Iowa has given us a reason to be afraid. Very afraid. It’s not just that people refuse to vote for Mitt Romney because he’s….*gasp*….a politician! It’s that in their pursuit of anyone-but-Romney, they bounce from one increasingly insane option to the next. Bachmann, Cain, Gingrich. They’re all crazy in their own way but it’s a generally harmless crazy because they’re ultimately cartoons.
Iowa just gave us a new kind of crazy, a crazy that’s scary because it actually believes what it says. It’s the kind of crazy that gave us the Crusades and the Salem witch trials. It’s a crazy that earnestly stares you in the eyes and tells you that it cares about you while inserting a knife between your ribs and watching the life drain out of you. And it means every word it says.
As America woke up the day after the Iowa caucuses, I’m sure a fair amount of people scratched their heads and wondered who exactly this Rick Santorum guy is. And the truth is, Santorum is still defining himself…although it seems pretty clear that he’s not the sort of guy who’ll just happily let you live your life the way you see fit.
I’m hopeful that the Republican flirtation with Santorum will last about as long as a Pittsburgh Pirates’ playoff run. And considering that the good people of the state of Pennsylvania turned him out by an 18% margin in his last Senate contest, he obviously has some downside. But in the meantime, let’s just try to focus on what Santorum’s presence means to the realm of comedic headlines. (If you don’t get why this headline is funny, go to google, enter “santorum” in the search box and scroll down until you understand.)
It’s all good, dear readers, because it’s a NEW year with NEW goals and NEW impossibilities just WAITING to be made possible. So shake off that nasty hangover, nevermind that public health clinic visit you’re gonna have to make after who you took home last night and rejoice from atop the world!
Of course, if you’re a Cardinals fan like me, you can also rejoice from the top of the baseball world (that’s the only one that matters by the way) knowing that you can walk around with your chest sticking out for at least another 10 months or so. During our short break, I realized that finding a quick rebound lover would help me forget the unequivocal pain brought on by the loss of one Albert Pujols. Enter: CARLOS BELTRAN.
From Cardinal killer to Met scapegoat to hot stove spice, Mr. Beltran slips inside an already potent lineup for the repeat hunting 2012 squad. In fact, by getting Waino back and projecting a one through five order of Furcal, Beltran, Berkman, Holliday and Freese, I can’t help but git jiggy with the disco lights pulsating in my bathroom (don’t ask).
And as if that wasn’t enough excitement to start the new year, how about the fact that my fellow US Americans in Iowa seem to be ready for real change to our corporate-petting-taxpayer-blood-sucking government!?!? FINALLY, Dr. Paul is getting some love from voters, which has forced the left-leaning media to start several Bachmann-esque smear campaigns. This is what happens when the financially elite (who run the political machine) get worried about seeing their empire crumble.
But don’t worry. Dr. Paul will bring them down. Enough with the wars. Enough with corporate greed. Enough with buying things we can’t afford and wasting BILLIONS on pointless endeavors like the war on drugs. It’s time to start over and that means no more empty Obama promises from the left and no more delusion-pandering from the right.
Ahh yes. Pondering such possibilities make me feel just like I did watching D. Freese gork one over Nellie Cruz’s head.
GO CRAZY, FOLKS! GO CRAZY!
This is gonna be one helluva year.
Hate me ‘cuz it’s the thing to do, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Continuing with the end-of-year holiday tradition here at RSBS, it’s time to separate myself from my imaginary girlfriend (NSFW) and ask the interns to lock my office door so I can get down to the meaty reflection of what was the RSBS year 2011. Additionally, I must begin the sad, fiery purge of Albert Pujols memorabilia. For those of you who went to public schools, you know that maintaining a fire within a small, confined room may cause ill-fated side effects, so before I start to look like Bert the chimney sweep, let me get to it…
First of all, no year would be a good year without you, the dear RSBS reader. THANK YOU, for your readership. THANK YOU for your emails, your tweets, your comments, Facebook shares and FingerTagging! And THANK YOU for continuing to make writing about the baseball-politico world a treat for us every single day.
Like my riveting and oft rousing colleague, Mr. Krause, I too have been very impressed with our special correspondents. For me, nothing says sweet Miggy-I-Love-You quite like Mark Piebenga’s His Game Is Like Waves. It presented Miguel Cabrera in a new light — that of teacher, and, considering how much Mark has taught me about what life should be about, I continue to find its lesson fitting (and helpful!).
And though I often refer to Mr. Johanna Mahmud as “the man who introduced me to the glories of the Deftones” and “the guy who schooled me on the NBA and proved why I should be madly in love with Derek Rose”, I still have room to refer to him as “the guy who writes Setting the Mahmud“! Dude puts the “tit” in titillating with every piece. The last article he wrote was inspiring, if only because he found a way to get a naked Yu Darvish, an ugly sweater wearing
Johnny Matt Damon and a crying Paula Deen all in one place; but, like Al, I have to admit that there’s real brilliance in his Theo-fied Arthurisms. Still, I’m a sucker for equating dead people to the performances of Adam Dunn and Miguel Tejada. Good work, good sir.
