While some are worried about Zack Greinke and Joshy Hamilton’s free agencies, I’m stuck on the suspense of which Republicrat will crush the liberty-lovin’ man into nothing. In fact, the suspense is literally killing me.
Okay, maybe not literally killing me, but it is literally making me cry. Bronco Bamma girl, I feel your pain.
Whether we’re talking about getting drunk and hitting the Taco Bell drive-thru at 4 a.m. or the state of my phone after a fast-movin’ night at the Roxbury, this much is known: things blow up.
This much is ALSO known: nothing blows up quite like the internet. I had a front row seat to the Twittersphere when Michael Jackson died (for real that time) and was amazed at how far-reaching this convoluted series of tubes really is.
And, as my melancholy and oft addled colleague Mr. Krause recently pointed out: proper internet explosions get a lot of fuel from fumbling politicians intent on keeping their multiple wives inside the three-ring trappings of a Trapper Keeper.
But the REAL explosion has yet to come. Hopefully, it will come tonight — Friday night. Hopefully the Cardinals will wrap up the San Francisco Giants’ futile efforts, kick back and wait for those cute little kitties to come to town.
That’s right, my fellow US Americans. An RSBS World Series is on the horizon…
That was the sound of the Washington Nationals faithful… before the NLDS Game 3 even started.
That’s right, while the Cardinals personnel was being announced prior to the game, Nationals fans invoked their inner “Philly-ness” and slaughtered the birds on the bat with their vocal angst (the birds on the bat slaughtered the Nats on the field).
The booing only increased towards raucous levels through the first and second innings as the Cardinals piled up runs. By the 7th inning, most of the fans were already gone, giving up on their team before the game was over.
Classy, D.C. Very classy.
I’m still scratching my head on this one. When did D.C. fans become so entitled? They haven’t won anything yet!
Nationals Park is one of my favorite baseball havens of all time. I have been there several times now, most of those games against the Cardinals, and I have never seen nor heard the fans act like such a-holes.
I guess the transient Beltway fans have taken over for the real deal — if the real deal actually exists.
Meanwhile, the Cardinals (and their fans) remain awesome. I’m proof. Seriously.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
What’s your biggest fear?
St. Charles, IL
Right now? Oh, that’s easy…
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
To say that this season was disappointing for the Philadelphia Phillies would be an understatement, and many Phillies’ fans put the blame for this season directly on the shoulders of Charlie Manuel. That’s not really too surprising considering the notoriously horrible Philadelphia fanbase and their willingness to scapegoat anyone for the slightest straying from what they consider to be the true path. They’re a horrible cult gone even more horribly wrong. It’s like a bunch of David Koresh’s all got together and made Philadephia their own personal Waco. At this point, we’re just waiting for the FBI to torch the place.
But I don’t think we should feel sorry for Charlie Manuel. Why? Here’s one reason:
Thanks to Young Charlie Manuel’s soothing presence and weather-predictive hinge joints, he remains to this day the world’s only certified Tornado Whisperer.
Yeah, and that’s just the beginning.
Personally, I think the only way this gets better is if Charlie climbs up to the announcer’s booth and sings “Don’t Cry for me, Philadelphia.” I’m pretty sure young Charlie Manuel would do it. Maybe even in Japanese.
As we enter the beginning of the most exciting time of year (baseball playoffs and football season and an election, oh my!), I think it’s important that we keep in perspective that which brings us the most joy. Sure, hosting a Guinness keg party while dressed in my Yadier Molina jersey flanked by the Shannon twins is pretty much the happiest day of my life (that hasn’t happened yet but might), I still know that even if all that other stuff falls through, I will always have baseball.
And sometimes, within the game of baseball, we can find something much simpler that pushes the happy button. I know a lot of folks have been wrapped up in the admirable and impressive play of Mike Trout. People are just as infatuated with his grace and dominance as I
was am infatuated with Stephen Strasburg and all things Strasmas. It’s the little injections of youthful awesomesauce that often remind us why we love baseball so much. It is a kid’s game after all.
But sometimes waiting for the next big thing isn’t necessary. I have found that out this year by following Coco Crisp very closely. My history with Crisp has been one of hilarity, peppered with some dazzle. And while his offensive numbers may not hypnotize scouts, enough can never be said about how he plays the game.
He plays hard. He plays to win. He’s in on every pitch and he goes balls-to-the-wall. In fact, I have gotten to the point where I’m watching replays of his relay throws and conducting frame-by-frame analysis on his routes to fly balls.
If I could get to Oakland, I’d rather watch Crisp long-toss than Cesepedes take BP.
Okay, so maybe I’m lyin’ a little bit in that last sentence, but one thing is for certain: Coco Crisp’s defensive play is worth focusing on and if you focus long enough, you’re probably going to see something that puts a smile on your face. Maybe even an afro.
If there’s one problem that baseball management and the Republican party have in common, it’s in trying to relate to hispanics. And whether it’s cultural differences, the language barrier or continued attempts to push everyone with a hispanic sounding last name out of the country, the problem won’t be going away anytime soon.
However, we here at RSBS prefer to be part of the solution so we have a suggestion for both the GOP and MLB front offices. The answer is “education.” If you don’t at least make an effort to understand the culture and the language, you’re going to find yourself on the wrong end of the bat nine times out of ten. I’m not saying you need to learn how to merengue or be able to tell the difference between a Venezuelan and Mexican accent, but you should at least have some basic level of understanding.
Now, I realize that with the end of season approaching and the general election in full swing, neither Republicans nor baseball’s movers and shakers have much extra time on their hands. Luckily, YouTube has once again come to the rescue. Give it a try and see if you don’t notice your multicultural empathy meter running over within minutes:[youtube http://youtu.be/4cKGyOE_jOI]
It couldn’t be any simpler. All you need to know is, “¿Que hora es?”
The rottenness I’m talking about is the foul stench that emanates from a past-his-prime public relations disaster who seems to have eaten Tony Gwynn on his way to joining the Sugar Land Skeeters. That’s right, as if taking a page right out of Jose Canseco’s book of insanity, Mr. Clemens, the fallen idol of my youth, is now preparing to embarrass himself with what I can only assume is a Favrian attempt to prolong the inevitable Hall of Fame first ballot denial.
If Roger can get on a Big League roster, he’ll get another five years before being considered. And who knows, by then they might be banning people 50 games for NOT TAKING EFFING STEROIDS.
And happy Friday!
It’s Shark Week. But you knew that. What you might not know is how dire the level of stupid is that permeates our planet.
Which makes me ask: WHERE IS JAWS WHEN YOU REALLY NEED HIM?!?!
Why not show up in the Red Sox clubhouse? Talk about sharks in the water, my goodness. Isn’t it funny how a couple of World Series titles make us forget just how endearing the Red Sox used to be? Nowadays, The Nation seems more like an episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Incessant and annoying bickering from privileged entitled millionaires ad nauseum. Before the season started, I was so excited Bobby Valentine was back in the manager’s seat because I knew he would bring drama to the league. This is NOT the drama I was looking for.
Nor was I looking for the Vice President of US America to be just as stupid as I’ve always thought he might be. Well, turns out he is. Joe Biden’s mouth seems to be about as large as Jaws’, yes, it’s just too bad he uses his for talking instead of devouring prey.
And while I realize Jaws tends to reside in the warm coastal waters off the North Atlantic, would it be too much to ask for him to swim down, out and around on up to the San Francisco Bay? There’s one fraudulent outfielder there who could use a good ass-chewin’.
Hate me ‘cuz I’m angry, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.