Wednesday, February 28, 2007

The Ballad of Paul Martin, Part Two

Our exciting conclusion! You can find Part One right here.

The Ballad of Paul Martin (conclusion)

When Paul arrived at the Toyota dealership, Ilana was still trying to flirt with the salesman. This was a good sign, Paul thought, because it meant she had decided to put off being nasty for the time being. Paul at the dealer’s desk, next to Ilana and asked what the problem was.

“Baby, this guy is trying to rip me off. All I wanted was to lease a Camry and-”

“And I gave your friend here the lease terms.”

“And what are the lease terms?” Paul asked.

“Well, if she just wants a basic lease, it’s going to be a four year-“

“Four? Four years?”

“And six hundred a month.”

Paul put his head in his hands to keep from punching the salesman. He regained his composure and tried to reason with the salesman.

“Look, isn’t a normal lease only for a year of two?”

“Not anymore. The market’s changed. People have money and we want a piece, and we also want to know our cars are going to have a safe home for a few years.”

“But it’s a lease, we don’t want it for very long.”

Ilana piped in. “Yeah you greasy-”

“Just hold on Ilana. Look, what’s this market everyone is talking about? I couldn’t get a bagel for under three dollars today and now I can’t lease a car for under four years?”

“Sorry pal, but you must have been under a rock. People are throwing their money around like it’s air or something. So we adjusted.” The phone at the salesman’s desk rang. “One second.” He picked up the phone and scrawled some figures on a piece of paper while making some small talk.

Paul looked over at Ilana and saw her scrunching her face up. People who didn’t know Ilana thought this was her being cute, because in fact, when she scrunched up her face she did look cute. But to anyone who knew her well, Ilana scrunching up her face meant she was thinking of the meanest possible exit for a conversation that she could think of. Paul was hoping he could talk some sense into the salesman before Ilana unleashed her wrath, but that hope vanished when the salesman put the phone down.

“OK, so we’re changing the terms of the deal.”


“I just had someone on the phone who said they were willing to lease the car for seven years and eight hundred dollars a month. So unless you want to match that or go higher, I can’t give you the car.”

Paul didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but Ilana knew exactly what to do.

“You cunt faggot bile spewing santorum swallowing serpent!”

Ilana had a thing for alliteration, a thing that judging by the stunned reaction of the salesman was not appreciated by him. Paul and Ilana left the dealership in a hurry, not wanting to cause more of a scene than they already had.

“I need a drink”, Ilana muttered.

When they stepped into the bar, Paul liked what he saw. Completely empty save for the bartender, dusty countertops and poor lighting. Your favorite dive bar’s dive bar. Paul thought that if anyplace was immune from the world’s recent craziness, it would be here.

“What’ll it be?”

“Pabst.” Paul figured he’d stay on the cheap side

“Jamison’s, two shots.” Ilana was still agitated from the episode at the dealership.

The bartender brought them their drinks. “Let’s see, ten bucks for your beer, thirty for your shots.”

Paul steadied Ilana’s hand under the bar, motioning to her shots with the other. He let go when she calmed down and inhaled his beer. He looked the bartender over sympathetically. It wasn’t his fault the drinks were so much. There were bottlers and distributors and shareholders and CEOs setting prices and trying to get their piece. But on the other hand, Paul had no more patience for it.

“Sorry,” Paul muttered to the bartender.

The bartender looked up just as Paul took his glass, threw it against the wall and calmly walked out of the bar.

For the next few days, Paul and Ilana didn’t leave Paul’s apartment. The outside world was just too much at the moment, and they thought that maybe they could wait it out in the apartment. Lewis called on a Tuesday with some discouraging news.

“Lewis, how’s it going?”


Paul knew what Lewis was talking about, he just had no answers.

“I know Lewis, I know. But I’m more worried about the fact that a beer costs ten dollars all of a sudden.”

“Oh, have you noticed that too? What’s the deal with that?”

“Well, people say there’s all this money flying around now and they want their piece. Though I don’t know who has all this money.”

“Yeah, well it’s probably gonna get worse now that Gil fucking Meche is getting eleven million bucks a year.”

“Normally Lewis, I’d tell you that you were crazy. But I think you’re absolutely right.”

Paul’s buzzer rang. “Look, that’s Stan, I gotta go.”

Lewis was seemingly in another world. “Gil Meche,” he muttered as Paul hung up the phone.

Ilana got the door and Stan walked in and sat down on the couch. He almost finished the bottle of scotch her and Paul had been drinking.

“Hey,” Paul yelled playfully, “get your filthy lips off of that bottle. We don’t know where they’ve been.”

“They haven’t been anywhere.” Stan put the bottle down and slouched on the couch.

“Excuse me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it Hooker Tuesday?”

What Paul loved about Stan was that he unapologetically picked up whores every week. Tuesday to be specific. And every day when he was through, he would regale Paul and Ilana with the details of the horrendous things he had done to his special girl. No one could remember how or why the tradition had started, but Paul and Ilana looked forward to it every week.

“Yeah, come on”, Ilana perked up; “we want a story.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll tell you what happened. So I went down Carter Street, cause I was feeling vengeful, and I you can really do some awful things to the girls around there. But when I got there, there was only one whore.”

“One?” Ilana sounded like she had been told there was no Easter Bunny.

“Yeah, and not only that, she wouldn’t even talk with me. When I got out of the car and walked to her, she ran behind her pimp. Pimp starts screaming at me about how much I would give him to negotiate with her. I could barely understand the guy, so it took like, five minutes to slow him down and realize he wanted money for himself and the girl. But I relented, cause she was the only one left, and she was a tight little Asian broad.”

Paul stifled a laugh. As much as he felt bad for Stan, he found the image of leather jacket clad Stan arguing with a fast talking hustler who no doubt had a ring on each finger and a neon fur coat exceptionally funny.

“So then, how much did he want to talk to her?” Paul asked.

“Well that’s where it got crazy. First he said fifty bucks, and I figured that was alright, I still might have enough to giver the girl a Joe Theisman, but when I was fine with paying fifty, the pimp changed his mind, said he wanted one hundred fifty.”


