an historic day

Wow. I have 3 posts today (4 if you count this one, but that's probably cheating). That's gotta be some kind of all-time blogging record. I mean, 3 posts IN ONE DAY . . . that's fucking prolific.

Sweet Mary Lou

The year was 1984. The place was Los Angeles. I was 9 years-old and in love with Mary Lou Retton. I watched sweet Mary Lou make the Olympics her personal playground, netting a gold in the all-around (who can forget the perfect 10 on the vault to clinch it?), a silver in the team and vault competitions and bronze in the uneven bars and floor exercise. Mary Lou – what a girl!

Through the unique physiology of gymnastics (i.e. Bela Karolyi keeps me in a tiny metal box so I can’t grow) I thought we were about the same age. I thought, “Look how tiny she is. She can’t be older than 10. I’m a pretty stylin’ for a 9-year old. I bet I could get into her tiny, tiny leotard.” Ok, I didn’t really think anything of the sort, but I couldn’t pass up the reference. She towered over me at 4’10 and 3/4’s and had about 25 pounds of muscle on me, but hey, otherwise, we were like peas in a pod. She was always happy; I was always happy. She could get a 10 on the vault; I could top 100,000 on Galaga. She would appear on a Wheaties’ box; I would hide in boxes.

I was really obsessed with her. Maybe even so much so that I could have end up stalking her. But tiny stalkers have tiny dreams and I eventually lost interest after reading one of the many biographies that came out about her (the extent of my obsession being reading dull biographies). I was shocked at some of the things I discovered. Mary Lou wasn’t 10-years old. She was actually a 35 year-old mother of 6 with severely arthritic knees and a penchant for sweet, sweet booze, Bartyle’s and James Wine Coolers, to be specific. . . . That book destroyed my dreams and started my lifelong hatred of books – with all their d@mn words and dream destroying.

Shortly thereafter, my love for Mary Lou had fizzled out and I focused in on my next obsession . . . Stevie Wonder.

The Hulk of Ad Hominem

I remember once, in college, (oh college, you seem so long ago) I was participating in a intramural soccer game, I believe. After the game, two guys were talking to each other:

guy1: Dude, you're like a skinny, goofy guy or something.
guy2: Dude, don't make fun of me. You'll piss me off and then I'll have to make fun of you.
guy1: Whatever Stretch. I'm sooooo scared.
guy2: I'm serious guy1. You don't want to piss me off.
guy1: Why not?
guy2: I will totally make fun of you. You don't want that!

They continued along these same lines for a good 5 minutes. guy1 continually trying to bait guy2 and guy2 getting more and more adamant that whatever verbal onslaught he unleashed would be so heinous so as to cause actual physical distress - or something. Even though I was the most casual of observers (in temperament and attire) I too was curious. What could this guy possibly say that would be so terrible? Then it occurred to me. Nothing. He just got so wrapped up in making threats about what he COULD say that he had nothing TO say. He had aggrandized his ability to insult SO much that he would need to make the kid's head explode and forever deafen those around him to reach the heights of his boasting. Instead, he should have initially said something like:

guy2: Dude, I'm like witty and stuff and I could hurt your feelings.

Once again we see that life is best lived through attainable goals.

One of "those" people.

You know what I hate? I hate it when I call someone and I'm all, "Hey man, you wanna go to the big game tonight at the arena place?" And they start thinking about it and they say, "Who's gonna be there?" What the fuck is that? You know who's gonna be there? I am gonna be there because I'm the only one that asks your sorry ass to go any place, loser. You know who else is gonna be there? A bunch of other people that don't want to talk to you. Think about it brother; if it weren't for me, you wouldn't have any friend.

Separated at Birth: Cleveland Sports Edition

Casey Blake, when he's done booting groundballs at 3rd base for the Indians, may have a promising political career ahead of him.



Carlos Boozer and formal tyrant-in-waiting Uday Hussein. This is not to conflate the two. Uday was a evil, murderous sociopath while Boozer is a '30's-style grifter who pulled off the ultimate heist.



Indians Manager Eric Wedge and 80's sci-fi superstar Swamp Thing.



Pronk and Shrek



Old school minor-league managing Eric Wedge and the bartender from Tapper.

They weren't 7 games back when I wrote this.

An open letter to my girlfriend.

Dear Monica,

As I write this, the Cleveland Indians, my favorite team of my (far and away) favorite sport, sit in second-place of the central division of the American League, trailing the hated Minnesota Twins by 4 games (it could be closer, but why don’t we drop 3 straight to the Texroid Power Rangers – dumbasses).

This is wholly unexpected. My goal for the team this year (and YES, they are concerned about such things) was a .500 record (81-81), maturation of the young players and that Casey Blake would get hit by a bus – not a big bus, but like a little, short bus.

Instead, after taking 2 or 3 from the Twins last week, my Tribe is soclose to sweet, sweet first place. I woke up Sunday morning not feeling well. It wasn’t the rockin’ pneumonia or the boogie-woogie flu as I first thought, but instead, I’ve got Indians Fever.

Indians fever, for me, is a personality disorder. The Roger that you’ve come to know and love doesn’t live here anymore.

