Check out sports "writer" Drew Sharp's article from today's Free Press ripping the Tigers apart. Sure, the post I put up here last night ripped the Tigers too, but I didn't say "This isn't a good team." No, actually I think this is a good team, but for whatever reason they've gotten off to a slow start. It's irritating, certainly, but by no means is this turning into what Sharp describes as "... a season crashing in flames before it has even begun."
Crashing in flames? Really? Sharp qualifies his "analysis" by stating "They won't panic just six games into the season and nobody's suggesting they should. But they don't grasp the distinction between panic and urgency." What the fuck does that even mean? What do you want them to do, start breaking their bats over their heads after every strikeout, punching themselves in the face after ever error in the field, Jim Leyland giving each pitcher twenty lashes with the wet noodle after every earned run? (Actually, that last one might work... I'm looking at you, Jason Grilli.)
How does a baseball team play with urgency? Swing at every first pitch? Only throw strikes? Cheat by rubbing pine tar on their pitching hands... um, bad example. Still, I'm sure the players are doing the best they can. The truth is they were soundly beaten by two teams playing at the very top of their abilities. It's disappointing, certainly, but for Sharp to say "nobody's suggesting they should [panic]" and then a few paragraphs later say their season is "crashing in flames" is ridiculous, plain and simple.
Let's put things in perspective: The Tigers losing their first six games is roughly the equivalent of the Lions losing the first half of their first game of the year, or the Pistons losing their first three games. So every time the Pistons were on a three-game losing streak this year did Sharp post a column talking about how their season was "crashing in flames"? No sane person would jump to that conclusion. And if the Lions were a real NFL franchise and actually were competitive in some crazy bizzaro universe, if they were down at halftime of their first game anybody saying they "weren't very good" and lacked urgency after ONE HALF would be branded a shrill reactionary, which is exactly what Sharp is.
I will admit I have a bigger problem with Sharp in general and the lazy, cliche-ridden contrarian sports columns he shits out on a regular basis. Check out the pre-season puff pieces he did on Curtis Granderson being "a perfect fit for the Tigers", or raving about Miguel Cabrera's "booming bat". Sharp was as optimistic as anyone to start the season, but after six games he's ready to jump ship? Bullshit. Either he didn't feel that way to start (thus making his US Weekly-ish spring training pieces that much more embarrassing), or he is the one filled with panic now.
Sharp isn't the only one- Jay Mariotti, Skip Bayless, Woody Paige, et. all fall into this category. They're like the equivalent of Sean Hannity (theoretically) going on Fox News and saying "hey, the city of Denver had a record low temperature today, so where's your global warming now, you tree-hugging hippies?" It's trash, and not even worthy of the ghetto that is opinion-based journalism. None of them take the time to research the topic, put it into a larger context, and come to a reasonable conclusion based on any type of logic or reality. No, since the Tigers lost their first six games, they're not playing with urgency and their season is crashing in flames. I'm willing to bet that "article" took Sharp less than fifteen minutes to write. Sharp calls the Tigers "pampered fat cats", but I wonder how much money he makes to drool out this crap (answer: way, way, way too much). I can picture Sharp distractedly banging this out on his laptop on his way from his day-time radio gig en-route to one of his book signings (just to reinforce what a cliche-monger Sharp is, the title of one of his books is "Razor Sharp". Seriously. That's the best title he could come up with). Talk about mailing it in.
I honestly feel the Tigers will bounce back. Not sure if they'll make the playoffs, but by the end of the year they should be back on track and at least in the picture. Unlike some sportswriters, I can enjoy sports for what they are, and not turn them into a life-or-death, black-or-white epic battle for all of humanity against Losing and Failure and Terrorism (made that last one up). It must kind of suck to be that dispassionate about something so fun.
I sit here, Sunday night, a week after opening day, and the Tigers have yet to win a game. In fact, I'm gritting my teeth through a 9-1 beat down at the hands of the Chicago White Sox, and it's every bit as bad as it sounds. Justin Verlander gave up 9 runs (4 earned), and the Tigers hitters are making Mark Burhle look like Sandy Fucking Koufax.