“Yeah, started saying how if I didn’t want to pay that he’d take his Asian superstar to some other street corner and not let me in on the negotiations. That there were a hundred guys who would pay him pay two hundred dollars to just to talk to her. And then he thought for a second and decided that it would cost me two fifty to talk to her because I was being insolent.”

“Tell me you didn’t pay him.”

“Of course I didn’t pay him; I don’t have that kind of money. So I just walked back to the car and came here.”

“Jesus,” Paul muttered, “this new economy bullshit is even ruining Hooker Tuesday. What a sad turn of events.”

When Paul woke up on Thursday, he didn’t realize that it was the day he was going to die. He got out of bed, looked out the window and realized that it was snowing. Paul always loved the snow, so he decided to go out and buy a six pack. He checked his wallet and counted seventy dollars. He laughed grimly. It would probably be just enough for some Natural Ice.

Paul hadn’t thought about the way the “new economy” had affected anyone outside of the people he knew. So as he was walking down the street, he was surprised at first when a man in a ski mask jumped out in front of him with a large knife.

“Get in the alley!” The man demanded.

Paul did as the man said. He knew that he was about to lose his seventy dollars, but at this point, that kind of money was so worthless that he wasn’t so upset to be losing it.

“The wallet! Let’s go!”

Paul took out his wallet and gave it up. The masked man looked through it and then looked up at Paul.

“Where’s the rest?”

“That’s all I have in my wallet.”

“Bullshit! This is pocket change! I know you got more on you. Now give it up!” The man brandished the knife in a more threatening manner.

“Look, that’s all I have.”

Only when the knife slid in between his ribs did Paul regret going out that snowy morning. As he slid down in to the snow, parts of it turning red from his dripping blood, Paul could only think of one thing to say with his dying breath.


Looper Gets the Chance to Lose Games in the First Inning...

So I spotted this little gem on Metsblog this morning...

On Friday, Chan Ho Park will start against the Cardinals, who will start Braden Looper…yes, you read that right…looper…the Cardinals are trying to convert him to a starting pitcher…

Now, I read Metsblog daily and generally trust their news, but this just seemed to good to be true. I mean, anyone who has followed the Mets for at least 2 years could tell you just how terrible Braden Looper is; to even think of starting him, and for the World Series Champs no less, just seems insane. But, sure enough, Metsblog was right...

"I don't think it's an experiment," [C@rds Pitching Coach Dave] Duncan said. "I wouldn't even consider trying him as a starter if I didn't think physically and mentally he (could) do it."
"I don't think it's a gimmick," Looper said. "I pride myself on what I do. I feel I do a lot of things the right way. I want to prove everybody wrong, if they don't think I can do it."

This is the kind of news that just makes your day. Looper, the choker himself, possibly STARTING for the hated C@rds. Now granted, the pressure on a starter is different from the pressure on a reliever, and hey, its possible that Looper might actually succeed in this role. Of course, having watched plenty of Looper myself, I just don't think thats a possibility; if anything, he'll most likely be back in the bullpen on opening day, and if not then certainly by midseason. But nevertheless, my advice to the Amazin's is make Looper look like Nolan Ryan on Friday. It will pay dividends when the season gets underway.

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

The Ballad of Paul Martin, Part One

So this is a story I wrote shortly after the Gil Meche signing. I don't really know why I sat on it for so long, but here's the first half. I don't actually have anything against Gil Meche, I just feel he's a convenient example of baseball spending gone batshit insane. Enjoy.

The Ballad of Paul Martin

Paul Martin lived in Kansas City, Missouri. He didn’t mind living there, though sometimes he wished he lived somewhere with a more competitive baseball team and better weather. However, he did not let this bother him, nor did he let much else bother him. Paul Martin could not be called a bitter man. In fact, there was hardly anything that could even upset him. He had worked hard at this, realizing one day that no one appreciates compulsive bitching and moaning. Despite this good personality trait, Paul Martin would die a senseless death a short time from now.

Paul had just returned from a wonderful vacation in St. Croix, cut off from most of the baseball news that he always relished following in the off-season. Sometimes Paul thought it would serve baseball fans better to merely pay attention to the off season, when optimism was the drug of choice for every owner, GM and fan. Why play the game, Paul wondered, when it never got to live up to the giddy wheelings and dealings of the winter? Paul knew deep down that this was a laughable proposition, but then, so were all sports.

Stepping into his apartment, the last thing Paul was thinking about was the free agent market for pitchers and its effect on the Kansas City Royals. He was thinking that it had already been too long since he had seen his girlfriend in a bikini, swam in the ocean and drank from noon til sunrise. He didn’t have many phone messages. There was a dinner invitation, a friendly robotic voice offering him satellite television at a rate he just could not miss, and last, an urgent message from his friend Lewis.

“Paul, quick! I know you’re on vacation, but when you get this, you need to call me! Something terrible has happened!”

The strident tone of the message worried Paul, even though he knew Lewis was prone to fits of over-exaggeration. He decided to put off unpacking and picked up the phone and called Lewis.


“Paul, you’re back! How was St. Croix?

“It was fun. Warm.”

“Get nasty with Ilana down in the sand?”

“What do you think? But didn’t you leave me a message about some kind of terrible event?”

“I did? Oh, oh yeah! You won’t believe this, I mean, it’s just a crime against humanity and nature and-“

“Lewis! What happened?”

“The Phils gave Adam Eaton eight million dollars a year! Can you believe that shit?”

Paul rubbed his temples. All he wanted to do was unpack and have a drink. Now he was getting roped into a hot stove conversation he just wasn’t prepared for.

“You know Lewis, I’m kind of tired and was thinking-“

“I mean, Adam Eaton? A guy who’s literally never had an ERA under 4? And in the National League no less. One day this guy is gonna be best known for being traded for Chris Young, mark my words Paul.”

“I will Lewis, I’m writing it down now. The date and everything.”

“Fine, be a sarcastic ass. But when you get unpacked and settled and everything, check out what happened with the free agency market while you were gone. If you think your heart can take it. You missed the dumbest month ever.”

“OK Lewis, I’ll check it out later.”

