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Tuesday, August 31

Here's your 25

Taking the greatly presumptive step of assuming that we have need for a playoff roster:

30 Matt Clement R/R 6-3 210 08/12/74
46 Ryan Dempster R/R 6-3 215 05/03/77
32 LaTroy Hawkins R/R 6-5 215 12/21/72
51 Jon Leicester R/R 6-3 230 02/07/79
31 Greg Maddux R/R 6-0 185 04/14/66
50 Kent Mercker L/L 6-2 205 02/01/68
22 Mark Prior R/R 6-5 230 09/07/80
37 Mike Remlinger L/L 6-1 215 03/23/66
33 Glendon Rusch L/L 6-1 220 11/07/74
40 Todd Wellemeyer R/R 6-3 205 08/30/78
34 Kerry Wood R/R 6-5 225 06/16/77
38 Carlos Zambrano S/R 6-5 255 06/01/81

9 Paul Bako L/R 6-2 215 06/20/72
8 Michael Barrett R/R 6-3 210 10/22/76

5 Nomar Garciaparra R/R 6-0 190 07/23/73
11 Mark Grudzielanek R/R 6-1 190 06/30/70
25 Derrek Lee R/R 6-5 245 09/06/75
1 Jose Macias S/R 5-8 190 01/25/72
6 Ramon Martinez R/R 6-1 190 10/10/72
16 Aramis Ramirez R/R 6-1 215 06/25/78
7 Todd Walker L/R 6-0 185 05/25/73

18 Moises Alou R/R 6-3 220 07/03/66
24 Tom Goodwin L/R 6-0 195 07/27/68
20 Corey Patterson L/R 5-9 180 08/13/79
21 Sammy Sosa R/R 6-0 220 11/12/68

Simply put, we don't need 12 pitchers on a post-season roster, when you consider that ONE of our five starters is going to be relegated to long relief. Assuming Todd Hollandsworth is never coming back, I would DL the Dumpster tonight, and I would recall Jason Dubois today for bench help.

It's surprising that the Dumpster is only a few months older than Kerry Wood, and only a year or so older than Wellmeyer and Leicester. So young, so very young to already have a fork sticking out of your back.

UPDATE: They just traded a PTBNL for Mike DiFelice, which isn't a bad idea...on Maddux days, when Barrett is left rotting on the bench, now he can be used as a pinch hitter. DiFelice can function as a pinch hitter on the other days.

Le Stadiee Olympique

The body language of the poor, defeated Expos said it all last night.

What a dump...I can't believe someone actually paid the money to update the turf at that place. It's that Field Turf that looks and plays like real grass, which actually made things seem more authentic than they really were last night.

Nobody wants to be there...the fussin', feudin' Cubs, the malnourished Expos, the umpires, the stadium crew, le vendors. Maybe the few thousand psychos who made the trip up there to root for us...out of all the trips you could make, that would be the very last one.

I mean, I'd rather go to Kansas City. Or Oakland.

The most snooty and pretentious amongst us will tell you that Montreal is the continent's most "European" city. All the more reason for the Sloth to skip that trip.

The truly enlightened amongst us bring back tales of let-it-all-hang-out strip clubs and sex shops. Guess that's all part of being European, too. Truly fascinating information, there, if you're Kyle Farnsworth, Jim Riggleman, Mark Grace or my old college roommate, the Karp.

It could very well happen that Les Expos will rise up and beat us the next two days, as the Cubs look forward, with trepidation, to their upcoming trip into the teeth of Hurricanes Frances and Cabrera. Watching last night's game, though, that is even hard to imagine, as lifeless and unwilling as the Expos seem to be. It seemed like it was simply another layer of minor league ball, a quadruple-A club, where you're forced to play barnstorming Major League teams in front of your small hometown crowds.

Rumor has it that Montreal is the largest city in Canada. Out of over 2 million people, they can't get more than 4,000 to show up every night? That isn't just antipathy...that is pure avoidance of the situation. Out of antipathy, you would think more people would just show up, on occasion, if only to yell and whistle at people without fear of reprisal.

I hope to God, for everyone's sake associated with MLB, that these guys find a permanent home. It is Bud Lite's biggest eyesore and most glaring failure.


Monday, August 30

I honestly don't know WHAT to think!

It would be hypocritical for me to spend my time today tearing the Cubs' players and manager to shreds, for their unique, singular brand of immaturity. The reason is, that I actually spoke the words "The only way they are going to get Carlos Beltran out, is if someone smashes him in the knee", three innings before it actually happened.

Keep in mind, the next thing I had said, was, "I really wish WE could have gotten him."

My wife simply said, "He's really good."

Yes, dear, he is.

It would also be hypocritical of me to rip Kent Mercker for ACTUALLY CALLING THE CUBS' PRESS BOX to complain about the fact that Chip Caray oozes his seminal man love for Roy Oswalt. Because I would fire Chip in a second for being so goddamned patronizing about the rest of the league.

I mean, I'm pretty sure Pat Hughes was not a Cub fan prior to his hire, but he manages to call a great game, and sound supportive of his team. He's a PRO, which Chip is NOT. If you love the AssTrolls so goddamned much, Chipper, why don't you do what Grampa did, go down there and boot Milo Hamilton from his job? And leave us the fuck alone?

It would be false for me to state that Cap'n Tightpants run-in with the evil dugout fan was unfortunate, for I was sitting there wondering if there were any grounds the Cubs could call on to disable him for just being an asshole? His getting cut up by the fan blades is almost as timely as, say, Reg'lar Joe's "irritated labrum".

It would also be somewhat disingenuous for me to criticize Michael Barrett for trying to pick a fight with the puckered asshole Roy Oswalt, or to criticize Mike Remlinger for (maybe) hitting Fat Elvis in the head. It might even be sort of wrong for me to question the motives of Mr. Dusty Baker, since last week when they were steamrolling people, I was stating the fact that nobody knows stretch runs like Dusty does.

But, when you take the WHOLE big picture into is plain to see that this team has, as of right now, achieved Critical Mass, which I believe is defined as "the optimal state for an atomic nucleus to split and release its energy". This team is at the very brink of completely flying apart at the start of this road trip. Players either love or hate the Montreal trip, depending on their love of the plentiful hookers, strippers, and other whores, and their level of disdain for Customs, rude French-speaking people, and food you cannot spell.

All of this, and NONE of it has to do with Sammy Sosa? Imagine that?

I can certainly empathize with anyone who says that "this team is hard to root for, because of the players on it". Too bad Farns isn't making this trip, for the hookers, strippers, and whores stand to make far less American dollars because of it.


