There are no overweight Amish

Posted in New stuff on November 26, 2011 by jugglersdespair

Authorities raided a compound the morning of November 23, 2011 arresting seven men accused of engaging in a crime spree across eastern Ohio.  The men allegedly terrorized this area over the course of three months and have had charges of hate crimes brought against them.  Okay, not exactly the light hearted approach one might expect in my return to blogging after all this time.  Until you consider this: the accused are Amish!


That’s right.  Amish.  And not only that, but their victims were also—as if it could be anyone else really—Amish!  That’s it; if we’re resorting to Amish-on-Amish crime this country has officially run out of original ways for people to hate each other.  Which is sad because we fucking love finding ways to hate each other.  It’s what we do best, other countries say.  In fact, I found about seven or eight people I hate on my way to work this morning.  And I’m sure I’ve never even seen them before today.

It would seem this gang of mutza suit clad thugs hail from a complex in Jefferson County and are led by Sam Mullet.  Ol’ Sam broke away from his old community to form his own in 1995.  I can only imagine what kind of disagreement led to this separation.  So I will.

Hezekiah: Brother Sam, I believe it’s past time we speak about your work habits.

Sam: My work habits, brother?

Hezekiah: Frankly, they’ve been a bit suspect recently.  You haven’t been getting out of bed until 5:00 in the morning, your barn raising is the joke of the community and lately your beard has reeked of what seems to be horse genitalia.

Sam: Brother Hezekiah, you can say what you want about my work habits but you crossed the line when you brought the horse into this.  Crossed the line I say!  And everyone knows Esther’s Cerebral Palsy is the joke of the community.

Hezekiah: Brother, all I’m saying is…wait.  What have you been doing with that horse?

Sam: Never mind that.  If I’m not welcome here any longer I’ll take my leave.  But Thunder is coming with me.

Sam:  Hope you’re not too attached to that beard…

Hezekiah:  What was that?

Sam:  Nothing.  Fuck you.

Okay, I may have taken a bit of artistic license with the swearing at the end but I’m fairly confident the rest is faithful to actual events.  So what is it that a lawless Mennonite posse does you ask?  Well, apparently a string of forced beard and hair cuttings that’s what.  No shit.  For those that don’t know—like myself prior to writing this—Amish men quit shaving their beards after they’ve married.  Similarly Amish women don’t cut their hair.  Ever apparently.  Amish folk with short hair and/or beards is a source of great humiliation.   I can’t claim I’ve gained a great deal of understanding of this culture by just clumsily/drunkenly skimming over some internet articles but I’m led to believe this type of embarrassment is kind of like the Corey Haim tattoo on my neck.  (I knew I should have went with Feldman the moment the artist started)  According to Jefferson County Sheriff Fred Abdalla one of the male victims claimed “he would rather be dead than have his beard cut off.”  Holy shit, that is intense!  I get that he hasn’t shaved his beard in a while but was he also beaten in the head so repeatedly that he’s now forgotten how hair works?  It’s not like the thumb you lost manually inseminating that cow, Levi; it’s going to grow back.  And I’m willing to bet it will be just as glorious as it was before.  Jesus will hardly know it was gone.

Alright, according to the rules of Amish society, a guy walking around sans beard would be like me walking around town screaming my unrelenting love for wearing infant’s onesies, while wearing an infant’s onesie.   But is this community so big that there are going to be people who don’t know what the fuck happened to him?  Sure the shunning of TV and the internet isn’t going help get the word spread any quicker but I’m willing to bet local gossip exists no matter how plain your society is.  Okay I suppose all the person to person communication might make the whole place a big game of “Telephone” (irony, huh).  And perhaps by the end of the gossip trail some people may have a bit of a misunderstanding of what has actually taken place.  It’s entirely possible that some might believe he had his pubes sheared off in a planer accident while others think his goat has come down with a case of parasitic winter diarrhea.  Those people would definitely be surprised to see him stumbling into church beardless, that’s for sure.  But I don’t think that’s the case.  I think he’s just petrified because his lack of facial hair now exposes his own Corey Haim tattoo.  And that’s probably more than enough to get someone shunned.

In a story that features a lot of odd shit, one of the things that stood out to me was the fact that Sam Mullet’s group of Amish marauders actually took pictures of some of their victims.  Which begs the question: what kind of cameras are Amish allowed to use?  As funny as the thought of Amish still using Daguerreotype is it’s probably a bit too cumbersome so I’m going to rule it out.  So, I’m going to have to assume they’re using digital cameras.  Either that or this group of scofflaws has taken to carrying cell phones.  I know that thousands upon thousands of children in this country already do, but if there are pockets of Amish with better phones than me I’m going to be pretty pissed.  And then sad.  Then drunk.

Naturally, the Mullet crime syndicate’s days were numbered.  Amish culture is notoriously tight lipped but even the most dastardly of evil geniuses would find keeping word of their misdoings from reaching the “English” a tall order.  I mean, there’s really only so much you can do when your primary mode of transportation to and from your “hits” is a horse drawn buggy.  With a large, reflective, orange triangle on it no less.  It wasn’t long before Johnny America and his Law Brigade came a knockin’.  The seven men were sleeping when the FBI arrived and despite three of them initially refusing to exit, all of them—not surprisingly—were taken into custody with little incident.  Which is really, really disappointing.  How much fun would it have been for some of them to make an exciting escape?  Or attempt an exciting escape at least.  I imagine your options are a bit limited when the horse power on your getaway vehicle is literally two.  Seriously, a pursuit at these speeds would have made Al Cowling’s White Bronco look like some sort of rocket car flying across the Bonneville Salt Flats.  But, alas, as fun as this story is nothing is perfect.

There’s probably more—much more—that I could write about this.  Most of it of the same dubious quality probably but that’s fine.  It hasn’t stopped me before.  But I better call it quits here because I’m really beginning to think that the Amish are on to something and God is getting more and more upset the longer I write this.  Plus I’m positive the devil lives in my computer.