You may think of me as a kind, considerate, “in-touch-with-my-feminine-side” kind of guy. Without my illness, I am. But this scourge of Tribe baseball fandom recently forced me to shout unpleasantries at Ronnie Belliard. Specifically, I called him a “stupid fucking idiot” for dropping a throw from Tim Laker (who, if you’ve seen his batting average lately is also a stupid fucking idiot). Silly, I know. Ronnie couldn’t hear me, nor could anyone else, I was alone, in my boxers, sweating profusely and scratching little, red, Chief Wahoo splotches all over my body

You might think I have a good sense of humor. Well, there’s nothing funny about a pennant race. There’s no reason to laugh when Casey Blake has rusty metal hooks for hands and can’t field a routine grounder to save his life or that that hick Cliff Lee has gone from tres chic to tres suck in 2 months OR that CC is still 350 pounds and likes to whine like a little girl on the mound.

You might think I’m easy to talk to. Not when I’m burdened with the syphilis of sports. You wouldn’t understand. You haven’t caught it yet. My advice to you is sit quietly, don’t make any sudden movements or put your hands near my face . . . don’t ask why Matt Lawton let that routine grounder to the outfield hit him in the face when it would have been so much easy just to catch it. Sure it would have been easier for him to catch it, catch, CATCH IT BROUSSARD!! Awww Christ are you fucking kidding me? Is it possible for one player to suck that bad? How can you cram enough crappiness for an entire team into one player? Forget it. You all suck.

Love,
Roger

p.s. Eric Wedge is a twitchier version of Swamp Thing.

Naturally, I will.

Watch the adverbs. They are pretty things: useful, fun, modifiers. But jeez, too many of them can make you sound hesitant, like you don't have anything to say, like you're more concerned with ornamentation than substance. That would be bad.

That's my writing lesson for the day and notice - no adverbs.

And yes, I did have to come back and remove a "really".

You'd be chuckling if you programmed COBOL.

CBS announces new reality TV show. Contestants wanted.

YOU TOO can embark on the experience of a lifetime. Register now for an opportunity to become a COBOL programmer at a large mainframe shop. Can you survive the challenge? The COmmon Business Oriented Language has been the bane of millions of programmers for over 40 years. Created by a team of Soviet scientists, COBOL was designed to slowly torture America’s intelligentsia. By forcing American programmers to use a tedious, cryptic and overhead-laden tool, the Ruskies hoped to cripple the fledgling American technological infrastructure. But through ingenuity, black horn-rimmed glasses and frightening weight gain, America’s COBOL programmers were successfully able to utilize COBOL as a prevalent programming tool. They grew so proficient with its use that COBOL, though now completely obsolete, is still used at thousands of companies today!

Can you carry on the proud tradition of the COBOL programmer? Will you be able to overcome the constant obstacles a COBOL programmer faces? Can you withstand the Systems Development Coordinator’s striking physical resemblance to Oscar the Grouch or his constant badgering for status reports? Will you be able to decipher the business-speak of the data processing world: “touch bases,” “drive the targets,” “take the controls”? Do you have the dexterity to beat fellow co-workers to the printer in order to conceal your printing 50 copies of the NCAA tournament brackets? Will you be able to sit in a cubicle for three months and avoid the very real dangers of computer programming: carpal tunnel syndrome, walleye vision and programming ass – just to name a few?

We prefer applicants with some manner of personality disorder, preferably one that disdains contact with others. Applicant must demonstrate a desire to talk at machines: computers, printers, fax machines, etc. He or she must also harbor a latent enmity towards the opposite sex, a strong affection for any series of the Star Trek suite, a distaste for graphical user interfaces and a total abhorrence of Microsoft’s products.

Contestants will be challenged daily with the rigors of programming. Can you extract snack cakes from the vending machine that’s really particular about dollar crispness?

Are you ready for the challenge? Do you have the guile to surreptitiously read novels at your desk? Or work on your resume during company time? Can you sleep in your chair but make it look like you’re pondering a confounding programming mystery? If you’ve answered yes to any of these questions, you may be the hapless fool we’re looking for

thought . . .

All things are evocative; it's just a matter of degree.

the funniest thing I've heard all year

Overheard on Euclid, on a cellphone . . .

"I've got to get my motherfuckin' kids."

. . . "Priceless like a mother's love or the good kind of priceless?"

It's a Family Affair

Fetal Simpson Show to begin broadcasting from the uterus.

Immediately following Jessica Simpson’s pregnancy announcement, promotions began running on MTV touting an exclusive reality-tv series called, The Baby Simpson show.

Joe Simpson, father of Jessica and Ashlee, is the creative genius behind “Newlyweds” and “The Ashlee Simpson Show”. He says the new show is an extension of the concept of using his children for his own enrichment. Simpson claims the inspiration came to him over Thanksgiving dinner. “We were sitting there eating turkey - Jessica thought it was monkey or manatee – not much goin’ on up there and Ashlee just had that vacant look on her face. I thought to myself, ‘My daughters are attractive AND stupid. There is SO much money in that.’ I mean, how long was Beverly Hillbillies on the air – like forever.”

