Through years of tradition and arbitrary custom, decisions in the United States are often made by random groups of people whose legitimacy owes itself to nothing except that tradition. Exhibit A, the Electoral College. Exhibit B, the House of Representatives. Exhibit C, the Baseball Writers Association of America.
The first one isn’t going anywhere and except in random cases like the 2000 election, hasn’t actually thwarted the will of the people. Sure, it does give outsized importance to states like Ohio and Florida that really should be sold back to the French and Spanish, respectively, but it doesn’t make me hate myself.
The House of Representatives, on the other hand, is where intelligence and common sense go to die. Take Rep. Paul Broun of Georgia who sits on the House Committee on Science, Space and Technology as an example. Rep. Broun’s membership on a relatively unimportant committee wouldn’t matter too much except for one thing. He believes that “evolution and embryology and Big Bang theory, all that is lies straight from the pit of hell.” Broun also has stated that he believes that the earth is about 9,000 years old. That an idiot of this magnitude could be elected to Congress, and is running unopposed this year as well, is indicative of the collective intelligence of the body (and the American people, unfortunately).
Need more proof? Take the House Republicans’ hearing on Libya that took place last week in which they not only failed to resolve anything but also managed to blow the CIA’s cover in Benghazi in the process. Seriously, this is more appropriate to the plot of a Coen brothers’ movie than it is to the lower house of of our esteemed national legislature.
And finally we come to the Baseball Writers who have the power to hand out post-season awards as well as decide who is elected to the Hall of Fame. Considering that the list of members includes Woody Paige and Buster Olney, I’m not inclined to give much credence to anything they say. The only good thing about having them around is that there’s a good chance they’ll give the AL MVP to a Detroit Tiger for the second consecutive year, despite the strong case that could be made for Mr. Trout. And, at the end of the day, if I had to wish for the unholy death of one group of people, I’d probably give the nod to the House over the sportswriters. That could all change if Miggy doesn’t get the MVP, though. Writers, you have been warned.
Throw the Spaghetti in the Machine.
I’m a burning bush. I’m a wildfire. I’m singing in the rain and dancing again. Like Tim Tebow, I have a big god. BIGGER THAN ZEUS. I can put away my Club Confidential and stop pleasuring myself while crying. My iguana, Dudley, is beside himself too. We’re throwing confetti on each other, plowing through our best box of wine and eating marshmallows off the floor. For at least one week we’ll stop throwing flares at cars, getting arrested on our skateboards and falling asleep in alleys.
Because, for once, baseball took an unconventional route and picked fire-fire -flame-flame tapdancing bad@ss Justin Verlander as MVP. When we lost Buster Posey early in the season, Dudley and I had to act fast to find a baller we could have an unhealthy OBSESSION over; and Justin was our guy. He was the Hannibal Lecter to our Clarice. We even bought a special chianti.Dudley and I rarely missed a Verlander start. In between great Chrysler ads, he sat on my lap as we watched the Motown hero pitch deep into games, mystifying hitters, dropping jaws like change-ups. He was like Fast Eddie Felson in The Hustler when he came back to take down Minnesota Fats. Nailed every rail. Hit every spot. Geometry and speed to perfection. (Fitting that Minnesota is in the AL Central too. See what I did there?)
It would have been easy to pick an everyday player like Granderson or Ellsbury. Sure, they had splendid seasons. But this was the year where a starter — the first since Roger Clemens — gave everything needed and CARRIED a team to the playoffs.
While defense in football can be boring, pitching and defense in baseball… I LIVE FOR IT. I wasn’t around for Bob Gibson and Sandy Koufax. Wasn’t alive yet. But I love when the game offers pitchers whose starts you just can’t miss. When Pedro Martinez was in his prime I would’ve rather eaten my dinner off a urinal than miss a start.
And for next year? I’m looking at you, Stephen Strasburg. Throw the spaghetti in the machine and eat the children…
Follow Johanna on Twitter!
In honor of Albert Pujols’ second consecutive MVP award, RSBS wanted to congratulate him and his self-proclaimed biggest fan. And when faced by such a daunting task we turn, as we often do, to poetry.
‘Twas the eve of Thanksgiving and all over the net,
Writers were scurrying to finish posts and then get.
Jeff sat at home, quietly nursing a beer,
Mourning the end of yet one more year.
Leafing through catalogues and picking out faves,
Hinting at presents that could sure make him rave.
When out in the blogsphere the bloggers set a-chatter
And Jeff knew immediately what was the matter.
His eyes both lit up like a bulb in a fixture,
Then swiveled then focused on a framed Pujols picture.
Picking up Albert and dancing around,
Weeping tears of joy as he fell to the ground,
He toasted himself and thought “This truly is living!
More hardware for Albert, what a happy Thanksgiving!”