I know it's only the first week of the year, but something about this team doesn't smell right. The lineup I was so excited about has amounted to a big pile of fuck-all. In fact, Brandon Inge, the guy they were going to trade away, has been by far their most consistent bat this year. Magglio Ordonez looks like a little girl flailing away, Miguel Cabrera just looks scared of the cold Detroit spring, and Gary Sheffield hurt his widdle pinky. Awwww. If I see them hit into one more double play my head is going to explode.
And as bad as their hitting has been, their pitching has been even worse. The bullpen was considered to be their weakest area this year, but their starting pitching has been atrocious. Dontrelle Willis walked 7 fucking batters yesterday. A couple days before that, I swear to god I saw Nate Robertson throw under-handed because he couldn't find the strike zone if it was hanging out of his pants.
To make matters worse, my annoyance levels are being stretched to new and excruciating heights because of the cosmically idiotic commentary of the ESPN Sunday Night Baseball crew, Jon Miller and Joe Morgan. Two dipshits of this nature not only meeting each other but announcing baseball games on National Television has got to be one of the Seven Signs of the Apocalypse. Joe Morgan just said this: "The good thing about losing this many games is that the odds are in favor of you winning your next one. The more you lose, the more you're due to win." Really, Joe? I might not be a fancy tee-vee announcer, but I'm pretty sure your odds of winning each game are 50/50, regardless of what happened the day before. I can just picture Jim Leyland addressing his team: "Great loss today guys! With a crushing defeat like this, we're gare-un-fucking-teed to win this next one!"
Speaking of Leyland, the only real good thing that will come out of this losing is the inevitable Jim Leyland public media meltdown, due sometime within the next couple of days. It gives me genuine pleasure whenever I see Leyland on the evening news, half-drunk with a Marlboro hanging out the side of his mouth, scaring the piss of a room full of reporters. I really am excited for this.
Oh look- the Tigers just brought Yorman Bazardo into the game. FUCKING AWESOME. Nothing could go wrong here. When I think of quality relief pitching, I think of the name "Yorman Bazardo". Excellent- he just gave up a three-run triple. Kill me. Kill me now.
Before I finish this up to go cry in the corner, I would be remiss in mentioning the all-encompassing ass-suckitude of my arch nemesis on this team, Jason Grilli. On Friday he came in to a tie game and gave up hits to five consecutive batters. I said some truly horrible things about him, some involving his mother and a coat hanger, and I feel a little guilty about this. But only a little, because Jason Grilli truly is not good at what he does. If I was completely incompetent at my job I would sooner or later get the hint and quit. But not Grilli, no, he powers through. Every time I see his stupid face jogging in from the bullpen a little piece of me dies inside, because I know he is going to fuck up. I wish I could place bets on this. Guess what Grilli's ERA is right now? If you guessed twenty-point-fucking-two-five, you win a lifetime supply of Jason Grilli nightmares. Fuck.
ANYWAY, Tigers, get your shit together, because I'm not going downtown to the crime-ridden, hepatitis-infested shithole that is downtown Detroit just to watch you lose.
Ok, maybe I will, but I won't like it.
So maybe I will like it, but I'll have to be drunk. Like, really drunk.
Mmmmm, beer.
What was I talking about again? Oh yeah: the Tigers. Get your shit together, because your losing is making the baby Jesus cry.
I’m not too proud to admit that lately I’ve been going through an existential crisis of sorts- nothing to make me lose my mind, but still enough to keep me pre-occupied and often times paralyzed with apprehension and, in momentary but terrible flashes, outright fear.