Some children’s groups have expressed outrage that Simpson is so eager to thrust his newest descendent into the harsh lights of celebrity. They are concerned that such early and overwhelming exposure could do irreparable psychological harm. But Joe Simpson has little doubt that his littlest cash cow is fully ready for the chaos that will ensue following its show’s broadcast, “Well adjusted unborn babies are ready very early on to endure the pressures of mega-stardom.” Simpson then went on to cite studies showing that babies are able to be exploited by greedy manager/grandfathers as early as the first trimester. He continued, “I think Ashlee and Jessica are so fvcked up because I didn’t force them into reality tv SOONER.”

The move is not without financial implications. It is Joe Simpson’s policy to take a 50% cut on each of his children’s shows. Generally manager/agents take 10 to 15%, but Simpson was adamant that he deserves more. “If I hadn’t manipulated my cherished loved ones into whoring themselves on reality television, where would they be? They’d have regular jobs like most losers. Hell, I might even have to get a job. And really, I don’t want that.”

Jessica and Ashlee can’t understand all the fuss about the baby’s new show. Jessica said, “I’m kind of worried because TV cameras are so big I mean, with the boom mic and everything it has to uncomfortable. But besides that eeeeeeeeeeeee.” At that point a high-pitched screeching noise was emitted from Jessica’s mouth and was indecipherable to this reporter. Ashlee, however, seemed to understand what Jessica was trying to say. “I think Jessica is right. Menudo was one of the best boy bands.”

Nick Lachey had little to say on the matter. “Seeing as how I don’t have any career to speak of, I’m riding the same gravy train that Mr. Simpson is. More power to him, really. I heard he was going to get a reality show going for Grandpa Simpson. I don’t know how well it would do. Grandpa’s been dead for months.” Joe Simpson, beyond scruples, said that disinterring his father’s body in order to dishonor his memory would be quite lucrative for him. “Since my children are alive, I can only take my usual 50%. My father’s dead, so not only will I get my cut, but also whatever would come from being an heir to his estate. I envision a Weekend at Bernie’s premise with Jessica and Ashlee interacting with the rotting corpse. Really, just sit back and watch the hilarity ensue.”

The Baby Simpson show will air on MTV starting in September and over and over again until it’s impossible that you missed a single episode.

J-Looney

In a stunning move, Jennifer Lopez has split from long-time husband Marc Anthony in order to marry her ass. Sighting “irreconcilable differences” between her and Anthony, JLo quickly received an annulment ("I have master copies of all the forms. All I do is mail merge with whoever my current husband is, print, fax and I'm all done") and began a whirlwind courtship with lifelong friend, her ass.

“My ass has always been there for me. Men have come and gone and come and gone again, some even a third or fourth time, but my ass has always backed me up, both by actually being behind me and emotionally.” JLo continued. “It was hard to end my long, enduring, 3 month marriage with Marc, but I did what I felt I had to do. If it’s wrong for me to love and marry my ass then I don’t want to be right.”

JLo supports a new FMA-inspired ammendment, FFMMAA: Finally Free to Marry My Ass Ammendment. Gay marriage rights activists are befuddled. Milo Stevens, director of CYDRCIGFGM – “C’mon, Do You Really Care If Gay Folk Get Married?” wasn’t convinced that JLo had contributed anything to any cause other than the celebrity of her own ass. “Firstly, in these highly technical times, you’d be surprised how hard it is to come up with a good acronym. More importantly, JLo’s amendment is not exactly what we had in mind. Although I suppose it IS a gay marriage in the sense that JLo is female and it follows that her ass is also female, we were ideally hoping for same-sex marriage between two distinct partners, not single partners and bootylicious parts of their anatomy.”

JLo’s ass does not come without its own baggage. A short time ago it ended its stormy 3 year love affair with Sir Mix-a-Lot. Though JLo’s ass has told friends that Mix was the, “only person who really understood me”, his love of other “round things” (possibly even Beyonce’s ass) made their relationship difficult. JLo says, “After Mix and my ass broke-up, my ass and I kind of looked at each other and it was like, ‘I’ve been searching all over for the perfect marriage and there you were all along, right underneath my clothes.’”

This story is not without its victims. Marc Anthony was unavailable for comment, but a source close to the Latin singing sensation said he was “devastated”. “Going into this, Marc knew JLo’s ass was all-powerful and a significant voice in JLo’s decision making. But he had no idea when he taunted her with ‘If you love your ass so much, why don’t you marry it?’ that she would actually do it.” It is also rumored that JLo is no longer on speaking terms with her chest. “It’s just jealous,” JLo says.

Erstwhile fiancée Ben Affleck was nonplussed, “I don’t know what to tell you. That chick is wiggety-wack.” Given further time for reflection he had this to say, “You know, I guess if I could marry my smug sense of self-satisfaction I would. And I’ll tell you another thing. I was pretty much blacked out the entire time we were together. Honestly, Matt told me I spent like 4 million on an engagement ring? The jeweler convinced me there was something called a pink diamond? I guess that’s what I get for mixing my liquor.”

For now, JLo and her ass are concentrating on each other. “For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m with someone I can stand beside from all my days, my own ass.”