Meanwhile, no year-end applause would be complete without a nod to my longtime friend and confidant, Mr. Allen Krause. Known for his cynical twists on the political establishment and undying love of all things Detroit Tigers, it has been a pleasure to write on his wing. Sometimes he’s so “on” that he finds literary genius in imagery. Indeed, that endearing Krausian wit is often highlighted by rational thought. Sometimes it points out the un-fact-checked obvious, other times it gets serious, with a real call for responsibility. And, just in case you think Mr. Krause’s Libertarian-bashing makes him a soulless, automated Obamatron, this reflective piece will convince you otherwise.
But when it comes to knockin’ ’em outta the interwebs park, I have to kowtow to the RSBS Presents series. The brainchild of Mr. Krause, RSBS Presents has enlightened us on the finer points of fandom and how to stay classy while reminding us that, ultimately, positivity has upside during times of turmoil. But the best of them all was learning how to score a Republican. And here I thought it involved finding Jesus and quoting Alex P. Keaton.
Happy Christmas, Merry Hanukkah and long live King Kwanzaa!
A lot of baseball purists hate Bill James. By attempting to intellectualize aspects of a game that had up until then been left to “experts” who used their gut feelings to lead teams in one direction or another, James sought to overturn baseball orthodoxy. These experts/purists/fundamentalists hate James because they no longer get to employ their mystical powers to direct the religion of baseball.
This should hardly come as a surprise, though. Baseball is a uniquely American sport and Americans are uniquely anti-intellectual. It only makes sense that a group of people who disparage America’s professors and other learned people would also disparage someone who tries to apply reason and science to America’s pastime.
But those who hate intellectuals the most are also those who fear them the most. The old school scouts hated James because his emphasis on the quantifiable aspects of baseball undermined their previously hallowed positions as arbiters of all things baseball. They feared losing their previously sacrosanct positions so these high priests of the game had to evolve or risk becoming irrelevant.
Something similar is taking place in the Republican party today. The party of belligerent anti-intellectualism has somehow embraced a self-styled intellectual as their new savior. The truth, though, hides a little deeper in the phenomenon. Newt, intellectual that he claims to be, brings nothing new to the game. He’s merely a priest dressed up in the trappings of an intellectual but he uses this affectation to scare his flock into believing what sounds intellectual to them. Newt is riding high on this image but hopefully his new religion will soon follow the same path as the baseball scout’s “sure thing” and the Contract With America.
Okay, technically it was more of a catfight than a bidding war, but I guarantee you it was fierce. I was in college at the time, and I somehow duped two girls into believing I was A-list boyfriend material. A gnarly girlpocalypse ensued.
It was awesome.
Then there was also the time in middle school where, for a small fee of one US American dollar, I would open up my father’s Playboy collection for viewing, all in the name of health and sex education, of course.
But I’ve never been Yu Darvish-ed before. I mean, I’ve never had a bunch of folks throwing MAD MONEY at me just for the opportunity to negotiate a contract. I know, I know, it’s hard to believe, but Nolan Ryan has never gone all in on my ass…ets. My assets. That’s what I meant to say.
Personally, I cannot WAIT to see Yu Darvish in action. I’ve been salivating at his proposed Major League entry since the ’09 WBC and now it looks like I may finally get my wish. Picture a 2012 season with an Adam Wainwright, a Stephen Strasburg AND a Yu Darvish!?!?!? Somebody douse me with Gatorade!
Meanwhile, if Yu’s people are any good, then they got their Newt Gingrich on before teams put in their final bids. You know it, I know it and the American people know it: no one sells access like the Grand Old Party.
Oh the Dems do it too.
Ron Paul. That is all.
And don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
When something like this happens:
It’s funny to think that maybe this was happening behind the scenes:
But most likely it’s closer to this:
I predict that within six months Perry’s secret male lover will no longer be able to hold his tongue. Let’s just call it a hunch.
In a stunning turn of events, Herman Cain will not be the next President of the United States. In other news, snorting pixie sticks will not get you high. The one thing that these two items have in common is that a lot of people should have seen it coming before trying it out.
So now it’s Gingrich. Oh right, and Romney. It’s like the longest and most asinine game of musical chairs ever. The only problem is that instead of removing a chair each time, they just substitute a person and make them keep playing. Please, can we just make it stop and give Romney the nomination? I know you don’t like him and I know you are afraid the Mormons are going to steal your children but there’s something to be said for having a candidate who’s actually qualified to run. What’s next, Palin redux?
The real issue is that the Republicans are so adverse to nominating Romney that they treat every new challenger like how MLB treats Kyle Farnsworth. “Well, we didn’t like him before and he hasn’t really done much but he sure looks good on paper. Eh, what the hell. Let’s give him a shot.” And, just like the Republican challengers, you find yourself wondering a month or two later what you possibly could have been thinking. And, of course, like any circle of abuse, you convince yourself that you’ll never let it happen again…
…At least not until next year when you’re looking for a middle reliever (presidential candidate) and notice that Farnsworth (Gingrich) is on the market….