I think it may have to do more with identity than anything- the age I’m at and the station in life I find myself seems to be pulling me in an infinite number of directions. I actively live a life of contradiction: I run, lift weights and commit to an hour of cardio exercise at least three times a week, but I find myself three nights out of the week (ok, sometimes five) in a smoky bar with a Wild Turkey in hand, stumbling home sloshed at 3 AM and barely making it in to work on time. Several times a day I’ll feel nostalgic, bordering on homesick for the place and people I grew up with, wanting to return to them and have my life coincide with theirs, yet several more times a day I’ll catch myself daydreaming about drinking wine and running with the bulls in Pamplona, or hiking ancient Mayan ruins in South America, fantasizing about hunting wild boar on the plains of Africa or riding out into the Outback on top of a fast horse, pushing it to see how far it can take me. I enjoy reading Hemmingway, his literal, choppy , coy and under explained prose challenging and rewarding me with his experiences and ideas, and at the same time I can read back issues of Iron Man comics never realizing six hours have passed by. I love TV and obsess over “Lost” and “The Wire”, yet I have periodic urges to sell all my possessions, build a cabin in the middle of the woods and live out my own Henry David Thoreau experience. I work an office job, I care about my work and success there, yet every time I think of living the rest of my life sitting at a desk with a tie around my neck bile rises in my throat. I want to move somewhere where it’s warm and all the people are happy and tan, but I enjoy ice fishing and the epic snowstorms that the Midwest brings. I’m being pulled in a million different directions, and I constantly have a feeling I’m missing out on something, missing out on great times and quasi-religious experiences I can’t quite seem to locate. I’m a man and a boy at the same time, and nothing has caused me to grow up, but nothing is preventing me, either.
Case in point: last Thursday I went to a NOFX concert. For those of you unaware, NOFX are the greatest punk band of all time, touring for over 20 years and have almost as rabid a fan base as you’ll find on planet Earth. They’re crass, loud, hilarious and unapologetic. Their music is filled with tales of twisted sexual deviants and junkies and politics and epic benders. One thing I love about them is how they can make the most disturbing, scary and anti-establishment ideas seem downright friendly, even fun.
On my way to meet a friend at the concert, I was listening to their album “So Long and Thanks for All the Shoes”. I’ve heard this album so many times singing along to it is second nature, but at one point I found myself singing along to the song “It’s My Job to Keep Punk Rock Elite”. The lead singer, Fat Mike, has made a point to mention this phrase several times in interviews in the past, and he means this literally, that he sees himself as a guardian of not only the music but the way of life, keeping it uncorrupted and as pure as possible. NOFX lives this in their careers- their videos don’t play on MTV, they’re not on a major record label, they don’t get much of any sort of mainstream radio airplay. Yet they’re probably the most popular punk rock band in the last 20 years, constantly selling out shows and selling very respectable amounts of albums.
It’s this dichotomy that I started to think about, and for the first time I honestly started to wonder if Fat Mike was talking about me in that song: a late-twenties office drone working a 9-5 job who golfs and is really into baseball with a 401(K) and a cat. Am I the type of person he’s trying to keep out of his shows, have I been singing along to songs and going to concerts where the joke has been on me?
This question was on my mind as I parked and got out of my car. In walking the few crowded city blocks toward the theater to meet my friend, these feelings were only reinforced. Groups of four and five kids would pass me by, almost skipping with anticipation and excitement to see the show. Punks who wore their lifestyle literally on their sleeves were abound- giant ironed green mohawks, shredded stained jeans, Doc Martens and Chuck Taylors, safety pins through cheeks and studs and chains hanging from every available spot. Leather jackets with Propaghandi and Op Ivy and Social Distortion patches pinned on, and even the occasional chick with the shaved head. Walking by a storefront window, I snuck a glance at myself: baseball hat with the brim pulled down low, a red hooded sweatshirt I probably got at Target, blue jeans and dirty shell-toed Adidas. No tats, no piercing, no blue hair or shit-kickers on my feet. In high school, I dressed like some of them, but I always kind of thought that was all a bunch of bullshit anyway. I was stone sober having just gotten off work, and I would be willing to wager that 90% of the people at that concert were either drunk or on some kind of narcotic. To say I was self-conscious walking into that theater among the Disillusioned and Tragically Punk would be an understatement.