Paul hung up and went about the business of putting away his clothing and wishing he was closer to the Equator. When he was finished, he turned on his computer and began to look into what had made Lewis so upset. After a series of double takes and a round of derisive laughter, he called Lewis.

“Lewis, I’m all caught up.”

“You don’t sound very upset about it.”

“Why should I be upset? Rich teams throwing their money around like there’s only one baseball season left. Who cares?”

“But what’s it gonna mean for the Royals Paul?

Paul hadn’t thought much about that, and paused to consider it.

“Well, maybe this will be good for them. Getting priced out of retarded free agent moves will force them to go into player development and really pay attention to the minor leagues.”

“Yeah, but they won’t. Hell, they probably would have signed Kip Wells to a three year deal for five million a year if the Cardinals hadn’t signed him. We’re just gonna do what we always do: wait out the good market and then overpay a bunch of veterans to ‘provide leadership’, whatever the hell that means.”

“Hey, be optimistic about this Lewis. If Adam Eaton is getting eight million bucks a year, than it’ll be impossible for the Royals to overpay for anyone.”

“I don’t know man, it worries me. Makes me crazy.”

“You gotta calm down Lewis. Don’t forget that in the end it’s only baseball. And it’s only the off season at that. It’s not like these free agents actually have an impact on our lives.”

“Yeah, yeah. Still, don’t you wish for once the Royals could compete in all this?”

“Of course, but they can’t right now. So I just hope our drafts bring us sure Hall of Famers and go on with my day. And when Juan Pierre is hitting .212 in two years, the Royals will look smart for not signing him. Gotta look on the bright side here Lewis.”

“I’ll try that. Take care Paul.”

Convinced his friend was calmed, Paul decided to call it a night. Who cares how much money Jim Hendry was burning? It’s not my money. With that, Paul drifted off the sleep, sure that the next day would be no different from the previous day.

Paul woke up the next day feeling good. The overcast didn’t bother him, nor did the sharp wind cutting through the air. He walked down to his corner deli to grab a paper to read over breakfast. The food was terrible, but it had a surprisingly large amount of newspapers, including the New York Post. Paul loved the Post more than any paper on Earth. If there was another paper that showed a naked disregard for what was real news and fake news, Paul didn’t want to know about it.

Walking into the deli, Paul wondered what Post action he missed n vacation. Maybe Lindsay Lohan fought Paris and Nicole Hilton on the roof of the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. Maybe Scarlett Johanson went bungee jumping. Paul was excited to catch up.

However, when he stepped up to the counter, Paul noticed that there were no papers to be found. No Posts, no New York Times, no Kansas City Star. Something was wrong.

“Uh, Ted, where are the newspapers?”

Ted was a genial old man who ran the deli. He had done so since 1978 and had no plans of giving it up anytime soon. In fact, for a 79 year old, he was quick on the draw.

“Oh, Paul, you’re back. What paper do you want?”

“A Post, same as usual. What’s wrong, kids stealing the papers so you put them behind the counter?”

“Not exactly. Here, fill this out.” Ted handed Paul a few stapled papers.

“What is this, some kind of survey?” Paul looked over the sheets and slowly put them down. “Ted, this is a contract. Why do I need a contract for the New York Post?”

“Hell if I know Paul. Orders came down about two weeks ago, and now no one gets a paper without a subscription contract.”

“But this says I need to subscribe for six years! And every issue is five dollars!”

“Hey look, I could show you the Star contract.”

“How much is that?”

“Four years, three dollars an issue.”

“WHAT? That’s insane!”

“But there’s a hometown discount.”

“I think I’ll pass.” Paul put the contract down. “Well, I mean, no one’s buying this right?”

“Oh no, actually, people have been signing up in droves.”

“Why would they do that if you can just read the news online?”

“Most of the papers have taken down their websites. One of the fellas who dropped off the contracts said something about grabbing a piece of the action while the market was hot. It seems pretty zany to me, but it’s working. Say, you wouldn’t pay eleven dollars for a coffee, would you?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, everyone else has.”

“Oh Ted, not you too.”

“Hey, the market is hot, I’m gonna get what I can while it is. So, can I get you anything?”

“No, I’m good. Actually, how much for a bran muffin”

“Seven dollars.”

Paul walked out of the deli more confused than he had ever been in his life. How could this happen? How long would it last? Would he ever eat again? He stumbled around the sidewalk thinking about the disturbing new realities in his life until his cell phone rang. Ilana was on the phone. She sounded upset, talking excitedly into the phone about a problem down at the car dealership. Paul was hoping it wasn’t the same problem he had just run into, but he figured it was.

Monday, February 26, 2007

Spring is Here Again... And so is Hidalgo

Pulpman has already tossed some baseball articles at you. I would criticize them by saying that they were valuable and performed to expected standards, thereby completely missing the goal of providing readers with what one would call "The Gil Meche Experience", so I'm doing my part with this poor, poor article.

As referenced here, the Astros apparently have left the right field job up to Spring Training tryouts rather than flatly handing the position to hitting phenom Luke Scott. These days you can't just hit in the .330s and get yourself a job; first you must outcompete Richard Hidalgo and Jason Lane.

I don't have much to say about Lane, other than that he has an off balance swing and his radio commercials make him sound like a robot (Note: Why did they think Jason Lane would help them sell houses?) Pulpman and I have had some experience with Dalgy. For me, he was the bright spot on a poor 2000 Astros team. Check out the old baseball refererence and let your eyes go wowza.

2001 was a bit of a down year and 2002 was a complete bust for Hidalgo. In the offseason between 2002 and 2003, Dalgy got a shot in the arm- literally. Someone in Venezuela shot him. In the arm.

For some reason, I took that as a sign from the baseball deities and predicted a return to greatness. His line became solid and reliable again, a born again productive offensive player with- get this- 22 outfield assists. He was throwing a guy out from right field once a week for the entirety of the season!

The next season he tanks and the Stros trade him 58 games into the season for Dave Weathers and Jeremy Griffiths. Weathers plays mopup duty in the Astros pen for the rest of the year. Dalgy had hit four home runs up to that point of the season, goes on to pop off six more- over his first week as a Met!