Friday, August 27

Mr. 3000

The premise to the Bernie Mac movie "Mr. 3000" looks like suck, but usually he's pretty funny. He even makes them lame-ass Illinois State Lottery commercials pretty entertaining.

Anyway, it got my younger child thinking: has anyone ever gotten 3,000 hits?

Oh yeah.

Who has 3,000 hits right now?

Uhhh, nobody, as far as I know. There's one guy, Raffy Palmeiro. He might be close.

Who was the last guy to get 3,000 hits?

Ummm, I'm not sure. Wade Boggs, I guess.

So off to Baseball Reference.

I was right about Wade Boggs.

I was also kind of right about Raffy. Not counting Rickey!, he has the most hits for active players, with 2,888. Mr. Viagra's slowing down, but one more decent year ought to snag it for him.

Who's next? Never would have guessed Robbie Alomar, with 2,721. Robbie's still young, but the fork in his back is jammed in there awful deep. He's done. Barroid Steroid is next with 2,701. He only has 106 hits this year, but he's still hitting .362, his OPS is 1.4 and he's just an unreal man living in an unreal world.

Then comes the Beege, and then McStiff, with 2,477. Is he retired, or not? How can you tell?

Favorite name amongst the top 100 hit men: Chili Davis, baybee, with 2,380.

The man currently 4th in home runs is Willie Mays with 660. The man currently fifth is Mark McAndro with 586. I have a feeling Sam-Me (568 and counting) is going to snuggle himself somewhere between there, when it's all said and done.

Career-wise, I mean. NOT THIS YEAR, mopes. He's not hitting 19 homers in 33 games.

Gold-medal winning phone conversation

A cell phone plays 'olaaaay, olay olay olay', somewhere in Athens.

Gus: "Yeah? Who dis?"
Nomar: " Mia there?"
Gus: "No Mia. Gus. Gus Staphinokeles. Hellas."
Nomar: "Shit. I can't see all these little keys in the dark."
Gus: "Turn light on, putz...."

Phone disconnects. Soon, another cell phone rings in Athens.

Mia: "Honey? Is that you?"
Nomar: "Yeah, babe. It's me. How are you?"
Mia: "Well, real good, I guess. See me on TV?"
Nomar: "Honey, I had them TiVo the game for me, and I blew off the postgame press to watch the whole thing. You were wonderful!"
Mia: "Did you see where I said we have a gold medal now for the family?"
Nomar: "Oh, sorry hon. They didn't get that part."
Mia: "I'm sorry, did I say something?"
Nomar: "No, Mia, no. I just....I just never thought there would be a gold medal in my house, after we sucked so bad in Barcelona."
Mia: "But we ALREADY have a gold medal in our house."
Nomar: "I know."
Mia: "And a silver, too".
Nomar: "Yeah, they're all YOURS, you know".
Mia: "Honey, don't be mad that my teams all won."
Nomar: "I know, I know. I'm not. I just...feel kinda.."
Mia: "Insecure?"
Nomar: "NO! Inadequate, I guess."
Mia: "Ha! Jeez, dear, have you cashed your last $600,000 paycheck yet? Do you know how much Gatorade I have to swill, on camera, just to make half of that?"
Nomar: "I'm sorry, honey. I didn't mean it that way. Thanks for making me feel better."
Mia: "That's ok, babycakes. I need you. Real bad. I can't wait to come home."
Nomar: "Me too, babe."
Mia: "Now, just where IS home these days?"
Nomar: "Well, I got a place here in Chicago. It's real nice. Concierge. Nice linens. Covered parking, 24/7 workout club, and the team takes care of everything for us.."
Mia: "Oh yeah, the Cubs. How are they doing?"
Nomar: "We're 8-for-9 these days, and leading the wild card."
Mia: "Wild Card? I thought that was just for Boston."
Nomar: "We're in the NL, honey. Boston was the AL. They have another wild card."
Mia: "Why can't you win a division for once?"
Nomar: "Ouch, babe. Well, the Cardinals are better than the Yankees, even. We'll never catch them. But Florida and Anaheim won the World Series as Wild Cards, and once we get in the playoffs, anything can happen."
Mia: "I hope you don't get the wild card."
Nomar: "Why, honey? That's the only chance we have."
Mia: "We've been apart for so long. I want you to spend some time with me."
Nomar: "...and Brandi and Julie and..."
Mia: "No, babe. Just us. We can go to Hawaii, or Tahiti! For weeks and weeks, just us, alone."
Nomar: "We can still do that, even if we do win."
Mia: "Don't you mean WHEN you win?"
Nomar: "Yeah. YEAH. WHEN we win, I'll take YOU to Tahiti. With my World Series shares. I'll show YOU what a gold medal performance is."
Mia: ", sorry. Some scruffy asshat just pinched my ass...HEY, YOU! Get back here....YEAH, I'M TALKING TO YOU, DICK!! I'll kick your ass...what's your name?"
Gus: "Uhhhh...Nomar Garceenaparray..."
Nomar: "Honey...take it easy..."
Mia: "It's ok, dear. I'm just going to show him my award winning follow-through...OOOOFFF!"

So, in the historic streets of the city named after the Greek goddess Athena, a scruffy, disreputable man lies bleeding from his nostrils, gripping his package like it would fall off if he let go. Nearby, a talented, sexually frustrated woman steams off towards the Olympic village to pick up the girls for champagne.

While, in the early morning light, Nomar Garciaparra calls room service, and I'm not talking bacon-n-eggs.



Thursday, August 26

Hilarious moment that may only tickle me

Just was driving home, and you know those Allstate commercials? The ones where the narrator is Dennis Haysbert, who currently plays the POTUS on "The West Wing" or some show like that...but whos best known by all of us as Pedro Cerrano, the movie version of Julio Zuleta on "Major League".

"Straight ball, I hit very much. Curve Ball? Bats are scared."

Anyway, he is now the second coming of the James Earl Jones Authoritative Black Voice-Over guy, I guess. Today, he starts his speil about people you may not noice offhand...

"In every company, there are people you don't immediately notice. Like on a baseball team, who notices the third-base coach? How do I know this? How many third-base coaches have groupies?....."

Um, Jo-Boo? I can think of one...


also: Bako hits homer; Arafat, PLO prepare to take part in Yom Kippur

Well, yesterday's game sure was blah blah blah Maddux deserved a better blah blah blah blah Moises Alou sure is blah blah Sosa again was no blah blah blah Hawkins sucks blah blah that ball WAS foul and Ned Yost should have yanked a yard of blah blah blah blah The Great Corey Patterson is about to live up to blah blah blah..., let's get to the BIG news of the day.