I really need to grow a beard…


When Wienermobiles Attack

Posted in Old Myspace stuff on March 12, 2011 by jugglersdespair

Yet another Myspace blog entry.  It’s not quite as old as most of the others but is just as lousy.  This one is about giant hot dog cars so maybe it will be worth something.

AP – “MOUNT PLEASANT, Wis. – One southern Wisconsin homeowner is probably not in love with the Oscar Mayer Wiener. The famed hot dog’s Wienermobile crashed Friday into the deck and garage of a home in Mount Pleasant, about 35 miles south of Milwaukee.”

I guess this gives new meaning to a “Big Mac attack”!  Hehehe heh heh….oh shit.  Wait.  That’s the punch line to a completely different joke. Not to mention a ridiculously outdated reference.  Hey, I haven’t done this in a while.  I’m a little rusty yet, ok?

Anyway.  According to the police, no doubt more than a little light headed from all of the laughing, the pilot of this particular gasoline powered frank was using the driveway of this home to turn around.  She mistakenly thought the vehicle was in reverse and wound up forcing about 7 feet of hot dog car into an unsuspecting garage.  Now I’ll freely admit I don’t know much about giant meat vehicles but that seems like an awful lot.  Hell, I’ve made the mistake of thinking my car was in reverse when it was actually in drive before.  Once.  And I made it all of about 6 inches before it donned on me that I was being a fucking idiot.  No one was hurt and nothing was destroyed because it was fairly obvious from the moment I started moving that something wasn’t right.  And that’s despite a reaction time that’s surely been slowed over the years due to an over saturation of alcohol and internet pornography.  The driver, to do the damage that she did, had to have slammed on the accelerator.  Either that or the Wienermobile is rocket powered.  And since I have to imagine that thing is barely street legal in the first place we’re going to have to rule out the latter.

I’m not in possession of, nor do I know of whatever special class of license is needed to drive a large sausage through the streets of this country but I am smart enough to realize that navigating such a vehicle in reverse would generally require some delicate maneuvering.  I have to imagine that a humongous hot dog on wheels has some pretty serious blind spots. Violently shoving the gas pedal to floorboard with little to no regard for whatever structure or life happens to be in your path is probably frowned upon by the suits at Oscar Mayer.  So that makes me wonder, just what kind of person is qualified to drive a Wienermobile?  In a day and age where PETA and other “animal friendly”, pro-vegetable slaughtering organizations are seemingly becoming more and more popular on a daily basis it would make sense that Oscar Mayer would need a dedicated and skilled professional to coast across the country in an animal murdering promotion machine.  Then again, ask any recent college graduate how they’re hoping to spend their time and driving a hot dog car city to city for the foreseeable future probably won’t come up.

All things considered it seems likely that this, much like most of the great things that happen in this world, is alcohol related.  But it’s hardly surprising.  Why wouldn’t the driver of a Wienermobile be drunk most of the time?  I mean, four years of your mom calling to remind you that she was right about you wasting your time getting an Art History degree would cause anyone to start and/or keep drinking heavily.

Ok, so we’ve determined that the driver was drunk.  But what the fuck was she doing at this house in the first place?  Is the economy that bad that the Wienermobile is making house calls now?


“Hey!  Did somebody order 30 feet of orange, phallus shaped road cruiser!?”

“Yes, I did, but I specifically asked the salesman to NOT have it crash through my front door!  Your boss will definitely be hearing from me!”

“Sorry ma’am, but the Wienermobile goes where the Wienermobile wants to go.  And in this case it wanted to be shoved awkwardly into your garage.”

According to Wikipedia, Oscar Mayer currently has a fleet of seven Wienermobiles.  Despite the plentiful numbers I’m almost positive each one of them is almost constantly scheduled for a grocery store appearance, Big Kmart opening (that is, if Big Kmart’s are still being opened) or something.  So how the hell did it wind up at this house, especially since the owners weren’t home?  Simple, they were lost.  And how fucking awesome is that?  I don’t own a house but the possibility of some iconic pop culture vehicle getting lost in my neighborhood on the way to some dumbass appearance and having to use my driveway to turnaround makes me want to buy one.  I wouldn’t care if it was the Wienermobile, the Batmobile or even the Munster Koach.  It would be the unchallenged highlight of my life.  And I’m just a big enough loser to not be afraid to admit it.

I’ll admit I’m kind of proud of myself.  I wrote this whole damn thing and haven’t once mentioned the hilariously kick ass sexual innuendo of a photo showing a Wienermobile crammed into a garage.  That shit ends now. Seriously, I can’t help but think that hot dog fetish aficionados across this planet are having the weekend they’ve been dreaming of for practically every year of their lives.  Expect to see reports of Carpal Tunnel Syndrome up by at least .0002% come Monday.  Reduplicative Paramnesia should remain largely unchanged though.

Steve Bartman vs. the Chicago Cubs

Posted in Old Myspace stuff on March 5, 2011 by jugglersdespair

Another old Myspace blog dealing with baseball.  This one hits a bit closer to the heart since it deals with Steve Bartman destroying the Cubs’ 2003 season.  Whatever, have fun reading how Satan/Bartman ruined everything.

Observant readers of my blog ramblings may remember a year ago when I dedicated an entry to reliving the magic of Kirk Gibson’s 1988 World Series performance.  Those same readers may also remember that I promised a follow baseball related article about the ’03 Chicago Cubs/Steve Bartman debacle.  Seeing has how another season of baseball is underway I guess now’s as good a time as any to finally fulfill my promise.  While I didn’t plan on waiting this long to finally write this, you know what they say, time makes fools of us all.  Well, at least it does of me.

