For the last man in the universe who still religiously employs the use of both suspenders and shoulder pads, the April 21st edition of the New York Post couldn’t have been too flattering.
Or could it?
Okay, so according to the Post, Larry’s wife (we’ll call her Shawn)* allegedly had an affair with his sons’ little league coach (we’ll call him Hector) but allegedly King — who, by the way, is a rabid Los Angeles Dodgers fan — didn’t really care ‘cuz he was bonin’ Shawn’s sister (we’ll call her Manny)** on the side.
And I must admit, I first heard of this story via that awful fear aggregator also known as The Drudge Report with the headline: “Little League Coach Claims Affair with Larry King’s Wife”.
At first I was really angry with Drudge (which is quite common) because I found that headline to be recklessly damaging to the institution of little league baseball — an institution that made me the sound, boisterous, STUBBORNLY CORRECT individual I am today. I thought, “Oh, okay, now Drudge is attacking little league. Let me at him!”
Until I read the story… and realized that it was little league baseball that brought them together. It brought them all together in one place, to interact, to make whoopie.
And it was at that exact moment that I realized the bar, the club, the beach might not be the ideal place to meet Ms. Right.
So if you need me, I’ll be at a little league ballpark near you hollerin’ at the single moms and estranged wives of the rich and famous.
Don’t worry, Mrs. Kucinich, I got ya on my radar. Muah!
Hate me ‘cuz it’s allowed, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
*That’s her real name.
**I meant to write “Shannon” but was too lazy to change it.
I didn’t think it was possible to make a better Predator film than the first, but then I saw the trailer for the latest incarnation and I got that same tingly feeling I get from watching that Smoltz-Morris World Series match-up from 1991 — a game that has a strong argument to be labeled the greatest post-season baseball game ever played.
Like Chris Hansen is the greatest on-air predator-catching person in the history of investigative television…
And Manny Ramirez is the most prolific ballplayer with Predator roots (he’s only 2/3 human) as I pointed out nearly a year ago today…
Sure. I’ve got Predators on the mind. But I know I’m not alone.
And though this post doesn’t have much to do with politics (we’re getting health care I heard) nor baseball save the Manny reference, it is important that I prove to you that I am not alone, by showing you an even better version of “American Gothic” than the original “American Gothic”:
So don’t hate me, ‘cuz I’m right.
(Image courtesy of B3TA)
We often make fun of peoples’ names. And there’s a good reason why we do that. It’s funny. Growing up in Southwest Michigan, all of us knew a Dick Shrivels in Coldwater (Coldwater being a town over near Battle Creek, of course, not the punchline in an infantile joke).
Sometimes the simple act of repeating a person’s name over and over can have the same effect. My brothers once heckled Manny Ramirez for an entire game, chanting his name rhythmically everytime he took the field. It got to the point that he actually looked up into the stands and asked them to stop. Even Manny didn’t like hearing his name at a certain point.
But what happens when your name gets in the way of your ability to do your job? Unfortunately, this is exactly the problem faced by Akbar Zeb, an elder statesman in the Pakistani diplomat corps. Mr. Zeb has been a distinguished member of the foreign service for decades now but has been rejected from serving several places in the Middle East. The issue? Well, here’s how one headline explained it:
“Saudis Reject Pakistani Diplomat Whose Name Translates to ‘Biggest Dick’“.
Yeah, I guess that might do it. And when you’re job is to work “with some of the largest members of world governments (sic),” you can see how a name might get in the way. Poor Akbar. Hopefully one of these days he can find a place where he’ll just, uh, fit in
Yep. We’re sick of seeing his smug mug behind the plate on every pitch too. So in an effort to oust his recurring playoff cameo, we sent our RSBS interns into Angel Stadium with a mega-fortified parabolic microphone to pick up all the juicy sound bytes Mr. Boras let slip during the game.
Here’s what we heard:
“Jesus, look at A-Rod. How’d I let that guy fire me again? That oughtta be my ****ing walking wallet! Mine! My lord, those labrums! Look at those labrums! Best labrums in all of sports!”
– – –
“Forget Teixera… Matt Holliday is worth Babe Ruth like money. How much money did Babe Ruth make again? What?!? $80,000 a year was his best? F*** that, Matt Holliday is so worth Mark Teixera like money.”
– – –
“Why aren’t there gold flakes on this f***ing hot dog? Huh? Who the hell brought me this hot dog without gold f***ing flakes!?!”
– – –
“Jesus Christ, I can’t understand a thing Manny says. How do you say ‘take a goddamn shower for crying out loud’ in Spanish!? Anyone? Anyone?”