Gabor Paul Bako BELTED one yesterday! A tater, a dong, dialed '8' for long distance, he went yard, a big fly, he hammered it, hit a four-ply belt, a diamond jack, hey hey, holy cow, holy mackerel, no doubt about it, its got a chance, stretch!

You can put it on the board.

After watching the prodigious clout, Sammy Sosa went into the clubhousse tunnel to splash water on his face.

When asked if he was surprised, the last man to go deep had this to say:

"Why should Paul Bako be surprised by anything he does? Only Paul Bako knows how hard Paul Bako works, and only Paul Bako knows what Paul Bako has deep down inside him."

At which point a classy, jovial Greg Maddux shoved a live Maine lobster down the front of Bako's compression shorts, and squirted Softsoap hand soap on his face, and let Larry Flynt take pictures.

In other news, Gov. Rod Blagoyoyoyvich drafted a measure for the Illinois Legislature to make August 25th "Paul Bako Day", obviously eschewing using his given name "Gabor", since Milerod doesn't ever use HIS Serbian name, either.

The Legislature voted 99-4 against the measure, however.


Wednesday, August 25

Everything is bee-youuuu-tee-fullll

The sun is shining bright, we're looking at the wonderful world of Cubs baseball through our rose-colored shades, sipping our tall, icy glass of Cubbie Blue Kool-Aid!

Coming in today, I came up with seven (7) names of Cubs who are playing their best baseball right now. They're playing so well, I could just cry.

The names I came up with are the names of people I have ripped in the past, has-beens or never will-bees who are just doing wonderfully right now, five position players and two pitchers...

...and that's all I am going to say on the matter. For I, the Uncouth Sloth, am in touch with my Cubness. Like Donald Sutherland said to Billy Baldwin in "Backdraft", I have "seen the fire". And I know, if I spend today heaping praise on these seven men, they will all go out, as one, today and keel over dead. I will not identify these seven latter-day heroes, and I just hope in the most hidden recesses of my heart that they continue to play for the rest of the year like they have played the last week.

And NO, the Great Sam-Me Sosa is NOT one of the people I am thinking of. He still sucks, but the Cubs have been winning games IN SPITE of his big selfish washed-up mangy butthole.

You just know I'm going to piss on the picnic table.

OK. Two weeks ago, when we were losing miserably to SF, LA, and SD, our main wild-card competition, we were all out here bellyachin' like inmates having to eat oatmeal for the fortieth day in a row. Dusty can't handle a bullpen, Dusty stays too long with HIS guys, Dusty's batting order is all screwed up, we have no leadoff guy, the middle of the order is dragging us down, why isn't Walker playing?

Now, that we're winning, what has Dusty done differently?

Not a god damned thing.

The Truly Kool-Aid Swilling amongst us would accept this fact as PROOF that the Dusty Baker Experiment of "letting them play" and "treating them like men" works well. The proof of the theorem is, they would say, that losing was the aberration, that if Dusty sticks to his guns, they would start winning sooner or later. They do every year, it seems.

Ah, yes, the great Dusty Stat: In his ten+ years of managing, he has managed only 3 "meaningless" games, defined as games when they were out of the playoff picture.

There is nobody out there that can get his team to the playoffs like Dusty Baker. That is just plain fact.

But what about games 6 & 7 of the 2003 NLCS? Games 6 & 7 of the 2002 World Series? How about the 1998 Play-in game, when Dusty's boys couldn't solve the Great Steve Trachsel?

When it comes to The Big One, the truly BIG ONE in all-caps, bold, italics and quotation marks, sitting back and letting the boys recreate doesn't work. I maintain that the losing out west is no exception to the rule, that you are just as likely to lose as you are to win, regardless of the talent, if strategy, situations, and common sense are ignored.

We won what we won last year, and we are where we are this year, because of superior trading prowess made possible by the insane astronomic profits pulled in every year by this particular Tribune Corp. profit center. If we had the talent that Pittsburgh or Cincinnatti has, Dusty would lose 112 games with his toothpick chewin' half asleepin' managin'.


Tuesday, August 24

This is what you came to see!

Accomplished athletes:

Not bony-ass whining, sniveling pouty kee-yunts!

This is HIS house

In 2002, The Great Sammy Sosa welcomed himself upon arrival at spring training, declaring to everyone present "welcome to my house".

In 2004, Carlos Zambrano has informed one and all that "Wrigley Field is HIS house".

Frankly, I have more faith that Carlos might actually do something better with it. Maybe add a few more decorations, such as banners, pennants, and flags.

On nights like last night, it just looks so easy. Keep the ball down, down, down, make them ground it to short, to second, pitch it, scoop it, throw 'em out. I guess he can't do it every time, which is a shame. For when Z is on, like last night, it really just looks so easy. Prior makes people chase, Wood blows people away, Maddux lulls you to sleep, Clement nibbles, nibbles, nibbles. Z will just make you pound your shit into the ground, and make you LIKE it.

I am trying hard, very hard, to be rational about Nomar and his wrist. If he goes on the DL, he can start as of the 21st, which will free him up around the 5th or 6th of September, which leaves plenty of time for the end-of-season-Sherman's March on Atlanta, where we set fire to everything and everyone we pass by, ending with a first-series NLDS win in Turner Field.

How's that for a run-on-and-on sentence?

Missed much of the Olympics yesterday. Zambrano's Dad, a frequent commenter here, has been touting the praises of Pocket Rocket Aussie diver Loudy Tourky. Since I would rather claw my eyes out than watch diving, I can't say I can comment on the cut of her jib, and the big wide web hasn't been much help, either. She's Jewish, which means she isn't blond, thank God. No more bleach blonds, pleeze? She's also 4'10" and 90 pounds, and shock of shocks, she's a former gymnast, who, I dunno, got too old? She grew boobies?

I assume Dad knows of which he speaks, but the idea of the Uncouth Sloth trying to hook male-to-female 1-pin connectors with someone a third my size...damn, girl, broke ya in two. Guess I can share ya with a couple of my friends.

If I had a couple.


Monday, August 23

By the way

To help those of you Olympics-challenged peoples who are wondering who Irini Korhanenko is on my poll to the left, well, feast yer eyes on this beast:

Scuuuze me while I rub one out........