His season stunk at the end and he was an ultimate disaster for the Rangers last year. Now Richard Hidalgo stands at a new point in his baseball career, searching for the player he once was...

Hey, Dalgy, I hear there are a lot of carjackings on MLK Boulevard.


Friday, February 23, 2007

Pacman Jones Knows that When it Rains, it Pours...

Despite the fact that the NBA seems completely unable to shed its "thug" image, it seems that the biggest story of thuggery coming out of All Star Weekend in Vegas involves (who else) Tennessee Titans corner "Pacman" Jones. Jones, of course, has seemingly been on a crusade to make himself one of the most criminal players in NFL history (though Lawrence Phillips will be difficult to top), possibly in an attempt to secure a trade to the Bengals. But this, the latest of his many run ins with the law, seems to take the cake.

Police seized $81,020 in cash belonging to Tennessee Titans cornerback Adam "Pacman" Jones, money they said sparked a melee and a triple shooting at a strip club over the weekend, court documents show.
Jones was showering more than 40 strippers onstage at Minxx Gentlemen's Club & Lounge early Monday with the cash "intended as a visual effect," according to a search warrant. But a scuffle broke out when the Houston promoter who hired the strippers told them to pick the money up.

No, you didn't read that wrong. Eighty-one thousand dollars. As a "visual effect." But wait, it gets better; apparently after the "scuffle," Jones and his posse left the club, at which point someone pulled out a gun and started shooting, hospitalizing two employees.

Now, I'm not here to judge Pacman; I'm just here to mock him. But he's lucky he was drafted so high; a player with a lesser contract would have been cut in a nanosecond. One has to wonder how much longer the Titans are going to keep him around, unless they can somehow keep him away from clubs. Otherwise, we can rest assured that this isn't the last we've heard of Pacman Jones, whether or not he decides to drop the "rain" effect when he's enjoying his adult entertainment.

Something Relevant from the World of Hockey...

You could be forgiven for not knowing that there was, in fact, a hockey season going on; I've certainly barely noticed, despite the fact that the Islanders are apparently playing well. But every now and then, hockey reminds us why it is so great. Few sports are as fight prone as hockey, and this brawl between the Sabres and the Senators is particularly great. Props to Emery (the Senators goalie) for whooping serious ass despite wearing all that padding (all praise due to Deadspin).


Hey Phillies

I was going to try to stay above the fray of early season shit talking, because it honestly goes nowhere. Jimmy Rollins wants to run his mouth? Fine, go ahead. But I ain't listening to some fuckin' wife beater getting involved.

The invaluable resource that is MetsBlog connected me with this quote, "I hate the Mets…I want to beat them more than anyone else. What we need to do is make sure none of their fans get in our building. We shouldn't sell tickets to Mets fans."

Well gee Mr. Domestic Violence 2006, I hope you don't take it out on your wife when you guys blow all of your talent again. Isn't this the same team that underachieved almost all of last year? The same team that considers Adam Eaton and Jamie Moyer brilliant pitching additions? Hey Phillies, quit dickriding the Mets lest we hang your battered carcass off the Empire State Building.

Why does Brett Myers hate the Mets so much? Maybe it's because they've owned his ass for three years now. Against Los Mets, Myers in 4-5 with a 5.37 ERA. He's given up 16 homers in 13 games. Brett, I hate to tell you this, but you can't intimidate opposing players by talking nasty to them the same way you can with your wife. Shave ya god damn caterpillar eyebrows and go win something before you start talking shit again.

Beat your wife Myers, beat your wife!

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Kevan Barlow, We Hardly Knew Ye...and Jimmy Rollins' Lunacy

Well, in possibly the least surprising roster move of the off season, the Jets have cut ties with Kevan Barlow. Barlow, of course, will be forever remembered by Jets fans for being completely inept in almost every situation, as reflected by his 2.8 yards per carry. Of course, this makes it increasingly likely that the Jets will draft a running back, possibly early, as it is unclear whether or not Leon Washington or Cedric Houston (or a combination of the two) are capable of carrying the load for a team which clearly needs to improve its ground game. Nevertheless, it was clear that Barlow was incapable of doing anything except take up cap space, and so I am happy to bid him adieu.

Jimmy Rollins: Douche bag, or mega douche bag?

Phillies SS Jimmy Rollins apparently wasn't content to put his foot in his mouth just once regarding the rest of the NL East. On Tuesday, Rollins decided to sound off again (courtesy of Metsblog)

We're the team to beat. I can't put it any other way...Look at our team and what we're bringing. Look at the improvements we've made. You look at the rest of the division...The Mets had a chance last year to go to the World Series. They made it to the playoffs. They won the division. Congratulations, but last year is over. They can take that any way they want, but I'm just stating a fact.

Well Jimmy, allow me to begin by stating a fact as well; you need to stop smoking so much crack. Is the Mets' rotation as iron clad as I want it to be? No. But last I checked, the Mets are still the team to beat, until you can actually (GASP!) PROVE OTHERWISE ON THE FIELD. But until then, please, continue making yourself look like a fool. It will make watching the Phillies inevitable failure to make the playoffs that much sweeter.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

This Week on "24"

Tonight's exciting episode features Pulp satirizing a show he's never watched

Inside the Knicks' locker room, Keifer Sutherland finishes tying Malik Rose to a chair

Keifer Sutherland: Good, I think that's all of you. Where's the fat one?

Eddy Curry: I'm right here.

Keifer Sutherland: No, the one with the garbage bag.

David Lee: Jerome? He's at the strip club buffet. He usually doesn't get here til tip off.


David Lee: Nothing, that's really where he is. Wouldn't you do that if you had three and a half years of free money coming your way?

Keifer Sutherland: Fine. Now, for those of you don't know me, I'm Keifer Sutherland; star of such blockbusters as Flashback and Young Guns II. But tonight I'm Jack Bauer. And I'm here to torture YOUUUUUUUUU!

Channing Frye

Jack Bauer: You're all suspected terrorists. But there are no suspects in Jack Bauer's book. Only definite terrorists and a trail of dead bodies. And sometimes a shady president or something, I don't watch this fucking show.

Nate Robinson: We ain't terrorists ya ornery cracka. We play basketball.