The Chicago Cubs are cursed.  Hopelessly so.  It’s been 99 years since their last World Series win.  99 years. If this was something like “Baseball Idol” and there were thousands of other teams to contend with it would be somewhat understandable.  But there’s not, there are only 29.  And aside from that, between 1909 (for those of you who have trouble with subtraction ’08 was the last time they won) and 1960 there were only 15 others. So essentially it’s more like “Baseball Survivor.”  But even though you’re subject to being “voted off” so to speak (The Cubs are usually voted off around mid-May) you’re invited back the next year to give it another shot.  So even though the odds have gotten a little worse over the years you’d think that at some point they would have at least accidentally won one.  You know, like the Cardinals did last year.   But, no, apparently it is just not meant to be.  And I know why.  Like I said earlier, the Cubs are cursed.  And this isn’t some make believe bullshit like the “Curse of the Bambino” that had Red Sox fans bitching and moaning like Rosie O’Donnell waiting in line for the buffet at an NRA convention.  No, folks, this is a real and true, honest to God curse forged in the deepest recesses of Hell by none other than Satan himself.

It’s a little known fact that the Devil is a huge baseball fan.  And why wouldn’t he be? Barry Bonds, Jose Canseco, Ty Cobb and countless other baseball stars from all eras owe at least a portion of their physical prowess to the Dark Lord.  Brady Anderson hit 50 home runs in 1996 for fucks sake.  The world’s top scientists could be forced at gunpoint to work for a thousand years and not develop a steroid that could produce those results. With so many future residents of his metaphysical housing project playing professional baseball Satan’s obviously going to have more than a passing interest in the game.  And on occasion, when the opportunity presents itself, he likes to see the game played in person.  Like, for instance, Game 4 of the 1945 World Series between the aforementioned Cubs and their American League challenger, the Detroit Tigers.  With World War II winding down and the Nazi leadership dying faster than a white comedian at the Apolo Hell was a busy place that year.  So it’s not surprising that Satan was getting somewhat burned out, no pun intended.  When torturing and tormenting child molesters, Democrats and unwed mothers starts losing its appeal you know you’re due for a break. What better way to relax a bit than by spending an afternoon catching a ballgame?  One problem though, this is no ordinary game, it’s the Fall Classic and tickets have long since sold out.  TV coverage wasn’t around back then and radio reception in Hell has always been spotty at best.  So what’s the Archfiend to do?  Get resourceful that’s what.  Sure the ushers and security staff at Wrigley Field weren’t going to let anybody without a ticket in to the game but what if it wasn’t a person trying to get in?  His plan was so simple it was genius: find a person with a ticket, change into the form of an animal (a goat, naturally) and have that person take them into the game.  It was brilliant and it worked too!  His host for the game?  Greek immigrant and local tavern owner, Billy Sianis.  Years prior to this Mr. Sianis had been trying to obtain his green card so he could continue living in the U.S.  Unfortunately, he was running out of time and, out of desperation, was on the verge of entering a sham marriage with a woman who locals identified as “Peoria’s Ugliest Woman” in order to stay.  Satan helped him avoid this Godless charade of a wedding by getting him a green card for a debt on his soul.  Getting Satan into the game was going to get Billy out of his debt and back to his regular life of infrequent showers and planning keggers for his house’s rush week.  Getting to the ballpark proved to be the easy part because when Cubs owner Phillip Knight Wrigley got word that a goat had been let into the stadium he was not pleased.  Mr. Wrigley immediately had the goat and Mr. Sianis ejected from the stadium.  The official reason for the dismissal was said to be due to the “animal’s objectionable odor.” To be fair it was a reasonable complaint.  I mean, this is Satan after all.  The smell of brimstone and burning flesh is going to be around no matter what form he happens to take.  Like a messy stink palming it’s a smell that just won’t wash off.  Legend has it that Mr. Sianis was so upset he placed a curse on the entire Cubs franchise.  They did indeed wind up losing the game that day and ultimately the entire series in 7 games.  And they haven’t been to a World Series since.  Of course, now that you know the truth you realize Billy had nothing to do with the curse whatsoever.  Satan was more than a little pissed that he had just been kicked out of a ball game by some douche bag chewing gum salesman.  This shit just wasn’t going to fly.  Mr. Sianis would get the credit for it but it was definitely the Devil putting the hex on the team (let’s face it having the Greek guy admit to it was going to be slightly more believable than telling everyone it was the goat who did it).

While the curse has held up well over the years it hasn’t been without a challenge now and then.  Every once in a while the Cubs have been fortunate enough to employ some very talented players.  And in a few rare occasions they’ve fielded some championship caliber teams.  Sure these situations are usually few and far between and normally only last a year or so before they collapse back into the Dukakis-like spiral of losing they’re accustomed to.  But they do occur and when they do Satan has had to intervene physically at times to keep the curse alive.  In 1969 it was in the form of a black cat that ran in front of Ron Santo, in 1984 he disguised himself as first baseman Leon “Bull” Durham and booted an easy grounder.  But it was the 2003 team that presented the most formidable challenge to the curse.

There was an aura of destiny surrounding the 2003 Chicago Cubs.  Slammin’ Sammy Sosa and his collection of corked bats led the team to 88 wins and their first division title since 1989.  With a trip to the NL Championship Series on the line their stable of great young pitchers helped pull off a hard fought Divisional Series victory over National League powerhouse the Atlanta Braves.  Everything was beginning to fall into place.  The Cubs’ had home field advantage for the up coming series and their opponent was to be nothing more than the lowly Florida Marlins.  The Marlins were only in the playoffs because all the other teams in the NL were busy that week.  Surely the Cubbies were on the verge of qualifying for there first World Series appearance in 58 years, right?  Not if Lucifer had any say in the matter.  But this year was different than the others and he knew he had his work cut out for him.  Like a necrophiliac left alone in a morgue, Old Scratch knew he was going to be busy.  During the first five games of the series he reached deep down into his demonic bag of tricks in an attempt to swing momentum in the favor of the heavily underdog and almost hopelessly outmatched Marlins.  From soaking the player’s jock straps in IcyHot (a la Revenge of the Nerds) to sewing their gloves shut to using deceased play-by-play man Harry Carey and his razor fingered glove to terrorize the team’s children while they slept, he tried everything.  And this time it wasn’t working. Sure it helped even the odds a bit.  But the Cubs definitely had the upper hand after the first 5 games of this 7 game series.  Up 3 games to 2 the Cubs were heading back to the friendly confines of Wrigley Field for what could potentially be the deciding game.  When the game began you could tell the Cubs were a confident lot.  One game away from a National League pennant and their young superstar ace in the making, Mark Prior, on the mound meant everything was going in their favor.  But Satan had one last trick up his sleeve: Steve Bartman.  You may not recognize it from his very pedestrian name but Steve Bartman is one of hells most powerful and accomplished demonic agents. According to legend his birth is the result of Judas Iscariot raping a dog.  When Satan heard of this he immediately took him under his wing and has for the last 2 millennia used Bartman’s skills to help his most dubious plans come to fruition.   The burning of Romewas all Bartman’s doing not Nero’s.  Rats didn’t spread the Black Death throughout Europeit was Bartman.  The 8000 Protestants killed during the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre was an idea Bartman came up with over a lunch break.  Richard Nixon’s campaign manager?  That’s right, it was Steve Bartman.  The holder for Scott Norwood’s failed field goal attempt in Super Bowl XXV?  Uh, you get the idea.