It's almost time

Almost, but not quite, time for me to discuss, you know, that OTHER way of qualifying for post-season play. Let's see what happens with the next seven with Milwaukee and the AssTrolls. This homestand is huge, HUGE I say, but if Dusty stays with the Patterson-Lee-Nomar-Alou lineup, we have a better chance for success. You can't put Ramirez fifth, I might even put him seventh, since he can't run. Let him bat with Barrett on base.

Notice I didn't mention that 800 pound ape. Fuck him, and feed him fisheads. Maybe we'll win this in SPITE of his sorry ass.

Call me a fag all you want, but the women's marathon was INTREEEEGING viewing yesterday. This is the first marathon I have watched, and it might be the last. I watched because of the whole historic thing, the path of the original Marathon runner who dropped dead after bringing word of Greek victory to Athens. I have to say, I was SHOCKED, truly, non-sarcastically shocked, that the whole route was lined with McDonald's, BP, and car rental joints. It was like driving down Ogden Ave, or maybe International Drive in Orlando, only with less smog.

If I were Greek, I'd be resentful of all the American shit built all over the place. Oh, wait, BP is British. Shell is Dutch. Fine, never mind.

Anyway, if you are sitting here with baited breath wondering which marathon runners the Sloth took a likings to, FORGET IT!! Jesus, Deena Kantor, after 24 miles or so, looked just like my ex-wife! I know, that's way harsh on Kantor, but I doubt she reads this, anyway. They kept showing the first group of ten-twelve runners, and I remember thinking: Combine them all, you won't bet a decent pair of tits in the bunch. Well, jeez, here's Kantor's day: run 12 miles, take a nap. Jump up and down on a box for two hours, eat a celery stick, run 12 more miles, walk the dog, go to bed. That regimen MAY help you lose excess fat.

Your results may vary.

Anyway, my olympic babe of the weekend: Natalie Coughlin

We all wait with twitchy anticipation her obligatory layout in FHM or Stuff.


Friday, August 20

The Sloth's Olympic coverage

Cue olympic theme:

BUMMMM-bum BUM-BUM-bummmmm...

You all know I like 'em young, and I am willing and able to someday write a few thousand choice words about how girl ice skaters have the best bodies in the universe. Linda Fratiane pulled me through puberty...Jill Trenary...Katarina Witt, the ice queen is HOTT! The Russians had a couple ice dancers, Marina Klimova with her red hair, and I remember her name, Klimova, because I wanted to climax all ova her...

It's all the pushing off from the gluteal region, that gives 'em all that round skaters ass, even the young ones like Sarah Hughes can tweak my strings.

It ain't the same in gymnastics. I know some who get off on watching these starving midgets slam themselves down on the balance beam, but see, I ain't no pedophile. Young, yes, but you need to look legal. These 4-foot-somethings, 83 pound girls, 16 year olds with the body of 11 year olds. I always feel slimy after watching.

And watching male gymnasts? How much male porn uses male gymnasts as a plot device? 45%? 50%?

Anyway, the main observation from last night's viewing was that I kept cringing when Russian ballerina Svetlana Khorkina would show up on my TV box. She's the REAL tall one (5-foot-5) who still weighs about 46 pounds. I kept expecting one of her skinny twig legs to crack open, and borscht start pouring out all over the mat.

In terms of the Sloth's Grand Majestic Emaciated, Anorexic scale, Khorkina scores a 9.5 out of 10:

Scoring slighty worse (fatter) than the All-time champ (famous division), Lara Flynn Boyle:

But scoring higher than the previous runner-up, Calista Flockhart.

And, in closing, I realize this is a cultural difference, and that people in her own country would not understand if she was whistling while she worked. But Svetlana, baby, you one harrrrd lookin' bitch. What, if you smile, another nuclear reactor in Siberia is going to melt down into the earth's core? Stop looking so Goddamned serious, ice cube! You need a fuck real bad, kiddo. I suppose there are all sorts of black turtleneck-wearing fucks with pierced lips and Stoli breath who would be willing to ride your bony ass.

Hopefully, you'll gain 30 quick ones, once you stop training, and maybe if you're lucky, you can grow some tits. If you meet a rich guy, he can even buy you some!! Shit yeah, happens all the time here in Amerika.

It's getting late, do YOU know where your Cubs are?

Hooray, yahoo, the middle of the order smacked homers yesterday, and in some small miniscule form of karmic repayment for all of the 1-0 games Greg Maddux lost for the Cubs during his lifetime, the offense bailed him out and won him his 301st game. I was hoping and counting of 15 from him, and I must be honest, there were many times this year when I figured there was no chance in all hell of that happening.

Watching him in any given year is like having to hit off of him. He is quite unimpressive at first glance, but when all is said and done, he will win his 15 or 16, will end up with a better ERA than he did last year, and I cannot stress enough how major the two complete games were, at a time when there was ZERO confidence in the bullpen. He picks his spots, he knows that he is somewhat limited in this point in time, and he is the master allocator. Plus, it seems that Kerry Wood is learning something from him this year in terms of pitch count conservation, and if that's the case, good Lord...that in itself is worth $6M per annum.

What do I think about the series in Houston? Who the fuck knows? It is so goddamned hard to read this team. Just when I start shovelling the dirt on their casket, they sack up and start hitting the ball. Just when I start puffing my chest out and wearing one of my awesome array of Cub polo shirts to work...they'll let some Paul Wilson-esque figure shut them down. It seems whatever I say, they'll do just the opposite, which in its own perverse way makes me a Cub expert.

Call me an anti-expert for all I care. Just remember me when you sell my fucking ideas to Fox Sports or whomever.

Pretty fucked up sitchy they got down on the dark side of town. Ozzie Guillen gets rung up for 2 games on trumped up charges by the evil demon spawn of Harry Wendelstedt. At that very moment, Ozzie gets rung up by his kidneys. Feeling cranky and irritable, Ozzie calls Wendelstedt a filthy liar for all to hear, so they ring him up for two more games. Ozzie could give a fuck less, for that just gives him two more days to rest and recoop from his kidney stones, and don't think for a second that it wasn't on his mind when he decided to shoot his yap.

But then the General Mangler, Kenny (my kids can get you a HOT deal on a car stereo) Williams calls the league office, whereupon he gets bitch-slapped by Bob Watson and Sandy Alderson. Then Kenny squirts off for all of us to hear, saying that not only is he frustrated that the league won't even LISTEN to him and Oz, but he doesn't appreciate being talked to like a child, or a subordinate, by Alderson.

But, see, Kenny, here's what's trump. Alderson and Watson report to the commish. If you have a legit beef, which you might, and if you had a legit commish, he would be remiss if he didn't consider your position.