Jack Bauer: Oh? And what about the children who's lives you ruin when you go out on the court and play half assed? You terrorize them!

David Lee: So we're drunk sometimes. Ask Ron Artest, it happens.

Jack Bauer: AMERICANS DON'T HALF ASS! THEY HAUL ASS! YOU HATE AMERICA BOY? I think it's time for some torture.

Method Man: Yeah, torture motherfucker.

Renaldo Balkman: Method Man? What are you doing here?

Method Man: I got courtside seats nigga. Rookies don't talk ya Brian Grant lookin motherfucker. Another word and I'll fuckin sew ya ass cheeks shut and keep feedin ya and feedin ya and feedin ya.

Renaldo Balkman: ::silence::

Steve Francis: Fuck you Jack Bauer. Torture don't bother me, I've been shot at.

Bauer wheels in a television

Jack Bauer: Prepare yourself for the horror which my executive producer has let loose upon the world!

Jamal Crawford: AHHH! Why is there a laugh track?!?!?

Stephon Marbury: The contradiction in terms is enormous! How can defending the status quo possibly be satire? Turn it off! Turn it off!

Jack Bauer: Not until you stop dicking around and play focused basketball. Until you agree, I will torture YOUUUUU.

Malik Rose: Fine, fine. We'll do it.

Jack Bauer: You don't even play Malik. Your promise is worthless!

Eddy Curry: Jesus God almighty, I'll attempt defense, I swear it. Just turn off this accursed show!

Jack Bauer: Torture motherfuckers! Now go out and get your 24th win or I'll be back with more conservative comedy!

Bauer turns off the TV and goes to leave, but runs into The Incredible Waste That Is Jerome James and his magic garbage bag. TIWTIJJ stuffs Sutherland in his bag and looks around triumphantly

: What's up fellas?

David Lee: Untie us you fat sack of crap!

TWITIJJ: Do I get to start tonight?

Quentin Richardson: Yes.

TWITIJJ dances, then unties the players from their chairs

Quentin Richardson: Jerome, how did you fit the star of Flashback into your garbage bag?

TWITIJJ: I got a lot of things in my garbage bag. I don't think it's possible for me to fill it up.

Inside TWITIJJ's magic garbage bag

Keifer Sutherland: I can't live in this garbage bag! I'm Jack Bauer dammit!

Keifer Sutherland: Is there anyone else in here?

Zeke's Good Sense: Hello? Oh hi, you must be new here. Jerome's agent threw me in this bag when I met with him last year. Did he sign the one year deal I offered him?

Keifer Sutherland: If by one you mean five, then yes.

Zeke's Good Sense: Five years?? I gotta get outta here somehow. God, five years. I was wondering how he had gotten so many strippers in here.

Kandi, Sandi, Randi, Mandi and Cinnamon: Hey daddy, you want a dance?

Keifer Sutherland: Does Jerome have any spare dollar bills laying around here?

Zeke's Good Sense: Oh yeah, tons. Just pick'em out of the air, they'll float around some time.

Keifer Sutherland: About that dance...

Meanwhile, on the basketball floor

Dwight Howard: How did we lose to the Knicks?

Method Man: Torture motherfucker!

Saturday, February 17, 2007

Fuck Blackburn as a Squad, Record Label, and a Motherfuckin Crew...

...and if you like Blackburn, then fuck you too.

Now I'm not gonna do, what you all expect me to do, and FREAK OUT! But really, when you wake up at 7:30 in the morning to watch the beautiful game and get stuck watching a bunch of cunts like Blackburn Rovers cheat their way to a draw, well, you get a little angry. I'm sure Arseblog and the like will have in depth wrap ups of the football abortion that occurred today at the Emirates Stadium, but from a Gooner perspective, the entire match can be summed up in 3 words; Cocksucker Ass Rape.

Why "Cocksucker Ass Rape?" Because after watching this match, I felt like I was ass raped by a cocksucker (that sound you just heard was Tim Hardaway's head exploding). It wasn't only Blackburn of course; their stall tactics, diving, and fouling were tolerated, if not encouraged, by some of the worst officiating I've seen since the World Cup; congrats Martin Atkinson. I don't know if the refs like to dick Arsene Wenger's side around cause he's a Frenchman, but they certainly do it with regularity.

Of course, blame has to fall on the shoulders of the team itself, as a number of opportunities in the second half (when Blackburn actually decided to play a man or two forward) were squandered. Nevertheless, Blackburn had no intention of winning this game, and it showed from start to finish. Now Arsenal is stuck with a replay at Blackburn; hopefully they'll actually try to play the game at their home ground. It's times like these that I'm reminded why so many American's hate soccer, and why so many people in the rest of the world are willing to fight to the death about it.

Friday, February 16, 2007

It's so fucking nice outside

Damn you office! Even more reason to hate Carlos Mencia (outside of the fact that he isn't funny and is an annoyin asshole).


Well it's finally here. Somehow, this baseball off-season didn't seem like an eternity. Like all sports in the 21st century, baseball now has no off-season, it only has a time when they're not playing. Those of you without an appreciation for nuance won't understand that. But know this: God hates you for it.

When I read my first Spring Training puff piece about Jason Vargas two days ago, I knew things were finally kicking into gear. It is in this section of the baseball season where the players are always as upbeat and hopeful as the fans, even if rational thought tells you that, no, the Expos Nationals won't be winning 50 games this year.

But that's alright. This is where I think life becomes easier for me as a blogger as well, because while I love all sports, baseball is truly number one for me. Everything about is epic yet it moves at a pace where you can smoke a joint and take notes on it.

So on a blog where Met votes outweigh every other vote (Bushido and I ride for Los Mets; Ush is a steroid pumping Giant fan; Tex is, well, a god damn hick who loves guns and the Astros; and Epidimos is scum of the earth) this blog now kicks off its baseball season hoping to hear more "Endy! Endy!" chants and the beginnings of "Oli! Oli!".

Pitchers and catchers baby, pitchers and catchers

What Happened?

