch of folks throwing MAD MONEY at me just for the opportunity to negotiate a contract. I know, I know, it’s hard to believe, but Nolan Ryan has never gone all in on my ass…ets. My assets. That’s what I meant to say.
Personally, I cannot WAIT to see Yu Darvish in action. I’ve been salivating at his proposed Major League entry since the ’09 WBC and now it looks like I may finally get my wish. Picture a 2012 season with an Adam Wainwright, a Stephen Strasburg AND a Yu Darvish!?!?!? Somebody douse me with Gatorade!
Meanwhile, if Yu’s people are any good, then they got their Newt Gingrich on before teams put in their final bids. You know it, I know it and the American people know it: no one sells access like the Grand Old Party.
Oh the Dems do it too.
Ron Paul. That is all.
And don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Admit it. It may be Monday, but your mind is already on Thursday — Thanksgiving — the one day of the year where your sole responsibility is to eat yourself into a coma, sprawl out on the couch and watch football for 7 hours while catnapping as necessary.
You get all of that for the small price of being thankful.
And what do I have to be thankful for this year?
I’m thankful for the 2011 Cardinals. For the second time in six years I’m bragging about being a champion. And I got to be a part of it by going to the first two games. HOT DANG!
I’m thankful that, as always, whenever the Cubs triumph (Theo) they also manage to fail (Zambrano).
I’m thankful that Rick Perry has disappointed, that Herman Cain has self-destructed and Sarah Palin has invisiblized.
I’m thankful that I think I can get away with making up words.
But most of all, I’m thankful that I’ve never been punched by Mike Tyson.
Happy Thanksgiving Week Monday!
Inquiring minds of dear readers galore have been BEGGING to know, just who is this Herman Cain. Well, my friends, beg no more. The RSBS interns and I have been doing the necessary research, and we have come to the conclusion that Herman Cain is politics’ very own Kevin Millar.
That’s right. He’s a bumbling, fumbling hick dressed up proper who says stuff just to say stuff, even if it makes no sense.
Don’t believe me? Check it out for yourself:
Hate me ‘cuz I got the footage to back it up, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
*The above also does not assume Millar might be associated with any sexual harassment… of human beings anyway.
Tim Pawlenty is out of the race and Rick Perry is in. Bachmann wins the straw poll but is still bat-sh*t insane. If the Republican primary is a pennant race, who’s your horse?
Metaphors are my friends, metaphors are my friends, metaphors are my friends.
If the Republican primary is a pennant race, then it must be in the Arena Football League because I am finding it quite difficult taking any of them seriously.
Michele Bachmann? Um… no.
Rick Perry? Um… also no.
Please note my severe reluctance to support any candidate who harbors a deep relationship with imaginary friends who tend to be bipolar, judgmental, homophobe racists.
Rick Santorum? Noooo.
Mitt Romney? Double noooo. Though I am still waiting for his endorsement of the Mormon Underwear website.
Newt Gingrich? Yikes! Now we’re really gettin’ into the thick of crazy!
Jimmy McMillan? Okay, now we’ve reached the bottom.
Thad McCotter? Cool name. Boring everything else.
Sorry, Paul… ya see, unlike picking an MLB winner, crawling through this web of same-ole-same-ole GOP crazies is a bit difficult. There is no Philadelphia Phillies lights-out candidate. There is no Yankee flyer. There is no Red Sox contender.
But, wait… there is… hmm… there is hope. And no, I’m not talking about the empty promise sounding “hope” dished out ad nauseum by the Obama campaign to dupe intellectual lefties like myself during the ’08 race. No. Staying here, within the “Republican” party, there is… there is another.
But before I can declare my allegiance, I need to think on it. I need to think on it very, very carefully. While I do so, remember not to hate me (because I’m right) and please enjoy this informational video thoughtfully prepared by the RSBS interns:
To be continued…
**Have a topic you want to see us Filibuster? Interested to know why Mr. Krause still can’t believe it’s not butter? Send us your Filibuster questions by emailing firstname.lastname@example.org or by commenting below.
With just six weeks and some change left in the regular season, now is the time I lament my dear Cardinals’ now seemingly annual implosion from the top of the NL Central and into regular season obscurity. Sure we can blame Waino’s injury. We can blame Albert’s transformation from Machine to Double-Play Machine. We can blame shoddy defense and the lack of a real closer, hell, blame me, I don’t care. But in the end, there is no denying that we have lost the really important games and we’ve been real sloppy doing it.
Of course, this is the NL Central. So until the math cancels us out, there’s no need to give up just yet.
The same cannot be said for the Tampa Bay Rays.
If the Rays were in any division other than the AL East they’d be right in the thick of contention. Unfortunately, the way things are now, even if they do collect the fourth best record in the AL, they still won’t make the playoffs as long as post season regulars New York and Boston remain above them. I find this a bit sad, for the Rays have gotten tremendous pitching all season long and they’ve found a way to win without high-priced free agent flops Carl Crawford and Carlos Pena.
But no one’s talking about the Rays. And no one will.
Hm… reminds me of the one-way delusional street commonly referred to as the Republican Party.
In the case of the Rays, at least they’ll get another shot next year. Dr. Paul, on the other hand, is stuck in a great big clogged up tube of crazy, and the exit is nowhere to be found.
I once dated a girl from Wisconsin. Well, actually, she was from Wisconsin, but she told everyone she was from Minnesota because she was embarrassed by her rural Sconnie roots. Oh what a difference a decade can make!
Now, hailing from Minnesota will get you all sorts of snickers and sneers. From the incoherent and elementary mumblings of a psychopath with presidential aspirations to a defunct state government that thinks it should get paid even though it’s not doing any work, the North Star State is looking more and more like the Land of 10,000 Gaffes.
And that’s not even including the moribund Twins!
Believe me, I’m just as shocked as you. Traditionally, the Twins do everything right. They see the ball. They catch the ball. They use two hands. From top to bottom, they are the most fundamentally sound franchise in the Big Leagues, which is why they’ve been able to find success despite having a not-so-star studded roster.
But they let their 2010 bullpen of bad@sses go. When he plays, Joe Mauer has been… er… um… not Joe Mauer. And between getting his bell rung and having an uncooperative neck, 2006 MVP Justin Morneau has been about as fearsome as a Keenan Cahill video.
Of course, even a stopped clock is right twice a day, which is why the Twins will always be happy to destroy the White Sox.
Unfortunately, that won’t be enough for the Twins to make any noise in the AL Central. I know the Mike Francescas and Harold Reynolds of the world still have faith, but those people are stupid. The Twins are done.
I can only hope the same is true for Bachmann and the tepid taxpayers of her dejected state.
Hate me. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.