Red State Blue State

If the Pittsburgh Pirates Were a Keyboard...

Don't hate me.  'Cuz I'm right. 

And you know it.

Peace,

Jeff

(Image courtesy of 9GAG)

Bo Knows Superbowl

It feels a little strange to be thinking or talking about baseball on Superbowl Sunday.  If there is one day of the year completely devoted to football, this would be the day.  The coverage starts in the morning and doesn't let up until the game has been replayed in its entirety overnight.  The Superbowl is not a game.  It's an event.

But how do we reconcile this football-centricity with our quest, nay, our mission to bring together baseball and politics?  There's a very simple answer:



Others have tried but no one ever brought baseball and football together quite the same way that Bo did. 

Happy Superbowl Sunday!

-A

P.S.  You're wondering where the politics was in all that?  Watch again and pay attention to the crusty white guy.

Beyond Non Sequitur V

I'm not so sure that I want to attend the Nguyen family's open house this year...

Go ahead, folks. Hate me.  'Cuz after looking at that picture, I don't even care.

Peace,

Jeff

(Image courtesy of 9GAG)


*Four more and they can field a team... or scare a lot of people. Either way equals win.
 

Magnum Returns

Several years ago I went through a Frank Lloyd Wright phase.  I think it was a combination of reading Ayn Rand and Wright's embrace of a design style that was completely different from the humdrum ordinariness of the Midwest to which I had grown accustomed.  And it also had a lot to do with his masterpiece, Fallingwater.  The thing that really set it apart was the waterfall.  Who wouldn't want to have a house built on a waterfall?

Today I still think the house looks amazing and I still love the idea of a house built on a waterfall. 

But then I discovered the true definition of amazing:

That's right.  Tom Selleck+Sandwiches+Waterfalls.  What does it equal?  Nothing short of life-changing.  Add in the fact that this particular picture features one of Michigan's finest wearing the old English "D" alongside a sandwich made of pastrami, god's gift to the deli counter, and I think we can all agree that we may have discovered the answer to that age-old question, What is the meaning of life?

I know this is all a bit heavy for a Friday afternoon but I hope you can still enjoy your weekend even while contemplating the awe-inspiring brilliance of Selleck, Waterfall, Sandwich.

-A

-Thanks to L for the Selleck/Waterfall/Sandwich link

My Lord, Will Someone Please Get Me a Goddamn Salad!?!

Note to King Bud Selig: If you wanna sell your product to a bunch of guys, hire Kim Kardashian for your spots... not Dane Cook.  Not Bon Jovi.

Chicks, Bud.  Hot chicks.

Maybe I'd settle for Reggie Bush.  Maybe.

Don't hate me 'cuz I'm right.

Peace,

Jeff

A Rodent by Any Other Name.....

The only real reason to celebrate Groundhog Day is because it means we're into February and baseball will start back up soon.  Seriously, what is this point of this "holiday?"  I don't get a day off of work.  There's no food involved.  And no matter what happens, you're still firmly entrenched in the middle of winter.  That doesn't sound like such a good deal to me.  In fact, one might even be inclined to suspect a bit of conspiracy.

No, I mean it when I say that without the hint of baseball it entails and the vehicle it provided for Bill Murray's formidable talent, Groundhog Day would be dead to me.  Just like you, Curtis Granderson.  Yeah, you know what I'm talking about.  You're just lucky I don't have your name on a Tigers' jersey or I'd really be pissed.

-A

Ninemen's Morris: No Sweeter Sibilance

Prattling ninny! 

 

Eastman Thune proved a Little Lord Fauntleroy!

 

I can’t think of a greater malfeasance than the continuation of your poppycock and piddley-poo!  While casting a vote for the windy-city murderers to appear in the La Belle Serie Mondiale is a safe (some would say namby-pamby?) bet, the notion that Detroiters would be denied another time is tantamount to an Irishman demurring at an unwatched distillery.  A foppish fantasy!  Nonsense on stilts!

 

Ty Cobb dominated ripped up the basepaths and the shins of his opponents throughout the last saison, and this correspondent sees no reason why this status should not remain quo.  And while a Killer Cubs World Series is plausible, there is no reason to suggest they would easily win.  They do indeed feature a murderous pitching rotation, led by Three-Finger Mordecai Brown (27 wins to 9 losses) and his bewitching colleague Orvall Overall (20-11), and lead all the leagues in Chadwick’s newly devised Earned Run Average (a tetchy 1.74).

 

But curse you Thune, calling for their dominance for the duration of the cententary and beyond is nothing short of swinging a dead cat in a Chinese opium den and feigning surprise when striking a harlot.  It’s a virtual certainty, man!  They have the most devilish fireballers, the dandiest batsmen, and a crackerjack defensive infield of Tinker, Evers, Chance, and Steinfeldt.  Sweeter sibilance couldn’t be dreamed up for any newsman’s reel.