Aisle 4, row 8, seat 113.  It’s a box seat along the front row along the left field corner.  It’s also the seat Bartman would spend watching Game 6.  Satan was expecting him to blow up the team bus or give them all terrible, bloody diarrhea or something so he was a bit perplexed to find out Bartman had only purchased a seat for the game.  But, he’s been nothing if not a loyal soldier thus far so he had no choice but to trust him.   All the Devil could do at this point is sit back and see how things play out.  After the 1st inning the Cubs take a 1-0 lead.  In the 6th inning they pick up another run to make it 2-0.  Yet one more run in the 7th made it 3-0.  Time was running and so far Bartman has done nothing but sit back, chug down 2 or 9 ice cold beers, slam down a few handfuls of hot dogs and watch the game.  Time was running out and Satan was getting worried.  He had no reason to be.  The Marlins were batting in the top of the eighth inning with one out, a runner on 1st base and light hitting second baseman Luis Castillo at the plate.  The Cubs had Mark Prior on the hill and were a mere 5 outs away from punching their ticket to the World Series.  It was just within their reach.

And then it happened.

Castillo hit what seemed to be a harmless fly ball towards Moises Alou in left field.  The 2nd out of the inning was a near certainty.  Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a strong wind broke through the calm October night.  The ball, still hanging well in the air, was suddenly being pushed toward the left field foul line.  Alou, never one to be known for his dazzling glove work, was able to follow the ball on the ground as it took him rapidly towards the stands.  What was once a routine fly ball is quickly turning into what may be the most important defensive play Moises will ever make.  As the ball crept closer and closer to the stands Alou knew he was getting nearer and nearer to a brick wall that could potentially cause him all kinds of problems.  But that was the least of his worries.  It was Bartman who, using whatever demonic control over Mother Nature he could muster, was drawing the baseball towards him.  Alou, now positioned at the base of the wall directly below Bartman’s seat realized that he was going to have one chance at catching this ball but it was going to take a perfectly timed jump to do so.  Alou watched the ball as it raced towards the seats.  Timing was going to be everything in this situation, jumping even a fraction of second too early or too late could easily be the difference between a caught or missed ball.  The moment had arrived, it was now or never.  Alou leapt from the ground as if there were a rocket shoved up his ass (thank you Bob Uecker).  As Moises left the ground, he entered some sort of epiphanic state.  As if he was suddenly the star of some sort of Dominican “Matrix” everything around him seemed to slow down thus making it that much easier to focus on catching the ball.  He was really going to do it.  And he would have too, if not for the intervention of Steve Bartman.  Bartman was there, at his seat waiting for the ball he was magically pulling to himself.  Bartman then used his twisted, monkey-like claws to knock the ball away from Alou’s waiting glove.  When Moises returned to ground he was pissed, and rightfully so.  Some dickhead in the stands, wearing a Cubs cap no less, just single handedly kept him from making the all important 2nd out of the inning.  Although the recent series of events were understandably frustrating the Cubs still had the game perfectly in their control.  They were still up by 3 runs and Mark Prior, who had been almost unhittable to that point, was still on the mound.  But Bartman’s plan wasn’t to just keep the Cubs from getting an out. You see, the Cubs played with an extra something on their side that season.  A sort of mystique if you will.  One of those odd, unexplainable, metaphysical devices that can only be “seen” by some small animals, babies and crazy people.  When Bartman got his hands on that foul ball he did more than just keep Castillo’s at bat alive, he took the “mystique” that had gotten the Cubs this far and turned into his bitch.  It was now nothing more than the ball gagged and hand cuffed submissive to Steve Bartman’s whip wielding, leather clad dominatrix.  With their aura now crotch roped and useless the Pandora’s Box of the franchise’s past failures that had been held at bay the past 7 months was about to blow up in the Cubs’ faces.  From the Lou Brock for Ernie Broglio trade to the ill fated “College of Coaches” to those years where they wore blue jerseys with white pants when they played road games all the negative moments of their past were unleashed upon them. Not that anyone but the most psychically astute of the Cubs would even have had any idea that something was wrong.  Luis Castillo, given new life at the plate, was able to eventually draw a walk.  And with that the flood gates blew open and like a golden shower party at a school for the blind it left everything drenched.  Before the third out was mercifully achieved the Cubs found themselves on the losing end of an 8 to 3 score. With their spirit completely and utterly crushed the Cubbies held little hope of possibly overcoming such a deficit.  Not surprisingly (unless you’re surprised the Marlins didn’t score more runs in the 9th) the game’s final score remained 8-3.

Although Wrigley Field hosted Game 7 of the series the following night and the Cubs technically still had a chance to win the series it was all but over.  No matter how often the team and their fans tried to convince themselves otherwise they knew it to be true. Substantial and irreversible damage had been done.  A terminal, inoperable cancer was spreading quickly over what had until one night ago been an amazing season.  The Cubs were about to wind up doing what many people felt was there rightful destiny from the get go: watch the World Series on TV from the comforts of their homes.  And it was all thanks to Satan and some ass shaving, taint loving, cheap whore pimping, Clevelandsteaming, donkey punching, Raymond loving son of fuck named Steve Bartman.

