What’s black and blue and so p!ss drunk that it looks like a Philadelphia Flyers fan?
If you answered the Cubs/Whitesox Crosstown Classic, then you are absolutely correct, dear reader! Now, buy me a shot (and none of that buttery nipple nonsense; hit me with the Jameson)!
Verily, I love the Second City infighting. Cubs. White Sox. Northside. Southside. Rotten Governors. Presidents of the United States. Whether both teams are playoff bound (2008) or just treading water til next April (2010), it is no secret that this intracity rivalry brings out the best — ahem — worst in human nature.
And that includes making baseball managers think they can rap.
Don’t hate MC Sweet Lou and DJ Gui-licious… ‘cuz they’re right.
As a young boy growing up in the middling middle-class of US America, my dreams were aplenty.
In particular, I dreamed of a day when I would succeed as a professional baseball player. Wearing the mask behind the plate, I envisioned catching the called third strike to win the World Series… rushing to the mound, hugging my pitcher, shouting til I lost my voice.
So too did aspiring to be a great leader. Always the smooth talker with a penchant for spontaneous charm, I reckoned I had the skills to become a good politician.
Neither dream became reality; and poor old me had to settle for co-writing a hit baseball blog.
But that’s okay.
I mean, I still wish I could have lived out those Major League aspirations… but when it comes to politics, I couldn’t be happier that I eschewed it all the way. (Yeah, I just said ‘eschewed’. I like that word. Eschew. Say it with me. Eschew.) Because to be honest, politics is boring as hell. Oh sure, the Jack Kennedys and Bill Clintons and Ronald Reagans and Barack Obamas make it look flashy and fun and cool; but most of what goes on behind the political scene is as boring as Tommy Lasorda is fat.
Of course, you wouldn’t know it by watching this clip, which just happens to be the most exciting exchange on the senate floor since Strom Thurmond admitted he still owned slaves. Okay, he didn’t admit that, but he probably should have.
Will the Senator from Connecticut please continue…
Oh, sorry. You’re still reading? Cool.
So, what did we learn? Franken is an ^ss. McCain is old. Lieberman is confused.
Don’t hate me. ‘Cuz I’m right.
PS, Thanks so much for all the kind well wishes you sent me on my birthday. Much appreciated! Fist bumps all around!
Everybody knows that baseball is a team sport — a team
sport where success hinges on the individual’s performance. If you
don’t believe me, just ask Walter Johnson… or Ernie Banks… or
Willie Mays Hayes.
Likewise, RSBS wouldn’t be RSBS without the BS —
*ahem* — as in “Blue State”, represented in high definition by our
very own misanthropic Tiger fan, Mr. Allen Krause. Yesterday, Mr.
Krause (who also happens to be one of my best friends in all the world)
adequately summed up 2009 as only RSBS can; and while he was at it, he kindly featured some of my better pieces from the year.
Well, dear readers, what fun is life without reciprocation?
no better way to wrap up the decade than to highlight my friend’s best
work… so let us take a gander at some real Krausian masterpieces!
2nd Honorable Mention:
Being There (Part 1 & Part 2)
Historic, epic, monumental… I like to believe that most people were
able to set their political affiliations aside while our nation’s grip
on racism slipped. There will only be one first non-white
presidential inauguration and Allen Krause was there. He lent us his
senses. He gave us some play-by-play. Then he rejoiced that the
“unwashed hordes” were finally leaving his city. Bravo!
Nietzsche Was Right
Pessimistic as he may be, Mr. Krause still knows how to hit a homerun.
This has never been more evident than in his simple line:
“you should all know that god is dead and the devil has won.”
Referencing the Ghostbusters alongside Colbert and Nietzsche
was just icing on the existentialist cake.
2nd Runner Up:
A-Rod at the Plate
If you ever feel like pissing Allen off, mention any one of these
things with high praise: Notre Dame, Glenn Beck, the Yankees, Bud
Selig… but if you really want to get him in a tizz, you should talk
up Alex Rodriguez. Still, unlike most folks, Al has a savvy way of
chiding fallen poster-boys. This parody of Casey at the Bat is, in a
1st Runner Up:
RSBS Presents: Your Health
Hi-effing-larious. Dude. Seriously.
And the number one Allen Krause penned piece of the year is…
A Magical Mystery Tour (Part 1 & Part 2)
This sultry trip through PED-opolis, Politicotopia and Pujols-ville may
have been a sneaky way of insulting my obsessions and undermining my
sexual orientation (Jesus Christ, I’m not GAY! I like chicks! YOU
UNDERSTAND?!?!)… but the idea of there even being a
Pujols-ville where Albert hangs out in a kiddie pool full of tapioca is
oddly titillating enough to make this my favorite (albeit two-parted)
post of the year. I hope that doesn’t make me a sicko.