What happened? Fuck you Ush, you know exactly what happened. You all know what happened. The Knicks this year are so maddeningly inconsistent that the only answer to "What happened?" is "I have no fucking clue." Some nights the Knicks love defense. Other nights they seem to feel it's for jive ass suckas. Some nights Jamal Crawford is Crawsome. Other nights he's Crawful.

This team is not the 23 win disaster it was last year, and I think any decent New Yorker should spit on Larry Brown for the damage he did while he was here. If this team had Trevor Ariza instead of Jared motherfucking Jeffries I think we'd be much better. Such is life. Sometimes an old white man comes along and ruins your favorite basketball team and sometimes the bar eats you. But hey, Pulp abides.

One hour and forty minutes until pitchers and catchers

Arsenal Meets the Queen..Djourou Dresses Accordingly...

As Arseblog wrote this morning, courtesy of The Sun, Arsenal became the first club team (or, for those of you who dont know soccer, non-national team) to be invited to Buckingham Palace, apparently because the Queen had to cancel her trip to the opening of Emirates Stadium due to a bad back (or, as I prefer to call it, a wicked hangover).

There's Thierry Henry introducing (from right) Freddie Ljumberg, Theo Walcott, and Justin Hoyte to the big cheese. I mean, I think thats the Queen, but from this angle, it doesnt really look like her.

But all that is irrelevant. What counts is the fact that Johan Djourou decided to dress like he was heading to the NBA draft. I'll give you one guess as to which one is him.

So there you have it. Clearly, Arsenal is the greatest team in the history of soccer, and Johan Djourou is the snappiest dresser ever to set foot in Buckingham Palace.

Sports Gods

The sports gods move in mysterious ways. First the chargers lost in a soul-crushing manner to the Patriots. But then basketball started up, distracting me. And just when it appears that the Warriors season is over with the injury of Baron Davis, AJ Smith decides to eat Marty Schottenheimer's first grand kid, prompting the end of the relationship between the two

I am happy that old Marty is gone, but the timing was very strange. I can live with Singletary or Rex Ryan (as long as he doesn't eat LT. That man is fat). And I'm really happy that the Chargers didn't hire Wade Phillips to be the HC. And even more mysteriously, the Warriors are still only one game out of the eighth spot in the West, after destroying the Knicks (Pulp, what happened?).

The main point is, Tim Hardaway hates the gays. And his proud of this. And he really hates the gays.

Thursday, February 15, 2007

Tim Hardaway Must Have REALLY Hated Playing for Golden State...

...and I'd imagine he wont be visiting Ush anytime in the near future. *

By now, we all know that Tim Hardaway doesn't like gay people. Maybe "doesn't like" is the wrong phrase. Perhaps "fucking despises" is a better term. Of course, I'm just glad that some semblance of sports news has emerged during this horribly dead time of the year (thank god for Arsenal), but really, why is this news? I mean, surely nobody out there is the least bit surprised that pro athletes are homophobic.

Just think of who you are dealing with. Most pro athletes come from poor backgrounds and small towns in Southern states where they are likely to be indoctrinated in either crime or religion from an early age; in some cases, certain players might have ended up as out-and-out gang bangers were it not for their religious upbringing. And it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that really religious people are not big fans of gays.

And, of course, there is the whole locker room culture. Pro athletes are supposed to be the epitome of manhood, and live in a world where the slightest hint of femininity is looked upon, in general, with scorn and suspicion (sorry, Keith; first thing that popped into my head on the subject). So it shouldn't be surprising that the thought of being in the same locker room with someone who is actively attracted to men would make most athletes feel, at best, uncomfortable.

But in the end, isn't this whole thing what John Amaechi's book is all about? I mean, I haven't read it, but I'm sure that most of it is about the fact that the NBA, and sports in general, are hostile to gay people. Hell, even Johnny Weir is being attacked for being too effeminate in FIGURE SKATING, and by a gay analyst no less. So, while I think Hardaway is a fool, and deserves all the scorn that's coming his way, I'm not gonna jump on the pile. I'm too busy hating Hardaway for playing for the Heat in the late 90's to start hating his likely gay ass for this.

*No offense to Ush; he just lives in San Fran.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

The Number 23

The Number 23 is the title of an insane looking Jim Carrey movie with a terribly annoying marketing campaign. It is also the number of victories the Knicks had at the end of last year. Well Knick fans, Eddy Curry decided to give us East Coasters an early Valentine's Day present in the wee hours of our morning. 107-106 bitches! Last season's win total matched before the All-Star break. Not necessarily something one of the older and prouder NBA franchises should be having a parade about, but baby steps, baby steps.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Bomb Orange County

Or, Demeaning Strippers for Fun and Profit

Now Ush had mentioned to me once that Orange County was the most conservative area of California. But conservative or liberal, some things just can't be tolerated.

Via Can't Stop the Bleeding comes the story of one Officer David Alex Park, a man who obviously is out to disgrace the fine name of Davids everywhere in the good ol' USA.

If you're too lazy to click links, here's the quick version of events. Officer Park came on a woman during a traffic stop early one morning. The woman happened to be a stripper. Officer Park was found not guilty by a jury made up of 11 men and 1 woman in their 50s and 60s on three felony charges, thus allowing him to get off twice (Tip your waitress folks, I'll be here for years).

Now, on the surface perhaps it's perfectly fine that Officer Park's scumbag lawyer lauded the verdict and crowed that Lucy (the stripper) "got exactly what she wanted" and threw in that she is "an overly sexual person." However, the list of magical coincidences that led to the hand job in question makes one wonder if strippers should have any legal rights. After all, this case certainly removes all their dignity.

Officer Park had stopped Lucy four months beforehand and let her go despite the fact that she had a bag of drugs (the story doesn't mention what kind). This was not an instance of a cop being kind though, Officer Park was out to score them digits son. And score them he did. He called Lucy the very next morning. Not for nothing, but I always thought that you wait at least a couple days. Don't wanna appear desperate.

But the rules must be different when the state gives you a gun, because that's not the end of this mess. In yet another complete coincidence, Officer Park had run nine of Lucy's other stripper friends' license plates through a DMV computer just weeks before the night in question. Total coincidence. It was also a total coincidence that Park's boss had warned him to stay away from strippers. I just want the fine people of Orange County to know that every fact I run down makes this sound more and more like a bad Cinemax movie. But there's more, much more.