Getting into the doors and meeting up with my friend, we got our hands on a couple cold tallboys and shot the shit for a few minutes, waiting for the opening act to come on. We chatted about nothing, but we were both thinking the same thing: Look how fucking young these kids are! What appeared to be fourteen and fifteen year-old kids stood huddled in the semi-darkness, smoking cigarettes and scheming on how to get their hands on some of the tallboys we sipped on. A kind of nervous anticipation floated about, everybody sizing each other up but careful not to stare, and it was at that moment that I realized one of my worst fears may have become true: I might be the old guy at the concert. You know that guy, hair a little thinning, second chin just creeping down, a little thick around the edges, out of place and making everybody uncomfortable.
The show finally starts and the opening act is what appears to be teenagers from Canada. Decent songs, nothing really jumps out. We stand towards the back, sipping our beers. Next up, No Use for a Name starts, and the tone of the concert changes. People rush to the front, the crush of bodies to the front intensifies, and I remember why I came. No Use are a solid band, and they play some of their older songs. When I hear “Justified”, I sing along and start to feel a little less self-conscious.
After about a half-hour, NOFX finally comes on. The crowd is on the verge of bloodlust, and they deliver. They seem to be in a good mood and drunk, and sound great. At one point, they give the crowd the option of picking their next set of songs: they could play seven consecutive songs from “So Long and Thanks for all the Shoes”, or they could play “The Decline”. The crowd overwhelmingly chanted for the Decline. They obliged.
“The Decline” is NOFX’s masterpiece- an 18-minute open rumination on, as a collective people, the lack of intellectual curiosity, corruption and indifference we suffer- the path that leads to ultimate acceptance of the situations we find ourselves in. It’s my favorite song, and what I believe to be their ultimate manifesto. I’m standing with my friend, finishing up my third tallboy, singing along, and Fat Mike steps up to the mic and trades off the last two verses with Melvin: The human existence is failing resistance Essential. The future written off. The odds are Astronomically against us only moron and genius Would fight a losing battle against the super ego. When giving in is so damn comforting
And so we go on with our lives We know the truth but prefer lies Lies are simple. Simple is bliss. Why go against tradition when we can Admit defeat. Live in decline. Be their victim of our own design With status quo built on suspect. Why would anyone stick out their neck Fellow members of club. We've got ours. I'd like to introduce you to our host.
He's got his and I've got mine. Meet The Decline.
These last words hung in the air as El Hefe jumped up with his trombone and they came together to finish up the rest. Standing there watching them play, I suddenly became aware of where I was and what was happening. I scanned the crowd, watching the punks and the losers and the addicts and the drunks and the kids, happily jumping into each other and enjoying the moment.
I smiled to myself, because then I knew. And come to think of it, I already knew, but I had forgotten. The joke wasn’t on me- the joke was everything and everyone, and it only wasn’t funny if you forgot to look for the humor and the absurdity. This is why I grew to love their music- they had a singular ability to capture the absurd, exploit it for what it is and enjoy it. This is what I realized- it’s all one big fucking decline, we’re all headed down the same slippery slope, picking up speed as we go, and if you don’t enjoy the ride then you might as well be at the end already.
Here's video of the end of that performance:
The things I had been worrying about- the bullshit that kept me awake at night and distracted me from my work and the people I love- was all part of it. There is no separation, and the seemingly contradictory life I’d been leading up to that point was my slow decline. I had stopped enjoying it, enjoying the ride, and I think this is where I went wrong. It’s ok to forget sometimes- it’s easy as hell to do, but once it happens, things become unclear. Decisions seem harder to make, lines of morality and conscience seem to blur, and the world seems to take on a muddled, opaque tint. But if you can occasionally find ways to cut through that bullshit, whether it be through a hobby, a hike, rough sex, or balls-out Punk Fucking Rock- it’s quite grand.
Fat Mike wasn’t trying to keep me out- he was inviting me in, but he’s making sure it remains a safe place- a place for a bunch of people who think just a little too much for their own good to go to make fun of themselves, to enjoy getting drunk and sweating and slamming into each other without having to worry about all of the other bullshit seeping in.