And with that, my good pal Al and I would like to thank you, dear
readers, for making 2009 a fantastic experience. This community is all
about like-minded baseball lovers; and it wouldn’t be any fun with out
the tethered creativity of Princes, She-Fans, Ranters, Deconstructors,
Phanatics, Renegades and everyone else in between.
Much success to all of us in 2010!
Now, go get drunk!
**Please drink responsibly… y’know… don’t drive drunk… or kill anyone… or I’ll kick your ^ss**
A-Rod finally has his ring and the Yankee faithful are overjoyed.
However, do you think there’s any chance that this will make him less
of a dill-hole? This is a guy who has dumped his wife, dated Madonna,
admitted to being a big fat liar and had somewhat major surgery in the
span of about one year. Does one ring atone for that?
Okay, that’s a lie. My mom doesn’t know what a dill-hole is (perhaps neither do I), but it doesn’t matter because it’s true.
Let us remember that.
But let us also remember that in professional sports, just as in politics, the most important question when evaluating merit will always be the same: What have you done for me, lately?
In Alex Rodriguez’s case, does it really matter that 9 months ago all we were talking about was his wayward romp in the world of performance enhancing drugs? Does anyone remember that he flat-out lied to the press? That he stained the game? That he forced difficult discussions between parents and their children about the dangers of illegal substances and cheating the most sacred of US America‘s games?
No. Of course not. He led them to a World Series crown. If Charles Manson hit .378 with 6 HR and 18 RBI during the playoffs, he too would be lifted up on the city’s shoulders, carted off to the tune of “27th Heaven” just like A-Rod was.
Because that is how the world works.
I don’t think ethnic Albanians in Kosovo really put too much thought into President Bill Clinton’s oval office sexual exploits when they erected their tributary bronze statue of him in Pristina recently. He ended their persecution, man! He knocked Serb forces out of the game by hitting in the clutch, with proverbial runners in scoring position!
Likewise, Ronald Reagan ended the Cold War! Nevermind all the money and resources he threw at guerrilla specialists in Afghanistan (*ahem, Osam bin Laden, et al*) to fight the evil Soviet regime! HE ENDED THE GODDAMN COLD WAR, MAN!
And let’s face it, folks: cold wars suck. I think we can all agree on that. To Yankees fans, an eight year absence from holding the highest position in the baseball cosmos had to feel a lot like a cold war, and like my mama always said: “character doesn’t mean s*** in love and war.”
Okay, that’s a lie. She never said that. But she might. She’s got opinions.
Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
As is customary at RSBS, the Filibuster will be put on hiatus until pitchers and catchers report. Very special thanks to all our dear readers who’ve bombarded us with Filibuster topics this season! We’ll ask for them again in February! Until then, please enjoy RSBS‘ continuing pursuit of the ironically fantastic and creatively eclectic. You’ll be in for some real treats! I’d almost bet my life on it!
I know you guys are both baseball fans so you’re enjoying the drama of
the postseason but isn’t it hard for you to get into it when your team
is no longer in the running? Allen’s team choked and didn’t even make
it and Jeff’s team made it but then choked. I know it’s still baseball
and I know it’s still the playoffs but doesn’t it kind of take
something away when you’re watching as a fan of the game instead of as
a fan of a team in the game?
Just for today, I will put aside my pretentious baseball ego and do what politicians do: answer a question with a series of questions. This is also what mathematicians call “proofing”; it’s what women I’ve dated call “being obtuse” — what I call “playing mind games.”
If your local pub didn’t offer a Maccallen 32 year, would you tell the bartender, “Nah, no Johnnie Walker for me, I’ll just have a soda water”?
After a long night of partying that has left your stomach growling for sustenance, would you not eat Taco Bell because it isn’t “authentic” Mexican cuisine?
If you couldn’t get behind either party’s presidential candidate because they both made promises they didn’t keep would you simply not vote for the lesser of evils?
On second thought, forget that last one.
Just know this: Baseball is baseball is baseball is baseball… and a couple weeks from now, I (and a whole lot of like-minded baseball nerds) are going to be suffering from a supreme lack of entertainment. This will be when I start looping the 1982 and 2006 Commemorative World Series DVDs; when I reread Tim McCarver’s Baseball for Brain Surgeons; when I pop in the VHS tape of Morris v. Smoltz — Game 7 of the 1991 Fall Classic — and salivate over every pitch, even though I already know what’s coming.
Yeah, yeah, yeah… it’s too bad my (our) team(s) isn’t (aren’t) in contention. Boo hoo. But baseball is the religion, the individual teams merely saints. I can live without my saint but not without my religion; and you can bet that those who follow the religion of baseball (thoroughly) are way more wacky than any suicidal jihadist or hypocritical evangelical.
And yes, I do see a therapist about this… from time to time.
Hate me ‘cuz I teeter on the cliff of instability, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
***IMPORTANT PROGRAMING NOTE***
Suggested to us by the always hilarious Jonestein at BABL, Mr. Krause and I will be competing in a World Series Metaphor Competition — a Metaphor-Off… yeah, let’s call it that.
