I find it mildly ironic that the candy-assed St Louis Cardinal organization has banned Joe Maddon’s “Try Not to Suck” t-shirts from their ball park. Cardinals spokesman Ron Watermon said the word “sucks” is on a list of curse words forbidden to appear on clothing in … get this … “Busch” Stadium.
That’s right. “Busch.”
I think you know where I could take that, my friend, but I’m not as petty as Mr Watermon or whoever came up with their list. The word “suck” happens to be part of everyday language in America. It’s part of the jargon. So, Mr Watermon, while you’re un-wadding your delicate little panties, you should know that it doesn’t take on any meaning beyond “you’re no good at something” unless you have a sewer for a mind, or you also define what’s being sucked.
Hey, Watermon … I got a definition for ya.
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Can you believe this? Rizzo’s got his name and mug on a cereal box. Let’s hope it’s the breakfast not just of champions, but of World Series champions in particular, my friend.
Joe
Wow. If I didn’t know that I’m waaaaaaaaaaaay better looking than Goose “f–king” Gossage, I’d think this was ME spewing all the venom in this article. Or maybe Donald Trump.
Honestly (and is there any other way to be?) I’ve gotta agree with the Goose on some of this stuff. Baseball is turning into some sort of namby-pamby, cotton candy sucking stage for guys who act like hitting a home run (read: doing their job) is the same as curing cancer. I can’t imagine what my boss would do if I stood back and admired every package of hot links I loaded on a palette. Well, actually, I can. He’d fire my bat-flipping ass. Anyway, Goose is right; MLB is trying to morph baseball into football (or an equally wimpy facsimile thereof). I mean we’ve got a clock, we’ve got new rules for sliding at 2nd … Won’t be long before runners get to advance one base cuz “Hey, I don’t like the way that pitcher looked at me!” Friggin’ pathetic.
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Hey there, filibusters, Joe Schlombowski, here. In my best Donald Trump voice, I want to tell you that the new Joe’s Bleachers website is gonna be great. It’s gonna be fantastic. It’s gonna be really, really great. Believe me. No one will have a website like Joe’s Bleachers and everybody is going to love it. It’s gonna be one of a kind and totally unique. I mean it’s going to be amazing.
Only the blog is up and running now, but the rest of the site is under construction. I’ve hired the best digital people in America, the best money can buy, and believe me no one is even in their league, they’re so good. I’ll let you know when the site is ready, which will be very soon. As soon as we think it’s ready … ready for you and the rest of the American people. And especially Cubs fans, who are the BEST fans in baseball. In ANY sport, they’re the best. Nobody has better fans. And they deserve the best, which is why I’m having my people (who are also the best, by the way) build it for me. It’s going to be great. There won’t be anything like it in Chicago, or even in the world, believe me.
So take a knee, sports pundits, cuz the rest of the site will be ready in almost no time. And when it is — I think by the All Star break … my people are looking into it … but soon — you’re gonna love it. I love it, and believe me I know what I’m talking about.
Joe
Roger Ebert, perhaps the best movie critic EVER, died today. A moment of silence, please.
Thanks.
I was thinking that there are some parallels between watching movies for a living (like Mr Ebert did) and being a die hard Cubs fan (like you and me). I mean when you’re being paid to critique movies, you pretty much gotta see the credits roll in every piece of crap Hollywood dishes. And I mean crap with a capital K, pal. How ’bout Hansel and Gretel, or Oz the Great and Powerful? And lemme tell ya, if anyone knew the difference between a good movie and a turd, it was Ebert. How he could sit through stuff like that, I’ll never know. And maybe he couldn’t. There’s a rumor going around that he died from complications resulting from watching A Good Day to Die Hard, perhaps the worst 97 minutes excreted by Hollywood in the last 10 years. And I’m a Bruce Willis fan, for Crissakes!
I’m just saying that having to watch movies all the time, when most of them suck, is a whole lot like watching Cubs baseball games, when most of THEM suck, too. I mean how different is it? You pay waaaaaaay too much to get in, you munch on stuff that’s not good for you (but is deeeeeelicious), and you already know how it’s gonna end within the first 20 minutes.
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I got one friggin’ question for Mark McGwire … if performance-enhancing drugs don’t enhance your performance, bat rack, then why are they called ‘performance-enhancing drugs’?
I’d say the guy is smokin’ crack, but crack probably doesn’t have an any effect on him.