I think the same thing was going through my friend’s mind, because pretty soon he was dragging me down into the crush of people in front of the stage, a swirling mass of unadulterated physical expression and symbiotic celebration. There’s no talking down there, just people crashing into each other, lifting each other in the air and passing them along, jumping and pulling and elbowing and bracing and sweating, enjoying the camaraderie of knowing that we’re all headed down hill, that the sled is picking up speed but look at us, by accepting it we’re able to celebrate the slide for what it is.
Ah, St. Paddy's Day... It's like Christmas, my birthday, an orgasm and Mardi Gras all rolled into one, but only if the holiday was held in honor of King Awesome and powered by Irish car bombs. There is no greater day than St. Paddy's day, for the following reasons:
1- Booze- One of the only days during the year it's acceptable to start drinking before noon (the others being birthdays, funerals, weddings, tax day, tailgates, and of course Abraham Lincoln's birthday. That wiry fucker could drink. You think he freed the slaves sober? Puh-leeze). Granted, drinking before noon being "acceptable" never really stopped me from sneaking a pull or two off of my flask of Wild Turkey on the way to work in the morning (just for an eye-opener), but this day I don't have to hide it. I love booze, I love all the different forms it comes in, and in fact I shall rank acceptable St. Paddy's day drinks right here, for your reading pleasure:
A- Irish Car Bombs- the best of both worlds, because it contains the three things listed under it, all combined into one unholy shot of pure Irish deliciousness. If you're out drinking for St. Paddy's day and you don't take at least one Irish Car Bomb, then you are a pitiful fucking excuse for a drunk. For shame. B- Guinness- the lifeblood of the Irish. Pints of Guinness make you strong. C- Jamison whiskey- if Guinness is the lifeblood of the Irish, then this is what is in every dirty mick's baby bottle. I'm normally not rich enough to drink it on a regular basis, but once a year I'll bong this shit. Mmmmm, whiskey. D- Bailey's Irish Cream- I know what you're thinking "Hey, isn't that the shit my Mom pours into her coffee when she thinks noboby's looking that allows her to cope with the utter debacle of a failure of a meaningless, shallow life she leads?" Yes. Yes it is. It's also distinctly Irish, and not everyone can stomach Guinness and whiskey all day. It's ok. This one day a year, you get a free pass for drinking this all day. Just remember, mix a car bomb or two in there to avoid complete pussifiness. E- Green Beer- a step down, but still acceptable. Effort to die gallons of beer green for no reason is to be respected, but don't forget it's still a shitty American macro brew you're drinking. Bonus points for you poop being green for three days afterward. Plus, projectile vomiting from your every orifice looks WAY cooler when it's bright green. F- Everything else- if it's booze, you're on the right track. Just make sure no drunken Murph spots you sporting a white-wine spritzer, or you might end up with a blarney stone up your ass.
2- Drunk girls- This can be summed up by one of my best St. Paddy's day stories: a few years ago, I woke up and started drinking whiskey at 6 AM, was into the bar by 7 AM, ate a breakfast of green eggs and ham, then teamed up to down (literally) 5 gallons of green beer between six friends. Later in the afternoon at a party, I took a shot of whiskey and it set me over the edge- I was standing on their front porch, I leaned over and tossed my Irish confetti all over the bushes, really an impressive display of vomiting acumen, controlled spray and stream, clean follow through, minimal clean up, did get a little on my shamrock sweater. Around twelve people were standing around and all started cheering congratulating/making fun of me, but I persevered and kept drinking. I’m a trooper. Still on the porch, no more than a half-hour later, one of the girls that was on the porch watching me puke my guts out made out with me. There is no way she would have given me the time of day sober. God, I fucking LOVE St. Paddy's day. And drunk girls. And booze.