But you don't have a legit commish. You have Bud Light, the puppet of the owners, and the owner that probably pulls the most strings is YOUR OWN, Jerry (White Flag) Reinsdork. So, your owner is working against you, my friend.

You're trying to fire up your dogass team by picking fights with a league office that YOUR owner worked hard to establish. How come, Kenny, that even though I have my own day job, I can see this, and you can't? Oh yeah, I forgot. You don't HAVE a brain...all YOU have is some big old balls, and an even bigger red ass!

Which ain't wrong, big guy. Back in my youth, I would have LOVED to party with you, cowboy. If I asked you to jump off of the roof, you would have shot back "do you want a straight dive, or do you want some somersaults and twists?" Then you would have punched my bicep until I cried. Fucking bitch.

I'm just glad MY Gm traded a bunch of mangoo for Nomar, and you're complaining that you get no respect. You're supposed to be a smart guy, in a smart guy role. Think with your top head for a change, star.


Thursday, August 19

Open letter from Russell Branyan

August 19, 2004

Hey, y'all. I know we lost last night and all, but I did get two homers, and drove in all the runs for us. I'm back from triple-A, I'm hitting over .270 now, I'm playing regular, and even though the team itself has been sliding steadily into last place since I came up, I've been doing OK, haven't I? It isn't MY fault we're losing, hell, Seddy (Scott Posednik) was down below .240 before the Cubs came back the other day.

Anyway, can I tell you how bad the minors suck? I mean, look at things here? They give us, like, $150 meal money a day, and shiiit, I eat ALL of my meals in the clubhouse. Plus, remember, twice a month they slip me $14,000 clear! I'm livin' large, yo. Got me a nice suite at the Pfister, and I'm buyin' Playstation games and CDs like mad, buddy. Back in Indy, we were livin' like 7 guys in a townhouse, and guys shit, socks, shoes were everywhere. It stunk like snatch the whole time down there...

...and don't even TALK about the snatch here in the bigs.

It's all good, but guys been spookin' me out lately. Been calling me "Dave Kingman" and stuff. I'm askin' them, who's this Kingman, and they all start laughing at me and shit. Well, I ain't no hick, I got me a laptop, dig? I get out to Google him, and turns out he was a baseball player! So I then go to Baseball Reference., and I look up this Kingman guy.

Turns out he was a helluva guy, man. 442 dongs, man, and I don't understand why this guy isn't in the Hall of Fame, dude? So it's cool that they call me Dave Kingman, now, 'cause he was one of the all-time greats.

Where I be this fall

Nickname: Trojans
Head Coach: John McKenzie
2003 Record: 4-5 (Class 4A)
2004 Football Enrollment: 635.00

8/27 7:00 A Aurora (Central Catholic) 403
9/3 7:30 H Farmington 369
9/11 3:00 A Chicago (Manley) 680
@ Hanson
9/17 7:30 A *Rock Falls 741
9/24 7:30 H *Kewanee (H.S.) 552
10/1 7:30 H *Princeton 595
10/8 7:30 A *Rochelle 1064
10/15 7:30 H *Spring Valley (Hall) 423
10/22 7:30 H Tolono (Unity) 460

Hopefully, I will have my walkman on for the Rochelle, Hall, and Tolono games.


Wednesday, August 18

You want a daily dose?

Go to Desipio, certain people here think I do nothing more than imitate Andy Dolan, so just suck from his tit, OK?

What? You've already been there.

Fine. You want my opinion? I quit watching the fuckin' game after Sosa struck out on a 3-2 shoulders-high pitch with the bases juiced and two outs.

Bases loaded, two outs, 1-0 game, you know you have trouble scoring, you know you've been struggling, the pitcher's been struggling, 3-2 pitch. What would I do? I guess I would be looking for a pitch in MY zone, to drive through the infield. Otherwise, I'm taking. If the pitcher drops a mother-fucking inside pitch at the knees, oh well, fuck me dry.

Otherwise, I'm prancing to first, I'm shucking off my shin guard, I'm passing the buck to someone who can actually hit. I'm driving in another run, and I'm doing what is best for my TEAM.

But, no. The fucking 800 pound ape about tore his ribs out again trying to mash one against the Jumbotron.

I am not placing the loss at his swollen feet. There are 24 other guys that deserve blame here. Actually, maybe we can give the starting staff a pass.

You all know that I hates me some Sosa, and lately there's been a lot of guys in the media who lack any kind of respect for him. The fact is, though, many of the guys in the clubhouse respect him, as least as far as his stats are concerned. They follow his lead, the same way many of them followed Fred McStiff's lead in 2001 and 2002. Remember, these are the same knuckle-dragging mopes who get thrown out of kilter if you move them in the batting order, or change their role in the bullpen. "But we didn't know our ROOOLLLE!" Ballplayers have the intellect of a day-old turd that fell from a tall dog's ass.

Swing from your jock!! Fuck the situation!! Why manufacture runs when you can make 'em in one fell swoop?

I have a full time job, and I haven't swung a bat in anger since my sophomore year in high school. Why do I know to cut down my swing with 2 strikes, and the pros don't? Because I'm fucking smarter than them!!

End of story.

Amanda Beard deserves the Gold

Amanda Beard, who won a silver medal last night in swimming, has the best eyes in the bizness! Can she act? Let's put it this way: can she act better than, say, Amanda Bynes?

Or Kelly Ripa?

It seems like Amanda's money earning days are just beginning.

Mmmm. Just another thing to take our minds off of the Cubs, who do not deserve to win the Wild Card. More like a Wild hair up their ass.


Tuesday, August 17

Pictures of babes

Hilarie Burton, the WB's "One Tree Hill"

Joanna Garcia, WB's "Reba"

Josie Maran, "Little Black Book"

Misty May, US Beach Volleyball

Any of these babes have more sack than Dusty Baker, who isn't enough of a man to do what is best for his team, and push Sammy Sosa down the batting order.

Michael Phelps never had a chance

Off the top of my head, the five biggest Olympic events ever:

1) Miracle on Ice
2) Mark Spitz 7 golds
3) Mary Lou Retton
4) Nadia Comaneci
5) Eric Heiden's 5 golds
6) OK, 6, Jesse Owens

OK, what do they all have in common? Maybe except for Heiden, none of this was expected. I don't recall being bludgeoned for months about Mary Lou Retton's gold medal chances in 1984. There certainly weren't any expectations about the 1980 Hockey team.