 

Be that as it may, your tone of conciliation leaves me no choice but to lob up a softball prognostication for you to masticate upon, Alabaster, and I will not equivocate.  Look you to this come springtide: this season will show an unlooked-for boost from the man of your last column.  I predict a mighty effort by those Cuyahoga Clippers, the Cleveland Naps.  Arrogant namesake though he may be, I predict Napolean Lajoie will lead his upstart brigade nearly into the pennant, only to have his efforts dashed by Cobb’s wizardry. 

 

Confound you Old Man Winter, when will you forsake your slumber for the gilded lilly of Lady Spring?  Men and boys alike trudge through the mush and brave the howling gales for your respite.  Come soon.  Please?  We need your sweet breath, and the following crack of the bat.

- - -

Written by

Silas 'Red' Quigley
Editorial correspondent for the Boston Wax-Intelligencer.  Editor/Publisher of various workers rights publications, sporting weeklies, and Ladies Garment Journals.  As a youth he was attache to Henry Chadwick (claims to be the uncredited co-creator of the box score).

For more on the nature of Ninemen's Morris, please click *HERE*

Ninemen's Morris: A Reign of Dominance Will Commence!

Quigley!

 

You are a turd-encumbered wretch!

 

(Just thought that I would remind you.)

 

Ok.  Throw your bananalla peels at me, for I readily accept them.  While I am typically a soothsayer unparalleled in my ability to prognosticate outcomes in all matters, sporting and otherwise, I must nonetheless admit an insipid failure.  In the ante-annum, I was quoted as follows:

 

…while the Detroiters seem to be a lock to waggle the pennant American (hopefully they will be able to hoist it a few times before Cobb uses it to rid his posterior of residual defecate), they will nonetheless fall hard in the World Series, at the hands of Chicago’s dear Orphans, the mighty child bears, the blessed Cubs themselves.

 

While the Bengals of Windsor’s cross-water tongue-thumber did, indeed fall in Global Series showdown, it was not at the hands of the mighty Cubs, but rather the scurvy-lipped Buccaneers local to that intersection of Three Rivers known for its defecation of steel.  Local-boy Honus Wagner, though on the down-slope of his career, was somehow able to rise up and help the Alleghany Arses take the match-up in seven.  He out-hit the cur Cobb .333 to .231, and stole six bases, establishing the new Series record.

 

I was so angered, that I took all of my Honus Wagner baseball cards (I had roughly 30 of the brand new T206 series) and relieved myself on them before setting them on fire.  I guess I must find something else to leave my unborn (and unconcealed) son.

 

If I have been silent for some time, it is out of shame.

 

But let it be stated now!  In 1910, the Chicago Cubs will once again win the World Series, once again placing this, the greatest of the nine-men’s quorums National or American, once again at the pantheon of the game!  A reign of dominance will then commence that will surely last the duration of the Millennium, and far into the next!

 

What say you, Quigley?

 

You ding-bat!

- - -

Written by

'Alabaster' Eastman Thune
Former editor of the "Follies and Whatnots" section of the Chicago Inter-Ocean. 

Currently unemployed.

"Alabaster" is known for coining the popular quip:  "An Irishman and his whiskey are like the Father Sky and his Sun - you are guaranteed that the latter will show up in the former each day of God's blessed week."

For more on the nature of Ninemen's Morris, please click *HERE*

Rick Ankiel: This Man Cannot Be Serious

If I were stranded on a remote island ten years ago and I just now got back to see Rick Ankiel is playing center field for the Kansas City Royals, I would be thoroughly confused.  We all know what a tremendous story Rick Ankiel's career has been up to this point.  So let me be clear: as a Cardinals fan, I fully support Ricky and thank him for all he did in a Cards uniform.  I wish him the best of luck.

Yet I cannot help but believe all those concussions did a smidgen more than some serious damage to his psyche.

In his welcoming press conference with the Royals last week, Ankiel mentioned that part of why he wanted to come to Kansas City was because he 'liked the direction' the team was going.

That's horse$hit.

And we all know it.

The truth is: Rick Ankiel is happy to be with the Royals because he has a job now when it looked like he might not.  I can't blame the guy.  I would do the exact same thing... which may or may not include my liking 'the direction' of the team.

Because, let's face it: this team ain't goin' anywhere. 

Again.

Scott Podsednik.  Jason Kendall.  Billy Butler.  Kyle Farnsworth. 

These names do not a champion make.

I think the best summary of the Kansas Royals' direction, under the keen eye of GM Dayton Moore, is represented by a technical glitch which provided wonderment during the press conference.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the Kansas City Royals: Team of Infinite Regress:

Hate me 'cuz I hurt feelings, just don't hate me 'cuz I'm right.

Peace,

Jeff

- - -

Tune in Monday and Tuesday of this week. Ninemen's Morris is baaaaaaaaaaaaack...

Farnsworth in Amphibian Form

I feel like a failure.  Here we are, well into 2010, and not one single update on Kyle Farnsworth.  However, being the person I am, I refuse to let this situation stand.  So, after some painstaking research, I found a recent video of Farnsworth in action:



Crying, orgasming and only god knows what else.  The man is just full of odd noises.  Hope you didn't have any romantic plans for the evening but happy Saturday nonetheless.

-A