The world moves faster now than it did just decade ago. In fact, while writing that last sentence, I lost two bets, texted a girl without using my fingers and imagined an elaborate Broadway staging of my favorite Bukowski quote.
So naturally, it would be easy to miss out on some important informational nuggets throughout the day. But do not fear. The RSBS interns have been hard at work to bring you these five things you NEED to know NOW:
1. Rick Perry Is Insane
You didn’t have to watch the *YAWN* GOP debate last night to know that. All you need to know is that he truly believes setting aside an entire day for his state leaders to focus on talking to their imaginary friend is an acceptable way of tackling Texas’ problems. Um… please, someone tell me that being “delusional” makes one unelectable in a general election???
2. MLB Playoff Changes Are a Comin’
If today was September 8, 2012, the Cardinals, Giants and Rays would all still be fighting like hobos for the last drop of playoff wine. Generally speaking, I don’t like change; but to be fair, this seems imminent and fitting. I give it my blessing. VOILA!
3. Mr. Krause’s Retort Is Weak
In his most recent attempt to derail my celebratory allegiance to Liberty, he wrote: “I don’t have time to go back and correct all of his logical and factual fallacies one by one,” which is Big Government Liberal speak for: “I don’t know how to slip that dude’s jab-jab-right hook-left cross combination so let me try and talk around it.” Just sayin’!
4. John Smoltz Is Awesome… At Everything
He was a bad@$$ mound maestro during his playing days. He also was/is one hell of a golfer — good enough to, at one point, even consider going pro. And after listening to him in the broadcast booth as the color commentator on an entire season’s worth of games, I gotta say: Smoltz is one hell of a broadcaster. With a Hall of Fame baseball acumen, superior poise and uncanny timing, he definitely warrants kicking Tim McCarver’s dusty rump aside.
5. The Astros Will Be Going to the American League
Don’t worry. No one will probably even notice.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
And so in this Podcast brought to you by Lifestyles…
After a rough night of Pirate inspired debauchery, Jeff and Johanna clear the cobwebs (and police reports) to make room for special guest, Paul Lebowitz. It doesn’t take long for them to get riled up as they touch on the evil FOX chimera Joe McCarver, Clint Hurdle’s Pirates, the White Sox’s diamond impotence and much, much more!
– – –
Subscribe to the RSBS Podcast by clicking *HERE*
Subscribe via iTunes by clicking *HERE*
– – –
Recorded Saturday, July 16, 2011
You know it. I know it. The US American people know it.
FOX hired Ozzie Guillen to be an analyst on their pre and post game shows for one reason and one reason only: to make sure you at least consider watching their otherwise boring pre and post game shows.
And if you were one of the three or so people who stayed tuned after last night’s rout to suffer through 15 minutes of Chris Rose and Eric Karros’ lisp, well, you’re just as glad as I am that Ozzie was there to break up the monotony.
Even though we have no clue what he said.
The uber-linguistic RSBS interns got to work transcribing, but even they aren’t sure.
Ozzie on the World Series atmosphere:
Dis is wazza gonna want for the ho season. Back in spring train, dis is wazza gonna tink abow forda ho year. To win a gang after gang after gang, izza gonna hafta looze too. But dassa wazza gonna happen. Enjoy it!!!
Ozzie on Juan Uribe’s playoff heroics:
Well, dazza wazza gonna happen. Dis guy, Uribe, he like a big cat dat like-uh eat something. He like-uh eat anyting. Really, he juzza gonna eat so you better let eem eat. He can hurchoo witta glub and witta bat een hees hanz.
And of course…
Ozzie on what the Rangers have to do to counter the Game 1 loss:
Furs of all, you gonna habba go back in dat clobehouse wit your head up high and make sure you not gonna habba stroke or whadebba ees not gonna kill you you lose one gang. Errybody losing a gang or eef you northsider you lose a lotta gang (hehehehe) but eet not gonna mattuh go home and tell yo wife you lubba den you relax or what you gonna do to sleep and go to clobehouse tomorrow and win dat gang and maybe another gang back in your own clobehouse. Dazza wazza gonna habba do.
FOX may lose points with Joe Buck and Tim McCarver. But, dear readers, Ozzie Guillen is an entertainment gold mine!
Hate me. Fine. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
(special thanks to Johanna Mahmud, who contributed to this post)
As no exception to this eons-old rite of passion, I couldn’t stand the drought any longer, and on Wednesday night I ventured on over to my neighborhood cathedral: the ever tantalizing, the ever teasing, the ever titillating Sox Park.
I scored like no man has ever scored before.
Scorecards tell stories — great, fantastic stories that can be pieced together with digits and asterisks and squiggly lines. Each one is unique — each scorer different from the next, yet universally similar enough to enlighten anyone else willing to read them.
When I was a kid I found scorecards from the ’60s an uncle of mine had kept. There I was, decades later, in a dark basement in the dead of winter, recreating the majesty of Ken Boyer and Bob Gibson and Tim McCarver on a hot July afternoon… in my head.
So go ahead, take a gander… and try not to drool (click image to enlarge):
Hate me ‘cuz you’re allowed to, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
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!
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.
Wait. So who won the Home Run Derby? The only participants I even heard about were Chase Utley (for his expressions of love toward New Yorkers and Yankee fans) and Josh Hamilton (who apparently smoked super crack that allows him to destroy baseballs). Oh right. Justin Morneau. Oh well. Nothing to talk about there.
But there’s plenty to talk about when it comes to Josh Hamilton. Or at least that’s what I gather from watching Joe Buck’s play-by-play at the All-Star Game the other night. From Hamilton’s inability to brush his teeth by himself the morning after the Derby (I’m still not sure what Buck was trying to say) to a sloppy and drawn out True Hollywood Story rendition of Hamilton’s life, Mr. Buck managed to alienate most viewers within 15 minutes of the game’s first pitch. And that’s only if you were lucky enough to tune in late and miss the pre-game festivities.
However, none of this should really come as a surprise. Joe even recently admitted that he’s been phoning it in for awhile now. I mean, his on-air performance is about as thrilling as a Hilary Clinton stump speech and almost as inspiring as John McCain’s control of important health care issues.
It’s just sad that this is what Jack Buck’s kid has come to.
Anyway, it could be worse I suppose. He could make odd drunken sounding noises like his broadcast partner, Tim McCarver. Makes me wish for the old days, with guys who could really call a game. Guys like Ernie Harwell. And that’s all I’m gonna say because otherwise I’m going to come across as an old codger. At least it’s better than auditorily fellating an almost Home Run Derby champ.