– – –
“Holy s***, Alex Rodriguez… maybe I can get teams to think Ivan Rodriguez is actually Alex Rodriguez. Quick trip to the Dominican Republic, grab some stuff from A-Rod’s cousin… shoot up Pudge and BAM! He’s lookin’ like Alex did in that hot Details shoot. Did I just say that? F*** you. Don’t look at me. Watch the game.
– – –
“Ha ha. I just remembered that Adrian Beltre deal.”
– – –
“Why does everyone hate me? Because I’m rich? Because I’m powerful? Because I look like a young Rush Limbaugh? Ha! My bowel movements are worth more than these worthless fans’ entire lives put together and run through a gilding press that I bought with my money. Where the hell is my goddamned organic vodka gimlet!?! Jesus!”
– – –
“Someone remind me to tell Kyle Lohse he has really f***ing made me look bad.”
– – –
“$tra$burg… $tra$burg… $tra$burg…”
– – –
“Jesus, if I were gay, I’d totally do Alex… ha ha, but, y’know, I’d of course make a big deal of it to the press first before opting out at the last second… then, when things calmed down a bit… I’d fire that b****.”
– – –
Now you know, folks. You aren’t surprised, are you?
Hate me ‘cuz I bring it, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Oh no. There he goes again. Indeed, dear readers, my errant and oft annoying colleague, Mr. Krause, is in desperate need of some verbal “fire” — the vitriolic, infernal, flesh-eating kind most notably invoked by the devil and his evil minions.
He did the unthinkable.
He threw down the gauntlet.
He insulted Albert Pujols’ mama.
Where does Mr. Krause find all this idle time to waste on shameless maternal attacks? As a Cardinal fan sitting on top of a 10 game lead in the NL Central, I can certainly see where I would have the time from now until October. But Mr. Krause would make better use of his by pondering the pain he will feel once his streaky Tigers get eliminated early on in the ALDS.
Meanwhile, I’m feelin’ pretty damn good… so good that I’d like to just go on a rampage and say:
- Miguel Cabrera’s mama is so ugly, she makes Willie McGee look like a GQ model!
- Carlos Zambrano’s mama is so lazy, she makes Big Z look like a hard worker!
- Ryan Braun’s mama’s teeth glow so yellow, she can almost lead the Brewers out of the darkness of the NL Central! (nah, nothing glows that yellow)
- Manny Ramirez’s mama is so dirty, her batting helmet has a biohazard label on it!
- And, of course, Mr. Krause, yo’ mama is so dumb, she’d probably fall for this lame Glenn Beck advance:
Hate me ‘cuz I come back fivefold, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
I really should be talking about all the seismic events that have shaken the baseball universe over the past few days. New steroids revelations, gigantic trades, even bigger non-trades and it seems like each game has a bit more of an edge. But there’s nothing I can say that hasn’t already been said better by someone else. And that’s why I’m going to talk about a subject less fraught with peril. A subject that is not subject to the nefariousness of political infighting. A subject that is plainly, simply oh so delicious.
Yep, beer. You can get it at a ballpark. You can sit at home drinking it while watching a ballgame. It’s social, it’s private and it’s not subject to politics. It’s not like the political discourse of a nation is going to suddenly hinge on the idea of four guys sitting around drinking a frosty brewed beverage while there are huge problems like health care staring us in the face. Right? Right?
Seriously man! When did beer become so important in politics? Don’t get me wrong, beer is important. I wouldn’t want to live in a world without beer (a somewhat ironic statement given my current circumstances). But beer as a prop in an oddly inflammatory racial brouhaha? What’s next, baseball getting pulled into a Supreme Court nomination?
Man, I really should just keep my mouth shut.
The following is an actual, real life conversation (albeit by text messaging) that occurred last night between myself and a fellow baseball nerd (who just so happens to be a lowly Cub fan) prior to the Cardinals/Dodgers game on ESPN — America’s home for Manny-mania and other sensationalized crap.
HIM: Whew! First place finally. I feel so safe. Especially since we can pull off a deal at the break cuz I’m sure hendry has the green light financially……..
ME: Yeah, sure. Don’t get too comfortable 🙂
HIM: I was being facetious of course. And anti jinxing at the same time. Have fun with manny and the boyz tonite.
ME: Haha. I know. I’m fluent in sarcasm. Will do. Fertility drugs in hand.
HIM: How would Cards nation handle the inevitable Pujols scandal?
ME: Okay…seriously… Denial. Then anger. Then revolt. Then suicide.
HIM: About what I imagine would happen in the bronx wit DJ. Laughing villainous now. When that happens I’ll put on robin williams beard and tell u its not your fault.
ME: Haha. Might b too late. I may have murdered an entire village by then.
HIM: Like Annakin when he took out the sand people?
ME: Yes. Only worse.
And that is all I have to say about that.
Hate me ‘cuz I preach the Truth: that Jesus hates the Cubs; just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.