You talk about the roll of the dice…

Posted in Old Myspace stuff on March 5, 2011 by jugglersdespair

Baseball season is here again.  I barely care since MLB doesn’t give a shit about competitiveness.  Still, it’s March and I’m sure as hell not going to make a post about college basketball.

It’s that time of the year once again.  The days are getting longer, snow is melting and anabolic steroid sales are up about 130%.  That’s right, it’s baseball season!   In honor of this occasion I’ve decided to recollect upon Major League Baseball’s long, storied history and share some of my favorite moments.  Keep in mind, however, in an effort to help convey the magic of the moment I’m going to forego the use of any other outside references to these events other than my own sometimes alcohol saturated memory. Although I can’t quite claim that this will be totally accurate in a historical sense, moments of this magnitude have a way of living with you for years.  It’s possible that I will screw up a few details here and the there but, like I said, this is about capturing the essence of the moment.  I ain’t writing a fucking text book here.

So, here we go.  This blog’s installment:  Kirk Gibson’s legendary World Series home run.

The date:  October 15, 1988.  The place:  Dodger Stadium in Los Angeles, California.  The Dodger Dogs:  delicious.  It’s Game One of an all-California World Series pitting theOakland A’s versus the Los Angeles Dodgers.  The A’s had finished the regular season with a staggering won-loss record of 152-10.  Their opponent for the American League Championship Series, the Boston Red Sox, figured history was just going to take a big, steamy shit on them once again and decided to forfeit the series Oakland before it even started.  The Dodgers, on the other hand, didn’t travel such an easy path.  After finishing the regular season well below .500 (mostly due to a series of catastrophic injuries and drug and gambling suspensions and tragic player deaths and such) the Dodgers were only allowed to represent the National League in the Fall Classic after several of the teams ahead of them in the standings all perished in separate and unrelated plane crashes.  Basically the Dodgers didn’t stand a chance in hell of beating the heavily favored A’s.  How heavily favored you ask?  Vegas odds makers placed the odds on the Dodgers winning the Series at approximately 8,000,000,000 to 1.  It didn’t help matters that the A’s had found a loop hole in Baseball’s rule book allowing their best hitters, Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire, to each get an extra at bat during the batting order. Essentially the rule stated that if you had a coked up Cuban refugee and a red haired giant with popeye-esque forearms in your lineup they would be allowed, on the condition that both of their blood streams were filled with enough human growth hormone to kill a large horse, to pinch hit for other players in lineup while still keeping their original spots in the batting order.  This rule had devastating effects during the regular season as the so-called “Bash Brothers” combined for an unheard of 186 home runs and 531 runs batted in.  The Dodgers were simply outclassed.  To their credit, however, they decided to show up and take their nationally televised beating like men.  They shouldn’t have even been there in the first place so what do they have to lose?

As Game One was beginning to draw to a close, the unthinkable was happening.  The Dodgers were still in the game!  Heading into the bottom of the ninth inning the A’s were only up by a score of 4-3!  Miraculous!  But those smiles throughout Dodger Stadium were about to turn to frowns as Oakland went to their bullpen and called upon their ace closer, Dennis Eckersely, to finish off the game.  And just like that the hopes and dreams of Dodgernation went up like so much Southern California smog.  You see back in ’88 “Eck” was on top of his game like no reliever has ever been.  He pitched 200+ innings that year and had yet to give up a single run.  Earned or otherwise.  In fact, he was so fucking good that year that his ERA for the season was -0.05!  That’s right, it was below zero. During a game that past August against the Angels Eck was so completely dominant the score keepers actually took away a run from them.  What chance did the Dodgers have against this baseball god that walked with human feet?  None it would seem.  The first two batters up for Los Angeles each lasted exactly one pitch before they sat their asses back on the bench.  Amazingly enough both outs were strike outs!  Facing the very immediate possibility of going down a game to this Oakland A’s juggernaut, Dodgers manager, Tommy Lasorda, decided it was time to gamble a bit.  The Dodgers’ best hitter, Kirk Gibson, was forced to sit out that game.  Kirk was an emotional and physical mess. Aside from having to deal with 7 different types of face cancers Kirk learned earlier in the day that his entire family, parents and grandparents included, had just died.  To make matters worse right before the game began both of his severely damaged legs were amputated.  And replacements weren’t going to be available until Game 3 at the earliest. So with an utterly stunned nation watching at home, Tommy Lasorda sent Kirk Gibson to the plate.  Well, he sat him on a small cart and rolled him to the plate.  And then he had to set him on a 3 foot stool at the plate so he would actually have a chance to hit something. Anything other than a home run would do no good here.  Even if Kirk could hit one to the farthest part of the field he still wouldn’t have time to fall off the stool and roll to first before the ball got there.  It was home run or nothing.  And Eck was throwing heat right from the get go too.  But much to his amazement, Kirk fouled it off.  The next pitch too.  In fact, Kirk was able to foul off pitches for an incredible 45 minutes!  Pitch after pitch after pitch after pitch were fouled off!  An then, just as if it were written by one of L.A.’s multitude of unemployed screen writers, Kirk finally found a pitch to hit.  With a mighty crack of the bat as if the ball had been hit by Jesus himself, Kirk sent the ball racing towards the right field wall!  As a matter of fact the ball was hit so hard that it went through the wall itself!  But it still counts the same.  Home Run!!!!  Baseball Commissioner Peter “Mountain” Ueberoth was so impressed by Kirk Gibson’s heroics that he awarded him an extra point for the homer giving the Dodgers an improbable 5-4 come from behind win!  Kirk proceeded to somersault his way around the bases.  When he reached home plate, 13 minutes later, he was mobbed by his overjoyed teammates.  Lasorda’s gamble paid off.