Lucy was pulled over in an area outside of Park's jurisdiction. On a secluded stretch of highway. Park, whose police colleagues testified was acting oddly that night, did not alert backup even though there was the possibility of making an arrest. Park claimed he didn't know he was pulling over Lucy. Of course he didn't know. It's obvious that when he ran the license plate of the stripper whose digits he got he just didn't look down at his computer telling him the license plate results. I'm sure he was quite surprised when he found out it was his favorite stripper!

After Lucy gave Parks a hand job either out of fear (her story) or to get out of a ticket (his story) Lucy drove home, and received a phone call from the brave officer. But he was claiming to be Joe Stephens, an Orange County Sheriff's deputy who had been long dead. Hey, lord knows after I rock a woman's world I often call her hours later pretending to be a dead guy and making sure she's safe. That's the last fluke, no?

Nope. Turns out, now, this is just a simple twist of fate, but Officer Park's GPS system had been switched off without authorization. Unexplainable coincidence according to Park's defense.

So, we have a cop who knew the victim, separated her from her friends, pulled her over in a remote area, called her pretending to be a dead guy and his tracking system just happens to fail on the night he allegedly assaults her.

This evidence was good enough to convince the Irvine County police department that Lucy's silence was worth $400,000 thus making sure she didn't nail them for seven figures in a lawsuit.

Yet Park was found not guilty anyway, because Park's attorney used the kind of argument you use at a party when the hot chick puts on "Hollaback Girl". She's a tease and she gets what she wants with her tits.

I have a serious question. If Park was able to get away with this despite extraordinary evidence to the contrary, what would have stopped him from killing this woman? Would he kill her? I guess not, because she's still alive today. But what if all of that evidence was presented to the same jury but Lucy's severed head was in a sewer somewhere?

I think I know where former Officer David Alex Park is going to be when the man comes around.

Monday, February 12, 2007

See Ya Anna

All weekend when I rode around on the train, I saw newspaper headlines mourning the death of Anna Nicole Smith. For celebrity death porn, you probably can't get much better than the mysterious death of a big titted blonde. Especially one without any class or talent.

But, I promised myself I wouldn't slag the esteemed Ms. Smith in death. After all, who am I to do such a thing? I'm sure there a billion blogs out there repeating the "Who cares about this whore" meme, and damned if this is gonna be one of them. Anna Nicole Smith was dumb, but she was a hell of a lot smarter than those sluts on Girls Gone Wild. At least she had the brains to ask for money when she took her clothes off. She was also smart enough to marry an oil baron, or whatever the hell that old guy was.

If that had been where her celebrity ended, the world would have been just fine. Kids finding pictures of her on the interweb would tell each other about how she married some old dude and got all his money and then they'd jerk off and find a Playmate for their generation. But Anna Nicole Smith was smart enough to play one final joke on us.

Oh yeah, don't even pretend that her celebrity after her Playboy days was anyone's fault but our own. When she got her show on E! America ate that shit up. Sure everyone said they watched it because she was a fat mess, and a fat mess she was, but she got rich off of it, not you. Her being a fat mess got her a fat endorsement deal for a weight loss drug one step under the ladder from sweet, sweet cocaine. She got rich America and all you did was stare at your TV, scratch your balls and vote Bush into office twice. So how can I possibly slag her?

The always excellent What Would Tyler Durden Do has kept me more entertained by the story than any conventional media can by treating the story with the right amount of contempt and wonder that something like this deserves. How else to cover a story where the mysteriously departed had a fridge full of unmarked vials, Slim-Fast and methadone?

Which brings me to my final point. All of these newspaper covers declared Anna Nicole's death "tragic" or "shocking" or some other variation of those words. Someday, we will need to teach English to Americans again, because it's obvious that we're forgetting what words mean. If her death is tragic, what pray tell were the events of 9/11 or Katrina? Shocking is someone backing into a garbage truck on an idyllic Spring day. Tragic is finding out this person was the father of a baby who's mother just died during childbirth. No, we must make sure we don't use words like tragic to describe the deaths of drugged up reality TV stars or the next thing we know Paris Hilton's death will be covered as a "calamity".

I can't wait.

Thursday, February 8, 2007

The Nanny State: Catch It!

Every day I wake up I thank God almighty that I am not as dumb as our elected officials. And every day I wake up, they seek to convince me that I am, in fact as dumb as they are.

Today's contestant is New York State Senator Carl "Freddy" Kruger, who wishes those damn kids would turn off their hip hoppin i-players and look both ways before they cross the street. Don't believe me? The sweater clad, razor fingered monster has introduced a bill ban the use of electronic devices when crossing city streets. iPods, cell phones, Crackberries and their ilk are to blame for New York's rising pandemic in pedestrian deaths.

"It's what I call 'iPod oblivion,' where they're wired into their iPods and not paying attention to what's around them," said the child murdering janitor.

Wired in? What the hell kind of phrase is that? You may as well just be shaking your fist and telling those damn kids to get off your lawn.

Seriously, wired in?

Nevermind the fact that picturing someone blasting the new Fergie song and backing into a bus in Midtown Manhattan is both hilarious and important to keeping the gene pool clean and nevermind the fact that Senator Hellspawn doesn't have the numbers to back this up, this is most definitely none of the government's business. Oh sure, Kruger will tell you that he's acting on this because he's had two deaths in his district that he claims are related to people using electronic devices, but ask yourself this: are we all that easily distracted? And even if we are, should we be punished with a $100 fine a court summons? If this is passed and cops actually start giving tickets for this, expect a whole lot more resisting arrest charges as well, because white people are gonna be running from the police in record numbers.

Forty people died in New York from heat stroke this past summer. Should we outlaw the sun? I bet hellbound, pedophile Senator Freddy thinks we should.

Friday, February 2, 2007

The Love Inc. Yearly Review

This week, somewhere else in existence, the Cupid is gave his yearly speech as CEO and Founder Love, Inc. Cupid started the company in 1979 as an economics student at the University of Wisconsin. Transcripts have been provided by Daniel ”Tex” Cohen. He risked his life to return with these reports.