3- Fighting- The Irish are known as a bunch of temperamental, irrational drunks, and they certainly live up to their reputation on March 17th every year. I’ve been blind drunk and had knock-down, drag-out fistfights with some of my best friends, and we’ve always ended the night toasting each other again. Which brings me to…
4- Blackout drunkenness- The perfect excuse:
You: “Hey, Ghost, you were a real asshole last night… you drank all my whiskey, made out with my sister, peed on my TV, puked on my dog and punched a hole in my wall. You’re an asshole.”
Me: “Yeah, sorry, but I blacked out, I don’t remember anything, so I cannot be held responsible for my actions. Except for making out with your sister, which was sweet. “
You: “I can’t stay mad at you. I wish I could quit you, you loveable blackout drunk Irish scamp.”
Me: “Word.”
5- The Music- St. Paddy’s day gives me the perfect excuse to stand on a chair in a bar and drunkenly blare “Kiss My Irish Ass” at the top of my lungs. What’s better than that? It also is a great excuse to play some of my favorite bands: Flogging Molly, The Pogues, Dropkick Murphys, really every Irish punk band is appropriate on the Day O’th Irish.
6- Booze- Did I mention this one yet? Can’t remember. I’ve had a few. Anyway, here’s a great quote from the prophet Homer Simpson: “Alcohol- the cause of - and solution to- all of life’s problems.” ‘Nuf said.
7- Shamrock Shakes- Why are they mint? Why do you ask so many questions? Shut the fuck up and drink the goddamn shake. It’s green. A very appropriate breakfast for a day of drinking other green liquids.
8- This video from a St. Paddy’s day parade. A microcosm of the spirit of drunken idiots. Watch for the old guy.
Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia: “I suppose it’s the same thing about so-called torture. Is it really so easy to determine that smacking someone in the face to determine where he has hidden the bomb that is about to blow up Los Angeles is prohibited in the constitution?” he asked.
Really? You want to justify torture because of that ridiculously elaborate scenario straight out of an episode of "24"? Listen: shit like that doesn't happen in real life. It just doesn't. It's like the people who want to ban partial-birth abortions, and then use that to extend it to all abortions. Partial-birth abortions are extremely rare, and almost always are done because the mother's health is at stake. So go ahead, ban partial birth abortions, but keep in a provision for the health of the mother. Same with torture laws: KEEP our laws against torture, and if the "ticking time bomb" scenario that Justice Scalia masturbates to every night actually comes to fruition, then sure, let's torture that fucker. Scalia, you can even attach the electrodes to his nipples. But guess what? We need proof. We need a warrant, let's say from FISA, in order to proceed.
Once upon a time, our country prided itself on being morally superior. We made tremendous strides in civil rights; we had fair and progressive labor laws; we tried to foster the idea that anyone could make it here, with hard work and playing by the rules. And for the love of Christ, we didn't torture anybody. That was shit the Viet Kong pulled on our soldiers. Ask John McCain how he feels about his stay at the Hanoi Hilton.
I may be naive, and almost guaranteed I am, because I'm pretty sure the CIA has been torturing people as long as it's been around. But nobody was in favor of torture, mostly because it's fucking barbaric and almost always unnecessary.
It seems like now, we've forgotten all of this. Expose a Covert CIA agent for political purposes? Sure, why not. Spy on our citizens, then give amnesty to the telecom companies who implicitly participated in the crime? Fuck it. Start a bullshit war resulting in hundreds of thousands of deaths? Whatta you gonna do about it, pussy?
Apparently nothing, since what use to be known as the "Democratic Party" have actually been replaced with a bunch of spineless, nutless, corrupt weasels. I'm talking to you, Harry Reid and Jay Rockefeller. Thanks for helping get the telecom amnesty passed, dipshits. Grow a pair. Oh, and that complete abortion of a war in Iraq you promised to stop so you could get elected? Still going on. Great job. Fuckers.
I can't even really blame this shit on the neocons anymore. They've proved themselves so shameless, so blatantly and intellectually opposite of our country and all it stands for, that they've completely passed on to the dark side. Unfortunately, we don't have anybody to stand up to them in the House or the Senate. And the way things are looking, it might not happen anytime soon, if ever.