After that the A’s were not the same team.  Fearing the Dodgers were now riding an all most unstoppable wave of emotion and momentum, the A’s quit playing their game and wound up losing the Series 4 games to 1 to the miracle Los Angeles Dodgers.  And their legless, cancer ridden hero, Kirk Gibson.

The Agony of Victory

Posted in Old Myspace stuff on March 5, 2011 by jugglersdespair

Yeah, this is old as shit.  Don’t mind the whole “Olympics ending a week ago” bullshit.  This thing was written five years ago.  Still, there is some good shit about figure skating so it’s still maybe worth a read or two.  Enjoy?

So the heart stopping athletic competition and grand pageantry of the twentieth Winter Olympics have drawn to a close.  The world’s greatest cold weather athletes can now head back to their respective countries and do whatever it is they do in the 4 years between the Winter Games.  And I can only get down on my knees and thank our loving and merciful God it’s over.  My boycott of NBC can now come to an end.

I know what you’re saying, “Uh, dumbass, didn’t the Olympics end a week ago?”

Yes, I am in fact aware of this.

“So why the hell are you just getting around to posting this now?”

Well, I am quite lazy.

“Don’t forget ignorant.”

I wouldn’t dream of it.

Just what are the Olympics exactly?  Are they an elite gathering of some of the world’s foremost athletes set to compete on behalf of their respective countries while helping to promote peace and harmony as the entire world watches on?  Or are they just a collection of mostly stupid ass sports that almost the entire fucking world could give two shits about save those two “magical” weeks every four years?  Magical, right.  About as magical as Roy Horn’s ability to avoid savage butt lust from his “partner” and repel near fatal tiger attacks.  Honestly, I can’t help but wonder why Joe Q. Olympichopeful’s quest for gold in the skeleton could be such a big deal during the Olympics when barely a soul cared about him competing in the world championships last year.  Or the year before for that matter.  And since I have absolutely no idea if there even is skeleton world championships held at any time other than Olympic time, at all, ever, I think I’ve just proven my point.  Until this past February the last time I heard the name Apolo Anton Ohno was at the end of the 2002 Olympics.  So what the hell happened to him?  Did the governing body of U.S. speed skating have him cryogenically frozen so they could thaw him in time for the 2006 Games still in top physical form?  I doubt it.  If such a process was more than mere science fiction I’m quite sure Walt Disney would be sitting on his throne of human skulls atop Epcot Center by now.  With that theory thoroughly ruled out I decided to do some online investigating.  Responsible journalism, baby!  As it turns out Ohno didn’t go anywhere.  Let me rephrase that.  Ohno did go somewhere, to more speed skating competitions.  Much to my surprise speed skaters continue to hold events and reward themselves for jobs well done even in non-Olympic years!  What sort of shocking conspiracy have I uncovered here?!  The puppet masters hiding in the shadows who are orchestrating such a devious cover-up must be most powerful indeed!  Or maybe it’s just that speed skating is boring and nobody should or does care.  Which, oddly enough, I do find a bit strange.  Regular running-style track races are relatively popular.  When you add a rock hard “playing” surface and require the contestants to strap blades to their feet you raise the risk of serious injury significantly.  Sounds like something most Americans would enjoy.  Ok, so maybe not most but a few more at least.  While I’m on the subject, if the world’s speed skating officials really want to get people to watch their sport they would be wise to spice things up a bit.  Instead of using regular ice skates, use rocket powered skates.  Make one of the contestants skate the course in the opposite direction of the other skaters.  How about blind folding them and lining the inside and outside of the course with electric fence and razor wire?  Sound like fun to me.  And here’s one that should really help with skater motivation:  the loser of the race is killed in the center of the arena..and eaten by the guy who finished 2nd to last.  I could keep going but I’m afraid the authorities are reading this.

Don’t get me wrong, aside from most of them being unbearably fucking boring, there’s nothing particularly wrong with the sports that make up the Winter Olympics.  If you’re a fan of any or even all of them, great!  Who the hell am I to judge anyone else on the sports they choose watch and follow?  Hell, next month I’m going to spend about 30 hours over the course of a single weekend watching the NFL Draft for Christ’s Sake.  But at least the NFL draft doesn’t need a 4 year layoff to build up interest.  That shit’s money every year! So go ahead and spend the next year or so getting psyched up for 2007 World Ski Championship in Sapporo, Japan if that’s what you want to do.  Just don’t be too upset or surprised when you realize the rest of the world doesn’t care this year.  And won’t again until 2010.  Walk down any street in this country and ask a stranger what the “Nordic Combine” is.  I dare you.  The very few who don’t look at you like you have a huge penis growing from your forehead are probably the ones who think the Nordic Combine is some sort of old-timey Scandinavian snow blower.  I’m writing this damn blog and I don’t even know what the hell it is.  But apparently Germany’s own Georg Hettich won a gold medal for his performance in it last month.  If you’re reading this and you happened to have known that, congratulations.  I hope for your sake you find an NTN trivia question asking that very question someday.  Otherwise that information is going to spend a lot of time gathering dust in the closet next to that guitar you promised your parents you’d learn how to play if they bought it for you all those years ago.

Although I paid very little mind to the happenings in Turin, Italy this past February I do have to admit I wasn’t completely unaware of what was taking place.  The coverage for the Olympics was like the hair on George “The Animal” Steele’s back, it was everywhere.  I couldn’t escape it.  My personal favorite moment was when U.S. snowboarder Lindsey Jacobellis got a bit too comfortable with her lead and decided to show off a bit.  Nearing the finish line of the women’s snowboardcross final Lindsey had a gigantic lead on the rest of the competition.  She was a virtual lock for the gold medal.  The cheap gold paint was practically already rubbing off on her hands (you don’t really think they give out real gold for something like snowboardcross do you?).  All she had to do was land one more jump and coast in for an easy win.  But Lindsey saw an opportunity to do a little hot dogging and pounced on it with the flair of a Mexican wrestler and the balance of newborn baby.  After struggling to her feet (or board or whatever) Lindsey was just able to see Switzerland’s Tanja Frieden blow by her and claim the gold medal in the name of neutrality.  As I sat in the bar laughing I could only wonder at what point in time did Karma start sponsoring the Olympics.  Not soon enough if you ask me.