Hello! Fiscal year 2006 was the most successful year for Love, Inc. as we continued to provide for all of your romantic needs. It was all because of the YOU! You were the one who stayed up late at night, hovering over the robotic humans from the tops of trees, in the back of libraries, on the shores, on the streets, in the down, dirty bars where the loveless scum of that we call Earth decompose, striking them with harsh and sophisticated arrows so that they could give meaning to life. I am so very proud.

I’d like to thank our archers, whose genetic arrow placement rate in the past year was 92%. That is a record, people! The right people are falling love everywhere.

Our producers, of course, did a fantastic job. You put out more arrows than ever before, with stronger acidic gels, frustrating the humans into near suicide as the newly-developed co-dependence slipped into their skin.

Quality Assurance has been tip-top in creating productive sales seminars and promotional management. They have recorded over 2000 romantic encounters this year and their criticisms have been heard and welcomed. Verbatim maneuvers are sounding more and more consistent.

Human resources made some great hires this year, and the extended health plan for child deities is including the lowest deductible imaginable. I noticed that was a concern for many of you. Your plan will be different than last year.

I’m also aware of a request from the Employees Council for a change in the Personal Days Structure. I have heard you. I will put together a team starting in May to discuss and effectively ensure personal days off for all of our work staff.

Our referral fees have boosted the profit shares for each and everyone one of our employees. We have made millions off the diamond companies and the greeting cards market still owes us over 30% of their profits from last year. Your portion of the companies profits from last year alone will be issued as a $300 bonus gift certificate for nectar and ambrosia at any participating Zeusville Foodmart. You’ve earned it, people. I’ve seen plenty of hustle in those wings this year.

My fellow employees, we do a great service to mankind, what with drugging them with aphrodisiacs so that they bump like bunnies and all. This is the midst of our busiest and most effective season. Valentine’s Day is just around the corner and I want to let you all in on a little secret…

We are going to be number one at the end of the year. All the other commercial holidays will look up to us. We will leave Christmas in our dust and Memorial Day far in the rearview mirror.

I love all of you.

Thursday, February 1, 2007

More Boston trouble

Boston, MA - Things took a turn for the worse tonight in the City of Boston, as terrified residents battled terror on every street.

Shortly after the fugitive Mooninites Ignignokt and Err were denied bail, a shocked citizenry found itself under siege by a 40 foot cardboard cut-out of Mickey Mouse. Ten minutes later, any Boston resident with a view of a television saw Mayor Thomas Menino tied up at gunpoint by a boy and his tiger doll.

The duo, giving their names as "Calvin" and "Hobbes" demanded that the Mooninites be free to return to their home planet, the Moon. The names are assumed by authorities to be pseudonyms.

"Racist and paranoid accusations against our cartoon brothers will not be tolerated", declared "Calvin" in a terse, expletive laden rant on Boston television. The tiger doll, "Hobbes", was given sections of the speech to read as well. However, this just caused to confuse and terrify residents even more, as it meant long periods of silence punctuated by "Calvin" with a "Hear hear!" or "The tiger has spoken!" The video ended with "Calvin's" chilling words: "Either our comrades are released or we paint the walls with your pig asshole mayor's brains."

The Mickey Mouse cardboard cut-out could not be reached for comment, as it was rampaging through Back Bay. As the cut-out appears to be impervious to bullets and fire, City officials were said to be in desperate negotiations with the Office of Homeland Security, who advised them to, "Wait until it rains and then maybe it'll get all warped or something." When reached for comment, Secretary Michael Chertoff snapped, "They don't pay me to deal with this cartoon shit!"

The day began with the arraignment of Ignignokt and Err, who are wanted around the planet Earth for various crimes, ranging from destruction of property to unlawful possession of an unlicensed blaster ray. When asked for a statement by federal Judge Stanley Brutananadilewski, Err replied "We are from the Moon," and lit a cigarette. As bailiffs put the cigarette out, Ignignokt awkwardly hopped over to the bench and told the judge to "surrender his pornography and liquor" and that if he did not, the judge would be "spanked with moonrocks." Judge Brutananadilewski denied bail for the pair, as they covered bailiffs in a polygonal substance that seems to be the Moon version of spit. As they were led away from the courtroom, Ignignokt was heard to vow "the Wolfen will come for you."

Despite the chaos going on around the city, many residents seemed to have their mind elsewhere.

"It's fuckin bullshit that the Pats lost to the Colts. Fuckin' Pats don't get no respect," said Tommy Morrison, an unemployed bricklayer.

Great Moments in Irresponsible Governance

Otherwise known as "Who wrote 'Da Moon Rulez #1!' all over my freakin city!?"

This is what we in the understatement business call a mild overreaction.

Come on now Boston! As if your sports fans and accents weren't insufferable enough, now we have to put up with your government throwing a bitch fit over a bunch of LiteBrites?

Is the citizenry of Boston so jacked up on fear that the presence of anything out of the ordinary shuts down one of our major metropolises? I can't decide what's more shameless. The fact that Boston head douchebag/mayor Thomas Menino used the "in the post 9/11 world" rhetorical trick to justify this, or the fact that two people may go to jail for, as I said before, hanging up a bunch of fucking LiteBrites.

And who will speak for Peter Berdovsky and Sean Simmons? Is Williams Street going to come to their aid or will they hang them out to dry? Obviously we here at the Gil Meche Experience are on the side of the artists, but that's because we're whores for adult swim. Christ, I watched and loved the entire 20 episode run of 12 Oz. Mouse.

Shame on you Gov. Patrick for calling these "hoax devices", as if their point was to somehow make people think these LiteBrites were bombs. You should know better. If this is some kind of funny way to get your pathetic city more anti-terrorism money, I ain't laughing. The Gil Meche Experience staff now has its first story to follow obsessively, and if possible, interfere in. You can bet the farm we'll follow this to the end. Which I guess could be tomorrow. Or a long time from now.

Let us close with the most applicable Mooninite quote available: "Using a key to gouge expletives on another's vehicle is a sign of trust and friendship"

Try to keep that in mind next time Boston.