Whoever or whatever is controlling Big Mac — perhaps aliens, or maybe a wizard or Barry Bonds — has convinced him that he, Mark McGwire, is the only human on the planet that is immune to the effects of anabolic steroids. His physiology is different than the rest of us. He is a species of one.
Apparently this major piece of beefcake doesn’t think steroids had one iota of influence on his home run production; says the good Lord gave him the strength to be a home run hitter. Too friggin’ bad he didn’t give him enough strength to tell the truth. I’ll tell you what, pallie … you wanna see an enhanced performance? Watch the Costas interview. McGwire could get a guest shot on Inside the Actor’s Studio based on that. He’s got the quivering lip. He’s got the cracking voice. For a minute there I thought I was watching Vivien Leigh in Gone With the Wind. Criminy. Get me a tissue, Tito.
So I guess, according to the special sauce inside Big Mac’s head, the Olympic Committee ought to rescind their ban on performance-enhancing drugs. Right?
Joe
Hey there snowballs, Joe Schlombowski here, with another “general manager” off season tip.
So, I’m thinking the Giants oughta sign Cheech & Chong. I mean, if an itty-bitty bag of weed can turn Lincecum into a Nolan Ryan/Louis Tiant hybrid … imagine, just imagine what those two could do. Friggin’ lights out, that’s what.
Besides, I think half the San Francisco population has a prescription for medical marijuana, so it’s a natural fit. And think of the cross promotion possibilities with fast food joints. You could have Munchies Night, or Jack in the Bong Night … stuff like that. I’m tellin’ you that ballpark would be packed. Nobody would care about the outcome, but it would be packed.
Anyway, that’s my tip for you, Brian Sabean.
You’re welcome, pal.
Joe
So, the Cubs filed for Chapter 11. Kinda poetic, don’t ya think? But it’s like Dr. Seuss poetic, not Robert Frost or Robert Service or Shakespeare poetic. Although, this season was a comedy of errors. (Uh, for you White Sox fans … that was one of Shakespeare’s plays.)
Anyway, it just seems fitting that the most pathetic baseball team in the history of history is declaring bankruptcy. I know, I know, it’s just a technicality that will let the Ricketts family take over the club. It’s not like they’re breakin’ up the team and selling off the jock straps. Although, I think I can get maybe two or three hundred thousand people who would agree that may not be such a bad idea.
One thing’s for sure, the Monopoly Guy has got to go. In fact, he oughta go directly to jail without passing Go, and without collecting $7,000,000. That’s right, sports fans, Wiltin’ Milton took home a seven with six zeros after it. And you know what we got for that? A .257 average, a whopping 12 dingers, and the attitude of an abused rottweiler. And who does he blame this on? Us; the fans; Chicago; the best fans and the best city in the world.
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Lemme get this straight. A-Rod juiced because he had the burden of carrying around a $252 million contract on his shoulders???? Awwww, poor widdle baby. I’ll tell you what this pin cushion needed: a large, economy-size dose of Vito Corleone slapping him in the face and telling him to man-up.
Every friggin’ time I hear one of these pussies whining about the pressures of the money they’re making — to plaaaaay a sport, by the way, for a cruel and unusual 6 months a year — I wonder if they’d like to step into the well-worn shoes of some single mother who cleans hotel rooms for a living. You know, someone who doesn’t have two nickels to rub together for anything more extravagant than an extra helping of Top Ramen. THAT person knows what money pressure is, my friend, not a guy with a car collection.
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News flash: Barry Bonds tested positive for three types of steroids.
No freaking kidding.
Guess what else. It rains in Seattle. Yeah. And if you stick your hand in a fire you get burned. And, can you believe this? … Rod Blagojovich, a Chicago politician, is a crook. Yeah, a shocker. Know what else? If you fall out of a boat, you hit water. (Unless your name is Alfonso Sorriano and it’s the playoffs. Then, no.)
I gotta tell you though, all this hullabaloo over Bonds’ cheatin’ heart is starting to get on my nerves. I know it’s against the law and all, but I could give a crap if he lied to a Grand Jury. It’s not like he shot somebody or ‘accidentally’ forgot to pay $140,000 in taxes. Besides, everybody knows he used, so everybody knows he lied. The Grand Jury knows, baseball knows, Greg Anderson certainly knows, hell, even you latte-drinkin’ Giants fans who defend the guy know. I mean you gotta be living on another planet to look at the guy and think he’s clean. Arguing about it is like arguing over who won the game three days after the last out was recorded. The guy did it — look at him — so who gives a crap if he didn’t man-up in front of the Grand Jury?
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