As great as it was to hear of Bode Miller’s futile effort at multiple Olympic medals, I think it was even more enjoyable when he admitted to 60 Minutes prior to the start of the games that he’s skied hungover and even drunk before.  Awesome!  Finally a world class athlete just goes out and admits it!  Why the rest of the sports world proceeded to get their panties in a bunch is beyond me.  Come on!  Normal people get shit faced and place themselves in dangerous positions all the time.  Myself, I’ve got a name for situations of that nature.  I like to call them Friday.  Bode certainly isn’t the first athlete to do it nor will he be the last.  When the guy stands at the top of a slope, snorts a big line of coke off the unconscious body of the hooker he just punched out, covers himself in kerosene and attempts to mix up a big batch of meth on his way down the mountain I’ll start to get concerned.  First I’ll laugh and hope he crashes but I’m quite sure I’ll start worrying for his safety at some point.  Maybe.

My last favorite 2006 Olympic moment occurred during pairs figure skating.  The duo shall remain nameless because, frankly, I haven’t the foggiest idea who they are.  Remember how I said speed skating has the long shot chance of possibly being interesting because of its possibility of serious injury?  Well pairs figure skating is all that and more.  Not only does it have the rock hard ice surface and humans having blades attached to their footwear like speed skating but they up the ante and include acrobatics as well.  Figure skating disasters are one of the best things in sports.  It’s just unfortunate we have to put up with all that figure skating to get to the accidents.  Anyway, at one point during the pairs skating competition the male of the pair mentioned earlier, as per tradition, attempted to toss his female partner through they air so that she could do some sort of twirly thing. I suppose I shouldn’t say attempted because he did in fact toss her through the air and she was able to complete some sort mid air maneuver but I have a very strong feeling that landing on her knees and almost smacking her face off the ice wasn’t part of routine. As fun as that was to watch (when you intentionally put yourself in that sort of predicament I just can’t feel sorry for you) I felt the best part of the entire ordeal was when the event’s female NBC commentator shot back at some nameless, faceless figure skating critic by asking, “who says figure skating isn’t a sport?”  Really?  Is that all it takes to be sport these days?  You just have to get hurt while doing something?  If that’s the case maybe the next sports to be added to the Olympic roster will be car crashes, shaving and masturbating too much.  Personally, if there’s a reason why figure skating isn’t a sport it’s because you need judges to determine who wins and who loses.  You can’t tell me these judges don’t come in with a predisposed notion of which competitors are better than the others.  If the so called best skaters in the world don’t fuck up completely during their routine they’re still probably going to do better in the judges eyes some nobody from Latviaville even if said nobody performed flawlessly.  If you want to be a sport you need to either beat your opponent to a certain spot or score more points than them.  Take bowling for example.  I can barely consider an activity that can be performed by both really fat, out of shape people and the elderly (and sometimes by fat elderly) a sport but since you win by outscoring your opponent, it has to be considered one.  The same can’t be said for figure skating.  Sorry figure skaters, your time in the Olympics is about to run out.  Your replacement in the 2010 games?  The Maple Syrup Chug.  Maybe I’ll be watching the next Winter Olympics after all.

I was saved by the bell

Posted in Old Myspace stuff on March 20, 2010 by jugglersdespair

*NOTE* Would you believe it?  Another old Myspace blog?  Seriously I fucking love (and mercilessly hate) “Saved by the Bell”.  I actually had fun writing this thing and have had plans to write another installment for quite a while.  Although I do have a notebook lying around somewhere with a shitload of notes, I never got around to finishing the next installment.  This one was posted on January 9, 2006.  Yeah, four years later and I still don’t have the sequel complete.  Fuck me.

I consider myself very fortunate.  Fortunate because as a youngster I was blessed with a very powerful and positive guiding force to help lead me through the typical trials of youth.  And although high school eventually came to an end and we naturally started growing apart, I feel comfortable facing each and every day, no matter what obstacles I may encounter, because I’m confident the lessons I learned back then will help me through.

And who or what might this mysterious mentor be you ask?  My parents?  Jesus?  Ghandi?  Saint Armogastes?  Shit no!  Why it’s none other than the one, the only, “Saved by the Bell!”

Yes it is proven fact that “Saved by the Bell” is by far the most wretched program ever unleashed upon American television audiences.  And although I don’t have any actual “proof,” I’m fairly certain “Saved by the Bell” is the result of a curse released upon the Earth when some small bladdered and dim witted Egyptologist accidentally took a piss on some ancient Pharaoh’s mummified remains.  But for reasons not even the combined forces of history’s greatest super-scientists and pro wrestling hall of famers will ever be able to explain (although I’ve got my own theories), I can’t get enough.  I’ve watched every episode more than once, and I still happily catch reruns whenever I can.  And since the “Saved by the Bell” gang was so generous with their teachings during my upbringing I feel obligated to share what I’ve learned with the people of the world.  Class is in session.  So put on your favorite pair of stone washed jeans and sit back and learn.

Lesson #1:    Drinkin’ and Drivin’

Every person who attends public school in America will at some time be exposed to the beautiful, dizzying highs and terrible hangovers associated with alcohol.  And for most this will happen before they even get to high school.  So it should come as no surprise that the writers of “Saved by the Bell” (more than likely while in their own alcohol fueled “creativity”) decided to tackle the issues of underage drinking.  Except, in the typical SBTB fashion of being completely out of touch with anything remotely having to do with real high school, the “gang” wasn’t finally tempted with the sweet, sweet world of marathon drinking sessions and drunken late night trips to Denny’s until the last season of the show.  I. E. their senior year.  How the most popular kids in the entire fucking school were able to avoid exposure to even the sissiest, most colorful of adult beverages until their final year in school is beyond belief.  It’s just simply ridiculous.

