In an effort to avoid any bias in reporting the results of the recently completed World Series of Metaphors, RSBS decided to ask an impartial third party to announce the results of the contest and authors of the metaphors. Unfortunately, it was kind of short notice and the only person willing to help out was our old friend, Max. So, despite our better judgment, here goes.
Populism can eat my @$$. For that matter, so can democracy. You know what happens when you let democracy and populism run amok? Sarah Palin and Barack Obama. Speaking of which, you know what both of them can do? I’ll give you a hint: It has already been mentioned in this paragraph.
You know what else happens when democracy and populism run amok? Worthless excuses for contests like the one that happened right here on this blog. Look at those metaphors. At least there was an attempt to keep it a little highbrow with the biblical references and I thank Allen for that. But Jeff went straight for the gutter. Way too embarrassed to tell your friends about Ryan Howard? That doesn’t even make sense. He might be a fat girl but he’s popular. Wouldn’t that put him more in the Jennifer Hudson vein? I’d expect Jeff to make that connection anyway considering his practically pederastic love for underage Filipinas and everything else that American Idol entails. Way to play to the lowest common denominator there buddy.
As it stands, Jeff won the contest. Jayson Werth as the dirty uncle and this whole A-Rod as a pretty girl business won it for him. But really, doesn’t that just mean that we all lose? And just to be fair, I’m more than a little disappointed with Allen for sinking to the same level with his self comparison to Yankee fans. Did you forget that you hate the Yankees, pal? And as if that wasn’t bad enough, you still lost and now you have to write an essay praising Jeff. Well played, Judas. Hope you remembered to pick up your thirty pieces of silver on the way out.
Frankly, I’m not even sure what I’m doing here right now. I consider Jeff and Allen great friends but intellectual minnows, a point they proved impressively well with this “metaphor-off” or whatever poorly disguised euphemism they might have used for their h0mo-erotic excuse for a blog. I need to get home anyway. Populism and democracy are coming by in a little while to attend to some business.
-Maxwell “Max” P. Framington
Nevermind all that pre-NLCS/ALCS buzz dancing around the internets and such as, the Iraq! Soon we will all have more than our wanted fill of Joe Buck self-righteous proclamations and ear-numbing Chip Carary-isms. For now, let us focus on the larger, more looming and lurid task of finding the Cleveland Indians a new manager. Shall we?
Yep. John Farrell is no longer in the mix. They can’t afford Bobby Valentine. And unfortunately, dear readers, Lou Brown has gone back to selling tires… forever.
That’s why I, along with the fastidious help of our always reliable RSBS interns, have prepared a list of potential managerial candidates for Indians GM Mark Shapiro, whom we all know is too busy lamenting the contract of one Travis “I Ain’t Got It No More” Hafner and the cruel reality of a midge-less postseason.
Mark, here is the shortlist of suggested targets:
Sure, the Big Tuna ain’t no baseball guy; we know that. But he was born to win (and eat… a lot). Besides, just think of what hiring this former Cowboy coach could do for the long neglected and oft polarized relationship between Cowboys and Indians. Mark, it is time to heal these wounds.
Since being shunned and axed by his University of Illinois home (where he was a staple presence for 81 years), the Great Chief doesn’t really have much to do but stay in and get drunk all day. Hey, you can get drunk at the ballpark too, Chief! Plus, having such a standard bearer of Native American tradition might help the Indians solve that whole racist image thing they’ve had goin’ on for… y’know… ever.
Oh, wait. He’s dead. Never mind.
He’s dead too? Sorry.
Whoops. My bad. Okay. No more dead guys of French descent.
Well, then that leaves me with just one more super managerial candidate for Mr. Shapiro and that person is:
Look, if you’re gonna build a bridge to nowhere, ya might as well build it on the Cuyahoga River.
Hate me ‘cuz I’m on point, all the time, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Prior to the 2009 season, one would not be in error by labeling me a bonafide St. Louis Cardinal Hiney Bird. Having not really addressed our bullpen woes of 2008, I seriously didn’t think the Redbirds had a chance at achieving anything this season.
Obviously, I was wrong. And I’ve apologized for that.
I did, however, look forward to an exciting new edition of my neighborhood Chicago White Sox. And, yes folks, it does happen (albeit rarely): I was wrong… again.
But I have to go out on a limb and defend Kenny Williams from Chicago Tribune reporter Phil Rogers who blamed much of the White Sox’s 2009 downfall on the trades of Nick Swisher and Javier Vazquez.
To quote the Hawk: “That’s just B.S.! B.S.! That’s just B.S.!”
Nick Swisher’s 2008 stint with the Sox was abysmal at best. He underachieved in every category except rambunctiousness per game. He was a shackle on the Sox’s youth movement and rumor had it that he was more interested in picking up chicks in the Viagra Triangle than he was picking up runners in scoring position.
Javi Vazquez never looked comfortable in the Chi. Sure he’d get ya lots of strikeouts, but he also gave up a bunch of runs; and with Gavin Floyd and John Danks on the horizon of being dominating starters, it made sense to move Javi (and his paycheck) to make more room.
But sometimes things don’t always work out (see Sarah Palin’s “political” career). The ’09 White Sox have wallowed in mediocrity while the Cardinals are set to win the NL Central Division crown.
You see, dear readers, baseball is so captivating, so riveting, so followable because there is no such thing as a sure thing. So to all you Hiney Birds (me included) here’s a lesson from possibly the world’s worst broadcaster:
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Put your clothes back on. Cap off that fifth of Jack. Call yourself a cab.