OK, what are some of the biggest flops ever?
1) Dan and Dave
2) Dan Janssen in 1998 (or was it 1994)? Or both?
3) Michael Phelps
4) Tonya and Nancy
5) Michele Kwan

Too many expectations; too much publicity. Maybe there were greater flops, but we don't know about them since they weren't played up as savagely as these examples. Phelps in particular has been weighted down by months of breathless anticipation as he pursued eight (8) gold medals!!

First of all, at least two of the events are relays, over which he has very little control over. Another event, the 100 freestyle from yesterday, is not a particular strength of his, and he has NEVER been named as a favorite in that event. So he had just as much chance at 8 gold medals in Greece as I do, and I'm sitting here in Mt. Prospect with a plate full of sausage patties in front of me. (Don't ask)

I really wish NBC, etc. would just chill out, and let us make the decision for ourselves on whether the Olympics are compelling viewing. There's enough of us Olympic geeks out here that we'll make it worth their while to put it on the TV, but if they keep shoving people like Phelps down our throats, eventually, we're going to start thinking of the Olympics like we do Wrestling. or NASCAR.

Where the show far exceeds the sport. Fuck it, who needs that? We already have the NBA.


Monday, August 16

Bullpen struggles

or, Women weaken legs, Kyle

According to the Trib, the last pass of the starting rotation resulted in an 1.60 ERA, which is good enough even for our inconsistent, Sammy-laden offense. But since the bullpen is giving it up at an over-11-runs-per-nine-innings rate, we've lost three of those five starts.

It isn't complicated to figure out, either. Basically, everyone has a slot they like to work in. But, the last slot is vacant since Beetlejuice settled his deal with Joe Borowski (your talent for your soul), and in a very conspicuous example of the Peter Principle, everyone is moved up one notch too far for their own good.

The loss of LaTroy to suspension hurt real bad. He is STILL our best reliever, and losing him just moved everyone up one MORE notch, which is why the eternally skittish Cap'n Tightpants was in the best possible position to fuck us up the ass yesterday.

This is how the parts should fit:

Borowski - Closer
Hawkins - 8th Innings
Farnsworth - 7th Innings
Remlinger - LOOGY
Mercker - LOOGY
Leicester - Young mop-up guy
Rusch - Old mop-up guy
Dumpster - recuperting in Iowa

But now, everyone has had to move up one step. Remlinger and Leicester are now in charge of 7th innings, which due to too much or not enough innings in their arms, neither is truly capable of handling. Farnsworth is in charge of 8th innings, which is too close to the ninth, which causes his sphincter to lose its grip between the inside and the outside.

Even if all of this improbably works out, the tentative, hesitant LaTroy Hawkins is asked to gather up whatever little wit he has to close out the game, and the fact that he has saved more than he has blown only says one thing to me:

He's Due.

Most Cub problems should be this cut-n-dried. You get a closer, you move everyone back down a peg, and thus everyone is working in his comfort zone. Farnsworth has pitched his way down to Hairy mop-up guy, Dumpster should be sent back to Iowa to finish the year stretching his arm for starting, and either Leicester or Rusch could take over 7th innings knowing that Hawkins will be there to eagerly snatch up the baton for the 8th.

Of course, this closer deal will have to be done waiver-style, and the pool just got shallower with the loss of Everyday Eddie Guardado to Tommy John Disease. Jorge Julio did NOT clear waivers, and waivers haven't even been asked for Ugie Urbina, which means that Detroit isn't much interested in dealing him. Meanwhile, it has been hard to follow the progress of Reg'lar Joe, since there is no "Borowski Watch", but I daresay, his recovery is just as vital to the 2004 Chicago Cubs as Mark Prior's.

So Cublike, this problem that is EZ to diagnose, but so hard to cure.


Saturday, August 14

Mike Remlinger, closer?

At least until JoeBlow gets back to his normal sweaty self?

I guess I need to update my poll. Not too many of you went with me in leaving Sam-Me's sorry ass for the buzzards.


Friday, August 13

Sloth at the Yard

I attended most of yesterday's loss to the Padres. Since I don't actually go all that often, I always find it necessary to paint a picture for you when I do go.

My seats were GREAT! Sec 220, sixth row, right behind Michael Barrett's new #8. The temp was about 60, the upperdeck overhang covered us, which would be important later on yesterday. The wind was blowing in from left field, which promised to keep offense down. You can usually count on being annoyed or offended by some yutz nearby who either drunkedly shouts lame obscenties or conducts monkey bizness on his cell phone. But yesterday, distractions were provided by a man and his family in front of us. His kids were cute, probably 15 months and 30 months, and he in seat 4 and his wife in seat one effectively sealed them off in a reactor in which they bounced around like radioactive nuclei.

I'm sorry, people. Infants and children below the age of 4 really have no business at Wrigley. There is nothing for them to do, they'll never remember being there, and since it is packed to the gills every day, it is so easy to get them lost, bumped, dinged, dented, etc.

Anyway, speaking of lost it over a couple of calls that, although correct, could have went either way. It changed the complete tempo of the game. It was raw and wet, and it seemed that San Diego would have been content to just pack up and get the hell out of Dodge. But Clement walked guys on base, forcing the Padres to try to do something with them. A remarkable play and flip by Grud to Nomar, followed by a ill-advised chuck into the dugout, turned what could have been a all-time inconceivable double play into a run scored and a man on second. Nomar had to leap in the air to avoid getting creamed on the bag while controlling the flip. From where I sat, contrary to what the Tribune says today, he looked off the bag. Bruce Froemming, who ought to be selling used cars somewhere, the fat fucking toad, probably SHOULD have called him out, based on the effort alone. Most umps do. Not this fat fuck. He hates us, and makes it a point to waddle his fat ass around like a faggot peacock and just fuck us whenever he can.

Anyway, the argument, and an ensuing argument over a bad call on a check swing appeal, got Larry Rothschild thrown out of the game, the home plate ump spent the rest of the day tuning his rabbit ears rather than calling the game, the momentum completely turned, and after a couple of rain delays, the Pads decided that since they were going to be late anyway, why not bring home a win?

Clement looked lost yesterday, but the defense did cartwheels to keep him scoreless through five. Barrett, my new favorite Cub, looked pathetic against Jake Peavy. Grud and Corey hit well, as did Ramirez and Lee. Alooooou put on a display at BP, and I was convinced that he was going to hit one. We booked after the seventh inning rain delay, since we had a train to catch, so we didn't see Nomar's blast, which was a pity.

Now, did Sam-Me really tell us to fuck off after the third of his four whiffs? Yes, he did. So, I promised to write this Wednesday, but I wanted to wait to see what happened yesterday, since it would have looked pretty stupid to call a man out, then watch him do well in person.