Anyway, in this particular episode the gang winds up attending a toga party where *gasp* some of the revelers are drinking alcohol!  First of all, if these dipshits knew the first thing about toga parties they’d know that booze is pretty much a pre-requisite.  The fact that they were even let into the party without so much as a drop of alcohol on them or in them is a statement to just how popular these people were.  Once the proposition of an action filled evening of intoxication and violent vomiting is offered to the gang they’re accepting even if they’re more than a little apprehensive.  Not wanting to be left out of all the fun the kids expectedly gave in to the peer pressure.  Just like all good kids should.  Long story short, the only thing these lightweights were able to choke down during the duration of the party is about 2 beers.  Except for Zack, all he had maybe one swig.  And knowing Zack like I do I bet he was holding back tears the entire time that swig was sliding down his esophagus.  As expected they all wind up completely and utterly ripped.  Zack having had less than the others decides he should be the one to drive.  The precognitive services of Nostradamus, Edgar Cayce or St. Malachy will not be necessary to predict what happens next.  One smashed up car and an arm injury to Slater later the gang is scrambling for excuses.  The SBTB writers wouldn’t have waited so damn long to make the obligatory teenage alcohol episode if they didn’t have a very important message to convey.  And that lesson is of course; drink more when you’re younger.  Build up your tolerance in your first couple of years of high school so once you reach legal driving age you won’t have to worry about driving home drunk after one beer.  When it takes 10-12 beers before your operation of motor vehicles and heavy machinery is affected you’re on the right path.  And come on, you may be popular enough in high school to get away with not drinking but what the fuck are you going to do in college?  You don’t want to be the dude at the frat party that’s passed out by 8:30 do you?  If you are that dude you better not mind washing swear words and genitals drawn in permanent marker off of your face.  Because it’s going to happen.  A lot.  Me, I made damn sure I paid extra special attention to this particular lesson.  Sure I wasn’t my high school’s biggest drinker but certainly did enough to make sure I wasn’t a complete pussy when it came to my future collegiate alcohol consumption.  A complete loser?  Well, that’s a different story all together.  It did also help that I come from a long line of award winning beer drinkers.  And while it is true that all of the awards are imaginary they’re still a great source of family pride so I’ll include them.  Despite my alcohol consuming lineage I’ll always be in debt to the SBTB creators and producers for helping me get ready for college.

I did plan on including a few more lessons in this opening SBTB blog but I think lesson #1 rambled on long enough for one entry.  Besides, I’ve neglected my blog for far too long and need something to hold my readers over before they start unsubscribing.

Eye on Entertainment Minute Report Tonight Extra

Posted in Old Myspace stuff on March 16, 2010 by jugglersdespair

*NOTE*  This little ditty is from way back on October 14, 2005.  Apparently my obsession with Mary Hart had reached its zenith.  Fortunately for all those involved my entertainment reporting days were over at about the same time this was posted.  Hell, if you read it you’ll probably see that those days never really started.  Someday…someday.

Boy George was arrested on suspicion of drug possession.  Apparently the police found a small amount of cocaine in his apartment last Friday.  Although I’m not, nor have ever been, a fan of Boy George, I can tell you with all confidence that these allegations are false.  Boy George (seen in the picture to the left) wouldn’t ever, EVER be caught with only a small amount of cocaine on hand.  So until the police can find his actual stash, would they please just leave the poor man(?) alone?

Peter Mayhew, the actor who played Chewbacca (Yes, Chewbacca is played by an actual human.  I know, I was devastated last year when I found out as well) in 4 “Star Wars” movies is set to become an American citizen.  The people in charge of this country do things to make it a pretty easy target much of the time, but it’s moments like this that reinforce my faith in the old Stars and Stripes.  “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, your 7 foot tall upright walking dog monsters with bell bottom fur, your wrinkly 900 year old midget mystics, your bikini-clad princess slave girls yearning to breathe free.”  God bless America.

In the “What the fuck is this world coming to!?” department, a 38 year old woman in Pennsylvania has been accused of beating her 8 month pregnant neighbor with a bat and attempting to steal her unborn baby.  I’m sure the going rate for infants on the black market is pretty good but, Jesus Christ!  This is just fucking crazy!  Killing people to take their shoes is one thing but this has just gone too far!

In happier news Fox has decided to initiate a plan to help raise the collective IQ of America.  Its first step in this noble effort was to cancel “The Simple Life.”  I guess the lesson here is: just when it looks like you’re about to lose faith in Humanity, Humanity goes and cancels Paris Hilton’s shitty ass TV show.  Thanks Humanity.  I’ll never doubt you again.  Unless “Dubya” discovers a loop hole and winds up winning a third term.

On December 6th of this year recently deceased actor James Doohan’s, Scotty from TV’s “Star Trek”, ashes will be launched into space.  This is actually a more common way of disposing of the dead than I had originally thought considering he’ll be among 120 others left in orbit that day.  In fact, “Star Trek” creator Gene Roddenberry’s ash remains were launched into space after his death back in 1991.  So not only is this not an uncommon practice but it’s been going on for some time now.  But here’s the crazy part, Mr. Roddenberry’s remains actually returned to Earth in 2002.  And by returning to Earth I mean they entered the atmosphere and were subsequently burnt to so much nothingness.  The very same fate “Scotty’s” remains will be facing 50 to 200 years from now.  So basically people are paying to have their ashes float around in space before an even more intense fire than the one used to cremate them in the first place finishes the job.  What’s the fucking point?  Why didn’t you just have your corpse incinerated completely the first time and just get it over with?  Or better yet, if you want to make a fiery fall from the sky, why not just fill your corpse with explosives, have something toss you a few hundred feet in the air and have yourself detonated.  This way at least some people will get some enjoyment out of it.  Better yet, save it for the 4th of July.  Kids love exploding dead people.

According to a recent Associated Press-Ipsos poll, Americans are actually becoming ruder.  And to that I have to say; go eat an asshole, cock-chugger.  USA!!  USA!!