The San Francisco Giants’ perpetual playoff philandering is as done as Sarah Palin’s political career.
It is sunk.
And just in case you need proof, here it is, written all over Nate Schierholtz’s face:
Oh sure, we can sit around and discuss how their dominating pitching staff could possibly get them over the Rockies hump and into the wild card spot if only the offense could score runs. We could ruminate on the occasional power surges put forth by Pablo Sandoval and Bengie Molina. Indeed, we could waste a lot of time talking about the Giants in general.
But the point is this: Good pitching may beat good hitting but if ya don’t score any runs you can’t win a damn thing.
And that’s why the Giants should be thinking about what kind of offense they are going to bring in during the offseason for 2010 and let the 2009 playoff dreams slip back down to reality.
Like most parties, it sure was fun while it lasted; but in the end you wake up and find the girl next to you isn’t quite the supermodel you thought she was — that those aren’t freckles on her face, those are… er… sores that you couldn’t see during your drunken stupor of endemic idiocy the night before.
Or, you just get all excited about your big party and end up in the burn unit like this guy:
It happens. Parties end. Occasionally your hair will catch on fire.
Deal with it.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
(Schierholtz Photo by Ezra Shaw/Getty Images)
During this summer of über celebrity deaths and disturbing political failures, I have been very reluctant to address the most disappointing development of the 2009 Major League Baseball season. But alas, my faith (and patience) has finally come to a vitriolic end; and I have no other choice than to accept it:
Dear readers, the comedy genius of Coco Crisp is dead.
Perhaps it was always too good to be true — that the perfect storm of a fledgling, Twitter-happy, center fielder with the intelligence of a midge and a hapless baseball team touting the skills of Kyle Farnsworth would be enough to entertain me from now until October.
Indeed, it was good while it lasted. With his nonsensical, grammatically-challenged rhetorical tweets, Coco succeeded in technocracy where he failed as a Royal. But then he went on the disabled list and, finally, had season-ending surgery.
He tweeted a few times after he hung it up for the year; but sadly, he has not tweeted since June 24th and the absence of his familiar incoherency has left us all grieving.
On this day, Coco, we remember your last golden quip:
OK i officially
have a new (baseball) disease called PPA (Piss Poor Aim). Everytime i
hit a ball hard PPA kicks in. There has to be a cure.
There is no cure, Coco. If there were, well, you would’ve done much better than .228.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
**We tweet. And we like to think we can pick up the Coco-comedy slack. Follow us! @RSBS
Yesterday, my unequivocally nefarious and visually challenged colleague, Mr. Krause, finally posted his two-month late debt which required him to pose for the camera while proudly donning St. Louis Cardinals merchandise accentuated by a bright, broad smile across his face. Obviously, there is little doubt as to how disingenuous the smile was; but I must admit that even I was shocked at just how low Mr. Krause stooped to eschew what would be considered by everyone else in the world to be a rightly just punishment.
Here is the picture:
Sure. On the surface, everything seems in order… until we zoom in a little closer (thanks for the assist, Jonestein):
Hmm. Is that a photocopy of the regal S-T-L taped on your cap, Al? And what is that underneath the pasted cover-up? Is… is that… is that a Washington Nationals cap!?!?!?! (click *here* for reference to that same Natinals cap)
*Rich white people in the suburbs of Detroit whail in painful disgust.
Congratulations, Al, on not only embarrassing me and Cardinals fans worldwide, but for also abandoning your own people during a playoff race. Nice. Indeed, you are the Sarah Palin of baseball fandom!
But Allen’s experiment with the not-so-magical isn’t the only thing causing the masses to rub their eyes today. Note to all Major League managers not named Tony LaRussa: If Albert Pujols steps in with the bases loaded, for Lord’s sake walk the man! Last night, Jerry Manuel found out rather quickly what everyone else seems to already know when he decided to have Sean Green pitch to Albert, only to see Pujols launch yet another grand slam, which ultimately led the Cardinals to victory. For the record, in 2009, Albert is a disgustingly sick 7-9 with the bases loaded, including five (YES, FIVE!) grand slams. If you think you’ll get A.P. to swing at something stupid in that situation then you deserve to be beaten.
And while we’re on the subject of idiocy…
This photo has been dancing around the interwebs faster than Kevin Gregg can blow a 9th inning lead; but let me tell ya, just like Al’s photo above, this is all wrong. I’m not talking about the actual lampooning of our president as a joker — that’s all fair game as far as I’m concerned — what bothers me is that the word “SOCIALISM” appears below the Obama-as-Heath-Ledger-as-the-Joker image.
Come on now. Socialism? Look, the Joker was an anarchist. There was nothing social about the Joker at all. The closest he ever came to socialism was wanting to kill everyone for no reason other than to just kill everyone. So if you’re gonna roast the Prez then at least make sure you get your metaphors — visual and contextual — correct.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Well, what with all the festivities surrounding baseball’s mid-season classic, it has been awhile since we checked in with our old friend Sarah Palin out in Alaska. Knowing her versatility and vitality, though, I’m sure she’s doing well out there in the tundra……..she did what!!!!!?????
And she said what???!!
Wow. It’s possible that Ms. Palin might just be the Milton Bradley of politics. I mean, how does a person go from a more or less coherent communications major and sports reporter to what can only be described as the political equivalent of “boom goes the dynamite?”
Honestly, I don’t even know how to answer that question but what I will say is, “Ms. Palin, please don’t ever stop doing that thing you do.”