August 13, 2004

Sammy Peralta Sosa
Albatross, Chicago Cubs
1060 West Addison
Chicago, IL 60641

Mr. Sosa,

I have hated your motherfucking guts since the day you came to the club. I have had to endure your selfishness, greedy, delusional and destructive behavior since day one, Mr. 30/30 Mall. We have NOT won a World Series with you, so you have no right to consider yourself infallible, beyond reproach, and uncoachable. You are NOT Michael Jordan, you are NOT Roberto Clemente, you are NOT a gladiator, a warrior, or a leader. Of all the people that have passed through the doors of Wrigley Field, you are probably the last person to deserve the good fortune you have consumed these last 12 years, for I could have taken any one of the thousands of major leaguers I have seen in my life, shot him all full of steroids, and watch him do what you have done.

My e-mail address is Have your people contact me, and if I can verify that it is in fact you, I will provide you with my phone number, address, and anything else you need. I want to fight you, Sammy Sosa. I want to fight you, hand-to-hand, no weapons, no entourages, just you, and me, in a dark alley or in my backyard. I am three inches taller than you, more than 50 pounds heavier, and even though I know you have strength enhanced by the illegal drugs you ingest, I am so fucking mad at you for fucking up my team's salary structure for the last dozen years, I will fight dirty, and shove my knee against the small of your back until I can hear it crack, then I will shit on your head and piss in your eyes, you sad sack no-good rotten excuse for a man.

Leave your rum bottles at home, you pussy-ass punk.


Rob Letterly
Mendota, IL

BTW: Mike C, don't YOU ask me to fight. I AM scared of you....

The true meaning of Cubness

Today's posts are in the memory of local resident George Cassidy, a true Cub fan in every sense of the word, who even died a true Cubs death.

Seems that George was watching Saturday's game from a local establishment, and after the Cubs recorded the third out during a particular inning (don't know which one, sorry), he decided to scurry on over to the VFW to continue watching the game. He really wanted to be there to see the start of the Cubs' half, and if all was clear and God willing, he would have made it, without a problem, since the two facilities are only a hundred yards apart.

But running along the fifty-yard line is the BNSF line, and at that very moment a freight train was just about to pass through that part of town. According to investigators, the conductor saw the whole thing happen, he couldn't believe George was going to try to cross in front of him, and even though he clapped on the brakes, there was nothing that could be done, since Superman, Spiderman, and the X-men were all elsewhere watching re-runs of "Fear Factor" or something.

There wasn't much left of George, even as train accidents go, it was horrific. Identification was aided by the fact that his cronies in bar #1 came running out after the train bellowed its horn and slammed on its brakes. They knew....they just knew.

George Cassidy, hopefully in heaven, the Cubs win every game, and Jim Edmonds gets hit by every pitch, but is still called for strikes.


Wednesday, August 11

I love Big Stupid Tommy

He's like the more social little brother I never had, although I might have had a problem with his growing taller than me.

Anyway, if you have not done so in the past, go on out to his vastly superior blog which does quite brisk business for itself. As far as I can tell, Tommy is an underemployed college graduate in Tennessee, a wickedly creative writer who just needs His Big Break before he has to resign himself to a life of book tours, interviews with snotty celebrities, and writing screenplays on deadline. He's a complex man with a simple life, he has tons of friends and, if his life is in fact somewhat uneventful, he doesn't make it seem that way on his blog.

Plus, this boy from Tennessee is a big Cub fan, and has a healthy disrespect for the whole facade that everyone in the organization is pulling in the same direction.

Plus, out of the kindness of his heart, he sent me this full-sized theatrical poster, which came strapped to the mailbox today:

Some questions from my family:

"Who is this Tommy? Is he one of your internet buddies?"
"Doesn't he know you're married?"
"You're NOT putting that up downstairs!"
"Can I have it?"

Guess they're not used to random acts of generosity.

So, thank you, BST!! I'm digging it big time, and no good turn goes undone. I'll be in touch...


Tuesday, August 10

Life imitates Art

The Sun Times refuses to name the rock band that drove their tour bus over the Chicago River on Sunday, and dumped their refuse through the gratings on the bridge, which landed on top of a boatload of architectural tour patrons. The Tribune, surprisingly, has no such scruples, and identifies the Dave Matthews Band by name.

As you all know, if you were around during The Sloth's All Majestic Top-100 Overrated Things in Life, The Dave Matthews Band is way, way high on my list. So am I surprised to learn that members of his entourage emptied the contents of their bus toilets onto a bunch of unsuspecting people?

Hell, no. I say they have been shitting on the American public for years.

Just remember this the next time this modern-day fraud puts out another of his ersatz bluesy pieces of shit. Paying 18 bucks to listen to this buttplug clear his throat is a lot like paying 18 bucks to ride a boat and get soaked in the collected urine, feces, and other expectorations of Dave Matthews, his band and his groupies.

Open Letter to the Manager of the Chicago Cubs

August 10th, 2004

Mr. Johnnie "Dusty" Baker
Manager, Chicago Cubs
1060 W. Addison St.
Chicago, IL 60613-4397

Dear Mr. Baker,

I would like to respectfully request that you do something different with Sammy Sosa.

I have no reason to believe that you do not want what we all want, which is to win as many games as possible, to make the playoffs, and to eventual win the World Series. I am a great admirer of your track record of winning with the Giants, and last year, with our team. I was very happy when you were hired to manage the ball club, and I was very pleased when you took the 2002 team, worked in several mid-year acqusitions, and came within 5 outs of a pennant.

Also, please do not count me amongst those who blame you for what happened during games 6 and 7 of last year's NLCS. I myself might have had Matt Clement ready to pitch relief in game 7, but I have no way of knowing how ready he was to take on such a task, only you could know that. I'm not sure there was anything your could have done anyway; it was the Marlins' year, and I am a firm believer in many of the things you place your trust in, such as karma, pre-destination, and luck.

What seems to happen a lot, though, with human beings who work so closely with one thing for such a long time, is that sometimes you get TOO close, and what may seem simple from the outside, appears much more complex to the people on the inside. Now, it is possible that there may be problems with the team that we do not know about. Probably not, since the media does a good job at finding and dissecting everything it possibly can, and there doesn't seem to be any 'curtains' anymore where issues are hidden for decency's sake, as there was when you played.

All I am saying is, from where I sit, as a very interested observer, student of the game of baseball, and rabid Cub fan since I was out of diapers...Sammy Sosa is shitting all over the team, our chances, and most of all, your authority.

