And so in this Podcast brought to you by Lifestyles…
Jeff and Johanna break out the hot stove holiday eggnog (topped off with a couple gallons of that special Kentucky blend, of course) and discuss all things important to the baseball-politico world, including but not limited to: adult circumcision, the 1960 World Series, the Phillies’ impending rape of the National League, peeing on your hands a la Moises Alou to get a better grip and much, much more… all to make you forget with a smile the horrors of your latest office party!
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*Special thanks to our PodMaster Keith Carmack. You can experience Keith’s wicked podcast and subsequent film projects at Undercard Films. The man is talented, people. You don’t want to miss out, so go check it!
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Recorded Saturday, December 18, 2010
Give up yet?
Let’s see, there’s Maddux, Smoltz, Glavine, Avery and…
You betchya! Move over, Petey, ‘cuz Joe Blanton is about to take his seat on the ultimate bench of irrelevancy!!!
Indeed, as the shock from Ruben Amaro’s impressively aggressive move to recapture the services of Cliff Lee finally wears off, we are all bound to feel the wrath of that stellar Phillies rotation — a rotation that will make National League stomachs churn as violently as a half digested Taco Bell 7-layer burrito after an all-night college kegger where you went home with a chick named Mo.
And then there’s Joe Blanton.
Of course, this is assuming Blanton will even be a Philly once the 2011 season starts. If I were Ruben, I would do everything in my power to unload that salary, then it’d just be a matter of putting a body out on the mound every five days. If said body is able to pitch, that’s a plus. But really, four days out of five, the Phils are gonna be the hardest friggin’ team ON THE PLANET to beat.
Are you paying attention to all this Mr. Mozeliak?
Hate me. I don’t care. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Awwww SNAP! The Phillies went postal on Sunday night and in their brutal wake left the Rays looking as stunned as they are youthful.
By the time Game Four was over, I personally felt as abused as the Rays pitching staff — embarrassed, downtrodden and mentally defeated. To see me, you would’ve thought that I was the one who gave up a homerun to Phat Joe.
Yet my troubles on this October afternoon have less to do with who wins the World Series and more to do with simply being wrong in my prediction of a Rays victory. Admittedly, I’ve been wrong once or thrice in my lifetime. And that’s okay, folks. I am perfectly comfortable with my fallibility (as minuscule as it may be); however, nothing is more aggravating, more disturbing, more gut-wrenchingly abominable than being wrong while my colleague, the infamously reprehensible Mr. Krause, is proven correct.
And if the Rays don’t win three in a row, that’s exactly how it’ll be.
Because Mr. Krause picked the Phillies to win at the beginning of post-season play and I laughed in his German engineered face, I foresee my impending doom: public defamation and blogospheric torture by way of one misanthropic pedant: Mr. Allen Krause himself.
It ain’t over yet, and until it is, I’m standing my ground.
In fact, I have much bigger things to be upset about right now, like Winter invading the Second City on this wind-ridden drib-drab blah of a day:
Make me look good so I can lambaste: “Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.”