New Running Item: The "Sweet/Weak List". Pretty self-explanatory, what we feel at Ninja Please are currently on our mind and are Sweet and/or Weak. Hopefully we'll be able to update it a few times a month.
Sweet: 1: Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations (T.V. show)
Anthony Bourdain has my dream job: travel around the world, eat a bunch of expensive, incredible food, meet new people and get drunk with them, and get paid an assload for it. Also, he's an ex-junkie, and kind of a dick, which makes for good T.V.
2: Rudy "Nosferatu" Giuliani dropping out of the GOP Primary
Good riddance, and fuck you, Rudy. Asshole.
3: Boddington's Pub Ale
Sweet Christ-on-a-Cracker is this shit good. I can't stop drinking it, which sucks because it's like $18 for four. I'd probably be better off acquiring a massive coke habit, undoubtedly it would be cheaper. Still, next time you're at a halfway decent bar, order yourself one of these. You won't be sorry.
4: Michigan State Basketball
At last check, 19-2 and steamrolling the Big Ten. More importantly, doing an excellent job of washing that distinctive feces taste out of my mouth that the MSU football team left there after choking away the Michigan game, then crapping the bed in their Bowl game against Boston College. Saint Izzo is whipping his boys into shape, and I would be terrified to draw them in the tourney. Also, I freely admit to having a gigantic man-crush on Drew Neitzel. It is what it is. I make no apologies, but I also will honor the restraining order.
5: "Lost" season premier
Remember the end of last season, where we thought we were watching a flashback, but it turned out to be a flashforward, with Jack driving around with a Beard of Emotion, going to some weird dude's funeral, rocking out to Nirvana and trying to kill himself? That shit BLEW MY FUCKING MIND, man. I am officially horny for this new season. I am also a gigantic loser. Whatever.
Weak: 1: John Edwards dropping out of the Democratic Primaries
We are all poorer now for this. John Edwards was the only one besides Ron Paul keepin' it real, saying shit nobody wanted to hear but needed to hear. While Hillary and Obama argue about whether or not MLK was aided by LBJ in passing the civil rights bill or if it was the other way around, and whether or not a particular flower Hillary had in an arrangement behind her in a commercial she released three months ago was the official flower of the Confederacy during the Civil War which in turn means she's secretly racist, Edwards was hammering away on the issues, the stuff that matters: poverty in America, the staggering incompetence of our government to protect or rebuild New Orleans, and the issue closest to my heart: rooting out the stranglehold special interests have on our legislative agendas. Look up any Edwards speech, and he was methodically on point and fiercely loyal to real progressive ideas, especially the issue of universal health care. In fact, this leads us to the next item on this list...
2: America, for not having universal health care
What the fuck, America? Get your shit together. If you've ever had to go to the hospital and not had health care, you know what I'm talking about. Go in for an x-ray, ten stitches and a couple aspirin, next thing you know you're $20K in the hole and have to either sell a kidney on the black market or have to file for bankruptcy. This shit is ridiculous: we're flushing a BILLION dollars a week down the drain in Iraq, but we won't pay for health care of all of our citizens? It's downright barbaric. And don't give me that shit about how it will decrease the quality or you won't be able to choose you own doctor, that's the propaganda the insurance companies want you to believe. Ask a Canadian or a European if they can choose their doctor and how satisfied they are with their health care, and then you'll feel like a real ass. As you should.
3: Winter
Winter, you are an unforgiving bitch. Yesterday it was 46 degrees and I wore a sweatshirt to work, today I went outside and my testicles shot up into my liver trying to escape the cold. It was around 0. It should never be 0. Goddammit.
4: The Super Bowl
I don't even want to watch it, it hurts too bad. Football Jesus, I'm having a moment of doubt that lasts all offseason. Why throw that pass in overtime, why? Just take the sack. TAKE THE GODDAMN SACK!!! Can't you get back on the pills and booze? You were so much fun back then. And, most importantly, a better player. I can't even talk about this anymore. I'm getting shitfaced on Sunday, you can take that to the bank.
