Whether we’re talking about getting drunk and hitting the Taco Bell drive-thru at 4 a.m. or the state of my phone after a fast-movin’ night at the Roxbury, this much is known: things blow up.
This much is ALSO known: nothing blows up quite like the internet. I had a front row seat to the Twittersphere when Michael Jackson died (for real that time) and was amazed at how far-reaching this convoluted series of tubes really is.
And, as my melancholy and oft addled colleague Mr. Krause recently pointed out: proper internet explosions get a lot of fuel from fumbling politicians intent on keeping their multiple wives inside the three-ring trappings of a Trapper Keeper.
But the REAL explosion has yet to come. Hopefully, it will come tonight — Friday night. Hopefully the Cardinals will wrap up the San Francisco Giants’ futile efforts, kick back and wait for those cute little kitties to come to town.
That’s right, my fellow US Americans. An RSBS World Series is on the horizon…
Unless we’re talking about the cavernous anatomy of a female Kardashian, despite my best efforts, I still have not been able to pinpoint the location of a reachable and workable worm hole. Hadron Colliders the size of Prince Fielder’s appetite are also difficult to find these days. And let’s not even start talkin’ about the insane price of rocket fuel!
So how do I propose we travel back in time?
We open our eyes and take in the train wreck that is the Republican primary!
Want to live in a world where a woman’s reproductive rights don’t matter? Vote Republican!
Want to live in a world where your life is governed by an invisible sky daddy whose literary tome is as angry, erratic and suspect as a Manny Ramirez press conference? Vote Republican!
Want to live in a world where the ONE candidate who ACTUALLY MAKES SOME SENSE is so shunned that he doesn’t even have ONE person embedded in his campaign to report what is actually going on? Vote Republican!
We might not be able to travel back in time to stop the JFK assassination or Don Denkinger’s blindness during the ’85 Series, but as the above scenarios prove, we can go back about 100 years without much effort. Just know that, if we do, it may only be a matter of time before they may decide it is okay to own human beings and to kill others simply because they believe in a different fairytale.
Hate me. Whatevs. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
There’s no denying that modern medicine has had an overall positive effect on sports, allowing players to come back from injuries that would have ended careers even a few decades ago. Cortisone shots get players back on the field after seemingly devastating ankle sprains and allow pitchers to continue throwing the baseball when they’re as old as Jamie Moyer. Tommy John surgery not only brings pitchers back, sometimes they even come back stronger than they were before.
Doctors can now attach toes to hands when thumbs go missing and unless you look closely or know what you’re looking for, you’d never even notice. Organ transplants happen everyday and surgeons even performed a face transplant on a woman who was mauled by a chimp. I can personally attest to the transformative medicinal power of lasers after undergoing Lasik and waking to find that I could see without glasses for the first time in my life.
No, medicine is truly amazing. Except for one thing:
It’s 2012 and still, here we are.
As a result of some recent trends in male hygiene including facials, manicures and waxing and due to the ability of some well-known male artists like Justin Bieber to call the entire idea of masculinity into question, many pundits of different creeds, colors and class have tried to reclaim the idea of manhood. This reclamation seems to center on the Paleo movement, wilderness retreats and a new found appreciation for beards. However, I question the basic premise.
Yes, there are disturbing trends. For instance, Mark Sanchez:
But is that really any different than this?
Well, as a matter of fact, yes. It doesn’t matter what Sean Connery is wearing. Even if he was getting a cucumber facial while a small Vietnamese woman applied wax to his nether regions, Sean Connery is still James Bond. And he’s a man who may get photographed wearing a wedding dress but could also make this little number his b**ch:
The problem is not so much a lack of manhood. It’s just that for every Daniel Craig, we have two or three Ashton Kutchers. That’s not a good ratio.
There’s probably not a whole lot we can do, though. The death knell sounded the day we went from this:
It always comes back to A-Rod.
Jeff, I heard about Pujols… man… are you okay?
Jeff, I heard about Michele Bachmann topping another 2012 poll, is everything cool?
Jeff, I heard one still can’t find Kraftbrau’s Doppelbock on tap anywhere in the Chi. Are you contemplating suicide?
Bein’ down isn’t something I’m unaccustomed to, my friends. And yeah, back in the old days, I would sit and stew, fume and pout, whine and complain about things I could not control. But where is there value in that?
I would rather fight through hardships than lay down and die because of them. The satisfaction of overcoming adversity is like that first sip of a cold adult beverage after work on Friday: earning it makes it taste better. And sometimes, when failure is still the result, knowing I gave my best effort keeps me sane.
But I swear, if I don’t find that Doppelbock on tap somewhere in this city soon, no wall in my apartment is safe.
Hate me all ya want, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
I think that picture just about says it all. Catch flying bat in one hand, gyroscopically protect beer in other. There’s a pretty good chance he impregnated the woman in front of him during the process, too, because when you’re that badass, nothing can stop you.
You know what else is badass? Tigers. Sure, you can make all the jokes you want about the 2008 team that started off losing way too many games to the Royals or the 2003 team that lost 119 games. The fact of the matter is, Tigers are badass. You want proof? How about a tiger killing a lion. Yeah. You don’t get much more badass than that.
Good journalism, though, means looking at both sides of an argument. I have presented you with my understanding of badass but it’s hard to judge badassness unless you have seen its inverse as well. You know, something that is not badass. For instance, this:
When I quit smoking, I took up the habit of chewing on toothpicks — to keep my orally stimulated addiction in check. The worst part about it? People often say: “Hey, Jeff, fiddlin’ with ‘dem toothpicks… you remind me of Dusty Baker.”
Being compared to Baker may make my skin curdle with infectious disgust, but I suppose that’s still better than blackening my lungs and dying young of emphysema.
Or is it?
Dear readers, believe me, I do respect Dusty Baker as a human being. I mean, look at him, he breathes on his own, his heart pumps without having to think about it… all very impressive indeed; but as a baseball connoisseur, there’s no way in Jesus-hates-the-Cubs-Hell I want him managing my baseball team. Often blamed for the mass destruction of young, promising arms with infinite potential (see Mark Prior, Kerry Wood, Homer Bailey), Dusty Baker also lacks the one thing that makes good managers great and great managers Tony LaRussa… and that thing is: common sense.
In the 7th inning of last evening’s contest between the Cardinals and Reds, a game that at that point was still wide open, Dusty Baker brought in his nearly-virginal relief pitcher, young righty Logan Ondrusek, to face Brendan Ryan. With Albert Pujols on deck, Ondrusek quickly walked Ryan, unable to find the strike zone like Mr. Krause is unable to find a meaningful relationship with a woman (though, to his credit, he does surprisingly well with primates). Instead of yanking Ondrusek like he probably should have, Dusty left the kid — in only his second Major League appearance — in the game to face one of the greatest hitters of all time.
Albert rocked him.
So did Matt Holliday.
Welcome to the Big Leagues, kid! If your arm didn’t hurt before you became a Redleg, believe me when I say you won’t even be able to shake hands after Dusty’s done with ya!
Hate me ‘cuz I put it out there, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.