Totally off subject and unrelated to anything that is happening in the game of baseball right now, I have to share this:
I was going through the RSBS archive of photographs that we use for our posts and I randomly came across the Little Davey picture with the big helmet. Unfortunately, I had just taken a sip of coffee when I saw it again, and now my computer screen and keyboard are covered in a nice Colombian coffee-saliva mix.
Oh yeah, Little Shane wore one too:
In this epic best of three game battle of metaphors — mixed, extended,
absolute and beyond — Jeff and Allen pair wits and leave it to YOU,
the dear reader, to decide the champion.
The humbled loser will be forced to shower the winner with a carefully constructed essay of praise.
And now… the FINAL MATCH…
The Topic: Phillies Fans v. Yankees Fans
Suggested by: Jonestein from Baseball, Apple Pie & Lobster
Yankees fans are the U.S. Military. Backed with billions of dollars and stacked with the Nation’s finest, these chiseled warriors are built to destroy. And while it’s going well, they tout themselves as being the very best EVER. When things aren’t going so well they pretend none of it actually exists. Phillies fans? These are the relentless Jihadists. Playoff bound or not, they will blow you up, they will eat your children, they will terrorize everyone and everything around them; and they won’t feel bad about it, for at the end of the explosion waits paradise with 72 Shane Victorinos.
Yankees fans are Allen, dedicated but with a statistically significant percentage of ostentation. They claim to love their team but sometimes you wonder if that love is as intense as it should be. Phillies fans are Jeff, always spoiling for a fight and ready to punch you before letting you bad mouth their team. You never doubt the love but you wonder if maybe they’re just a little off.
But both have one thing in common. They think they deserve to be number one. Like Jeff and Allen, though, it doesn’t always happen.
Please vote! Tell your friends! Storm town hall meetings!
“I regret that there are idiots in the world, that’s what I regret.”
–Milton Bradley on his experience with Cubs fans in 2009
Me too, Milton. Me too.
And let’s face it. Cubs fans can be brutal — check that — are brutal.
In fact, I used to think that Cubs fans couldn’t hate anyone more than they hate(d) Jacque Jones.
Then along came Milton.
Bradley that is, with his $30 million contract, unfettered crybaby
angst and a mind-blowing 35 RBIs through more than two thirds of the
season. Wooing boos by not knowing how many outs there are in a
particular inning, by striking out looking with the game on the line
and by just plain lollygaggin’, Milton certainly does it all. Now that’s a fella who is truly hated at the Friendly Confines.
at least he seems to have a sense of humor about it, albeit an
insensitive, mildly inappropriate one. After the lowly Washington
Nationals lit up the Cubs on Tuesday night, Bradley told ESPN Chicago:
“We got a Rodney King beatdown tonight.”
Okay, Milton. Sure, that was an ugly game and you are having
an ugly season, but already being the king of Chicago controversy,
couldn’t you have used a less compromising analogy? To illustrate, we
at RSBS put our best intern to work and he came up with the following alternatives:
“We got a Barack Obama-on-John McCain beatdown tonight.”
Well, coming from Sen. Reid, this biased (albeit true) analogy is a bit expected.
“We got a Jesus Christ beatdown tonight.”
Er, yeah… okay. No argument here. I mean, I did see The Passion of the Christ. That was uber-ugly.
“We got a Clint Malarchuk beatdown tonight.”
Now that was more of a slashing than a beatdown; still, it will make you puke.
“We got a Mr. Lung beatdown tonight.”
Ah, yes. Now we’re talking. ‘Cuz if you are even halfway familiar with the bitter goings on of RSBS, you know that I, Mr. Lung, destroy Mr. Krause in every and all debate because, quite frankly, I am always right and he is always off gallivanting in his own little fantasy world where people actually care about what he might have to say.
course, these are all sufficient alternatives for our dear friend
Milton to use the next time he needs to highlight his ineffectiveness
with colorful language; but I believe the best, most succinct way of
getting his point across — the point that the Cubs just aren’t any
good — would be to quite simply say:
“We got a Milton Bradley beatdown tonight.”
no other statement carries as much ‘beatdown’ weight as the above.
Beaten down like Bradley has been by Wrigley Field bleacher bums.
Beaten down like Bradley has been by fed-up umpires. Beaten down like
Bradley’s abysmal stats and his overall reputation (did he ever have a
good one to begin with?).