5: Kwame Kilpatrick not resigning
Kwame Kilpatrick is a corrupt thug. He fired a guy because he was going to reveal his affair and shady and unethical squandering of city funds, then lied about it under oath and perjured himself. What a fuck. Then, as a result of his lying and douchebaggery, cost an incredibly poor and cash-strapped city $9 MILLION DOLLARS in payouts and expenses to settle with the whistleblowers. How are there not riots in the streets, people with pitchforks and torches storming the Manoogian Mansion ready to tear his ass to shreds? Where is the outrage?
That's all, kiddies. Enjoy the Super Bowl.
UPDATE: For more on John Edwards and the effect he's had on the campagin, check out the excellent opinion piece by Paul Krugman in today's N.Y. Times: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/02/01/opinion/01krugman.html?_r=1&hp&oref=slogin
OK, trying something new... I'm going to watch the GOP debate and write down my observations, only I am shitfaced. My drink count:
3 Guinness 1 Black & Tan 3 Irish Car Bombs 1 stupid shot Casey bought, it was sweet and tasted like cough syrup 2 SoCo & Lime
ANYWAY... the debate is starting, and the Republican candidates are very... white. Very white. In fact, Rudy Giuliani looks like a vampire. Come to think of it, he looks like this vampire:
And here is Rudy trying to feast on the blood of the young:
Vampires already? The debate just got started.
Observation: Mitt Romney looks like a Ken doll, only a Ken doll's evil boss. What a tremendous douche bag.
Mike Huckabee is not talking... the moderator is not asking him (or Ron Paul) any questions. These are the two most popular candidates with the people. LET THEM SPEAK! LET THEM SPEAK! What's that you say? The GOP is controlled by special interest groups and large corporations? Oh... oh yeah, that makes sense.
FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! This debate has been boring as shit so far, but Mitt Romney and John McCain are getting into a pissing match over illegal immigration. Apparently, Mitt Romney's Mormon religion not only prevents him thinking black people have souls (ED NOTE: The Mormons do not believe this, they admitted black people had souls in the 70's), but it also prevents him from giving a straight answer to a question. Good stuff. Oh, and Editor? Here's a direct quote from Brigham Young, lest you think I jest:
"You must not think, from what I say, that I am opposed to slavery. No! The negro is damned, and is to serve his master till God chooses to remove the curse of Ham..."
The Mormons, everybody! Happy New Year!
Oh! Ron Paul is talking. He is asked to compare himself with Barack Obama, and he says they're similiar because they are both campaigning with the support of the young people. In fact, he just introduced his new campaign spokesman:
Romney says McCain advocates amnesty for illegal immigrants... Romney advocates burning the genitals of each illegal immigrant with a hot poker... Sen. McCain opposes this, therefore he is soft on immigration... Fred Thompson is sleeping...Rudy Giuliani is drinking the blood of Britney Spears... Ron Paul says the pharmaceutical companies are evil... Mike Huckabee apparently doesn't exist... an emu has wandered onto the stage, but no one has noticed.
Sure, the post I put up here last night ripped the Tigers too, but I didn't say "This isn't a good team." No, actually I think this is a good team, but for whatever reason they've gotten off to a slow start. It's irritating, certainly, but by no means is this turning into what Sharp describes as "... a season crashing in flames before it has even begun." 
What do you want them to do, start breaking their bats over their heads after every strikeout, punching themselves in the face after ever error in the field, Jim Leyland giving each pitcher twenty lashes with the wet noodle after every earned run? (Actually, that last one might work... I'm looking at you, Jason Grilli.) 
Check out the pre-season puff pieces he did on Curtis Granderson being "a perfect fit for the Tigers", or raving about Miguel Cabrera's "booming bat". Sharp was as optimistic as anyone to start the season, but after six games he's ready to jump ship? Bullshit. Either he didn't feel that way to start (thus making his US Weekly-ish spring training pieces that much more embarrassing), or he is the one filled with panic now. 