Why? ‘Cuz we can. And we will.
But we need your help!
As you know, Al and I champion ourselves as masters of the meandering
metaphor; and we need your suggestions. What do you want to see
metaphorized? (Yes, that’s a word. I made it up.) It could be
something as simple as an individual player, a team, a rule, a concept,
whatever. We want your ideas. Email us at email@example.com, Twitter us at @RSBS
or kindly comment on a post with your suggestion. After selecting a
trio of your topics, Mr. Krause and I will then post our metaphors
during the World Series and YOU the reader will vote for the winner in
this best of three competition.
Don’t just sit there…. suggest, suggest, suggest!
While on the subject of tragically sweeping heartache, I guess by now everybody knows that Kourtney Kardashian is preggers with that toolbox Scott Something-or-Other’s kid, once again dashing my dreams of landing her on my “fantasy team” and rendering one of the hottest (and dumbest) free agents officially off the market.
Great. Just great. First some spazzbot ruined any chance I had at “getting close” to Erin Andrews by sneaking into her hotel room… and now this?
Still, dear readers, let us remember that it is often in the worst of times that we find the truest and simplest joys in life. Sure, the Cardinals got swept in the NLDS. But hey, we’re not the Cubs! True, President Obama hasn’t solved US America’s economic crisis… or the health care crisis… or, well, any crisis. But hey, he’s not George W. Bush! And well, okay, Kourtney’s probably not gonna have my baby now. But hey, at least I’ll never have to face the awful task of actually listening to her talk for any length of time!
Not that I would have anyway, ‘cuz, well, y’know, hers is one of the most annoying voices “like um, y’know, like, ever or whatever.” I’m just sayin…
I think I’ll leave that opportunity to Mr. Krause. He’s always been the adventure half of RSBS.
Hate me ‘cuz I’m sly, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
/* Style Definitions */
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
font-family:”Times New Roman”;}
To begin, a warm welcome, reader, you of discerning taste
and eye, to the maiden voyage of Ninemen’s Morris, a clear voice rising
above the innumerable newsman’s clanging gongs.
Here you shall encounter cogent commentary on the politic of the day,
juxtaposed with tantalizing tid-bits from this season in the national
past-time. In our first column, we turn
our attention to a crucial topic: this first year of a fledgling
What is this brand of nouveau dandyism practiced by the
current administration? The cloying
pretense of free trade and thinly-veiled cronyism only further illustrates
their disconnectitude from the American main.
I cannot abide his minced words and Nancy-boy intellectual caterwauling. In a fearful harbinger, in June it was this
johnny-come-lately’s duty to throw out the first pitch for a clash of titans at
Griffiths Park. Our gastropod of a new
president was seen to fling the sphere short of home plate by many a yard, all
the more length his atrophied limb would aspire!
This is the leader of our fair republic? Please!
A finer metaphor for his soft-lipped foreign policy and his craven
crumbling in the crucible of overseas conflicts I could not conceive. Endure this so-called Dollar Diplomacy? I would sooner have my shins sluiced by the
sharpened spikes of the Georgia Peach, Tyrus Cobb!
On the diamond, an historic battle is shaping up clearly in
this season, a pas-de-deux between the elegiac behemoth, Johanus Wagner, and
that aforementioned centerfield hit-smith.
The Detroit man’s vitriol is well known (to quote one sporting
columnist, “he would climb a mountain to punch an echo.”) It may well be that the echo in greatest need
of punching is that crafty and classical shortstop from Pittsburg. A study in contrasts, these two men play in
styles so differing they could be two separate sports.
An equal contrast comes current in the governance of our new
president, as opposed to his predecessor.
Where Roosevelt was a man of action, and given to a spiking style (does
his big stick not slightly resemble Ty Cobb’s Louisville Slugger?), Taft is a
soft, gentlemanly sort, of a disposition more to demure than vociferate. Already his rhetoric against the Trusts
brings to mind the gentle way of the Dutchman Honus Wagner, a man far more
likely to even the playing field with a kind word than to spike the unwary
second baseman’s leg on a steal. (Though
on pace to steal over 700 bases in his career he may well be, I query still,
where the teeth?! Where the threat?!)
As we tread unwillingly into the end of our summertime, and
the autumnal pennant race begins its inexorable warm-up, we shall watch with
interest the progress of these titans,
and pray for as hardy a disposition in the capital. Though he spoke of his profession, it could
just as easily be the office of the president that Cobb referenced when heard
to say, “it is a grown up game for grown up men. It is no pink tea. Mollycoddles better stay out.”
Hear you that, elephantine executive?!
– – –
Silas ‘Red’ Quigley
Editorial correspondent for the Boston Wax-Intelligencer. Editor/Publisher of various workers rights
publications, sporting weeklies, and Ladies Garment Journals. As a youth he was attache to Henry Chadwick (claims to be the
uncredited co-creator of the box score).
For more on the nature of Ninemen’s Morris, please click *HERE*