The only Milton Bradley thing that
looks good these days is his bank account. And if you listen closely,
you can probably still hear him laughing.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
It’s the bottom of the fifth inning. The Cubs are getting killed by the Phillies. The bases are loaded and a high pop fly is hit to center field where Shane Victorino gets in position, sets himself to catch the ball and — SPLASH! — some idiot Cub fan in the bleachers tosses a beer down on the Flyin’ Hawaiian’s head.
What in the sam hell is goin’ on here? Is it Do Something Stupid a la Glenn Beck night again at Wrigley?
Nope. Just another day at the ironically coined “Friendly” Confines.
Victorino catches the ball anyway and tosses it back into the infield… but he is obviously rattled by the bush league shenanigans synonymous with the Cub faithful.
Yeah, yeah, a couple of not-so-intimidating ushers rushed down and apparently forced someone to leave… but was it the actual culprit whom they shooed away? Replays make me wonder. And was anything done to curb this type of innate dereliction? Why, of course not! This is what you get when you go to Wrigley Field: complete asinine behavior!
Look, I have done more than a lifetime’s worth of Cub-bashing on this site. I know this. And I don’t particularly like doing it. I like to believe that I am fair in my critique because look, I get it: Not all Cub fans are delinquents (just the majority) and I even I get tired of saying the same things over and over again…
But somehow, some way, some day, I like to think this idiocy will eventually come to an end.
Though until we reach that day that will never come, Shane Victorino, no one will blame you for joining Jesus in his 100+ year plight:
There is a reason why Jesus hates the Cubs.
And pouring beer on an All-Star centerfielder while the ball is in play barely scratches the surface.
Hate me ‘cuz I’m relentless, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
(*Image courtesy of Getty Images via Yahoo)
Dear readers, it’s Wednesday and thank the baseball gods I’m finally starting to feel like myself again. As many of you know, my longtime chum/colleague/nemesis, the Mr. Allen Krause, had the good fortune of spending this past weekend visiting with me here on the Southside of Chicago. Besides force-feeding him Chicago-style deep-dish pizza, Ann Sathers cinnamon rolls and a steady diet of “go *BLEEP yourself!” expletives, we did manage to reconnect with our younger, more astute college-selves — and by that I mean: we got drunk.
Well, let me just say that it was nothing like before. No. Indeed, at a fresh-looking 29 years of age, neither one of us are really apt to handle the physiological hell we used to put ourselves through. In retrospect, it’s hard to imagine we’re even still alive. Back in those days, we would party late nights Tuesday through Sunday (Monday was reserved for Monday Night Football and thus rest was required), found time to perform street circus acts and then actually managed to get straight A’s through our respectively rigorous class schedules.
Obviously, those days are long gone. Still, it’s fun to think about how nimble we once were and in honor of that and tonight’s super-duper lineup of presidential debate politics and National League Championship Series baseball, we at RSBS would like to provide a provocative, playful drinking game for those of you dear readers who are responsible adults over the age of 21 (fake IDs don’t count in the blogosphere either).
It’s simple. Get yourself a sixer of Old Style or a bottle of Jack or Costco sized container of mouthwash — whatever your preferred poison may be — and every time one of the following occurs, take a drink. Trust us, between flipping back and forth between the game and the debate and adhering to these rules, you won’t care what the outcome of either actually is… and sometimes, that’s all you really want.
So, every time…
Joe Torre Makes a Face that Says “I Have Indigestion”…
Take a drink.
John McCain Looks at the Camera and Calls You “My Friend”…
Take a drink.
Tim McCarver Over-analyzes a Play, a Player, an Entire Race of People…
Take a drink.
John McCain Falsely Accuses Barack Obama of Wanting to Raise Your Taxes…
Take a drink.
The Two Candidates Fail to Answer the Question that was Asked and instead Filibuster their Talking Points…
Take a drink. (are you still with me?)
You Wish and Pray that the Elegantly Exquisite and Ever Erudite Erin Andrews was Fox’s Sideline Reporter…
Take a drink. (fyi: this one alone would put me in the hospital)
John McCain Refers to Barack Obama as Anything Except His Actual Name (ie That One, The Senator, Dingleberry)…
Take a drink.
Shane Victorino Does Something Magical…
Take a drink.
And lastly… if you’re still able to count to three…
You Look at Obama and just See a Black Man…
Take a drink. No, take ten drinks. And shame on you.
Please drink responsibly.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.