You and Gary Matthews have tried to coach him, but he refuses to heed your suggestions. He will not accept a demotion in the batting order, and will not accept anything less than what he has always done, which is to do it HIS way, regardless of its impact on the team. He is openly jealous of the fact that your boss, Jim Hendry, has brought in another superstar player, Nomar Garciaparra, a move that cannot be construed as anything but a positive attempt to win games.

If it were anyone else on the team, you would act quickly and decisively. You compare Sammy to Barry Bonds, but in case you haven't figured this out by now, and my apologies if you have, but Sammy is NOT Barry. Barry accepts his role on the team, he plays situational baseball when needed, without being told, and although he is arrogant and aloof, he places his team values above his own as he executes his job. Sammy does not, never has, never will, and he has no reason to believe that his way is not the best way, because nobody has ever had the courage to tell him otherwise and re-inforce it with action.

If he will not respect YOU, with your proven track record of winning, he will not respect anyone. You have given him every chance to succeed, and you have done your due diligence in researching every angle of the situation. Unless you want to lose the season, waste the efforts of every other person in the entire organization, and lose the everlasting respect of your players, staff, and management, you MUST SIT SAMMY DOWN NOW!! Tom Goodwin would have gotten at least one base hit in San Francisco, sir, and that is the question you have to ask yourself as you let Sosa drive you down the path to despair.

I can be reached at, if you wish to correspond further about my thoughts. Thank you for your time.


Rob Letterly
Mendota, IL


Monday, August 9

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

Hope you all have a good week this week, whether you push paper, dig ditches, serve as a tour guide for erotic homosexual art, or play shortstop for the Chicago Cubs.

This is actually going to go as the Good, the Ugly, and the Bad, but obviously that doesn't have the same ring to it.

The Good

I have told this story a zillion times, and probably you share the same feeling, but it is usually very obvious when you see Quality, and in 1986, as Greg Maddux was being jocked around by the National League, it was obvious that this boy knew how to pitch. If the Lou Brock trade was the most damaging trade in Cub history, the Greg Maddux negotiations of 1992-93 come in a close second.

I don't honestly think that Tom Glavine is going to reach 300 wins, and actually, I wasn't sure that Maddux himself was going to reach this plateau this year, either. The accomplishment is even more impressive when you consider that this so-called "marketing ornament" has stepped it up with two amazing complete game victories when the team needed them most, and has emerged as the leading winner on the team.

Greg Maddux, my most hearty congratulations for your 300th career win!!! This might be the last time any of us see this again.

The Ugly

I am going to do a most un-Sloth-like thing, and just dismiss yesterday's gang-fuck as just one bad game, just one loss. Nothing worked, nearly everyone played like shit, and every man of the Giants outfield pulled catches out their asses to beat us.

The next roll starts tomorrow!

The Bad

If something happens this year, and we do not make the playoffs, or if we do, we lose in one of the rounds, the majority of the blame can be placed at the swollen feet of Samuel Peralta Sosa, professional cocksucker prick.


Not Sammy Sosa.

Did you see the game yesterday? Barry Bonds walked twice. He went to the opposite field with an outside pitch for a single. He lashed a double down the line. Even his out was constructed to move the runner along. Barry Bonds can suck Satan's cock in hell. But Barry Bonds is a ballplayer. Even in the surreal surroundings in which he is forced to ply his trade, he has not lost sight on playing situational baseball.

Sammy Sosa, regardless of the game situation, takes every swing as if his life depended on it. When he was at his peak at hand-eye coordination, he averaged 60 homers a year. Now, that his hand-eye coordination has deteriorated, does he adjust?

Does he allow himself to be put down the order?

Does he listen to coaching? Does he take extra practice, extra precautions? Does he do what is best, for the TEAM?

Does he care about the team? Or does HE think HE's the team?

The Cubs owe him $17 million next year. If they trade him, an option for 2006 for $19 million automatically kicks in. Therefore, trading him is completely, utterly impossible! We are STUCK with him for one more year. His enormous salary makes it impossible to pursue quality free agent outfielders, a necessity since he and Alou are both aging.

I cannot possibly express with mere words, how badly I hate this shit-sucking hermaphrodite.

But if he walked into my office right now, I would pick up this 2 pound granite paperweight I have sitting on my desk and hit him over the head with it. Then I would shove my arm as far up his ass as I possibly could, and pull as much of his intestines out of his hole as I could, then I would cut it up and feed it to the fucking geese outside my window.

What do I have against the geese? I get their shit all over the soles of my shoes, then I walk in my house, track it all around, and my wife yells at me. Yes, I do too fucking WIPE!! It's just everywhere. So they deserve to choke on the fucking entrails of the steroid-sipping prima donna goatfucker.


Friday, August 6

Ouch! Whoopsie-daisy!! potatuh!! OwWW!

I am, of course, referring to the play in the bottom of the ninth that blew the combined Prior/Rusch shutout. Christopher Reeve could have circled the bases on that one, while Super Sammy kept fumbling the ball like it was a frozen piece of Kryptonite.

Anyway, first thing you should do, if you haven't already today, is go over to the left hand side, find the link for The Cub Reporter, and check out the guest article where all the newfangled SABR stats are crunched for all the Cubs, and batting orders are constructed according to the presence of a Grud, a Walker, and a Nomar. As it is laid out here, it makes all the sense in the world. So is Dusty earning his 4 milldo by going against statistical logic, following his hunches, making sure no coddled millionaires who make their money while wearing tight doubleknit knickers get their wittle feewings hurt?

Walker-Nomar-Lee-Alou-Sosa-Ramirez-Patterson-Barrett-pitcher, and have fun trying to stop this four times in a row.

Walker gets on base, Nomar sends him around to third on a hit, Lee drives in Walker with another knock, Alou flies out on yet another first pitch fastball, and if Nomar is on third, he tags up and scores. Sosa either strikes out or jacks a three-ply belt, Ramirez does his usual Elgin Streetsweeper thing and sends home everyone left, maybe Patterson bunts his way on with two outs, Barrett drives another gapper to drive in Corey, and by the time the pitcher does his left turn out of the batter's box, he has five runs to start the next inning with.

That's all I have to say. Every time I get giddy, I end up getting a red-hot poker shuved up my ass. Just say the fluorescent lights in the Sloth Cube are a little brighter today.

And, if you have to ask, you just don't understand the true essence of the Sloth.

Thanx, If you know of a clearer scan, please ping me.


Thursday, August 5

Oh, my, God!

I am sure glad we did not pick up Shawn Chacon before the deadline, and I sure hope once he gets cut by the Rocks, that we don't even consider calling him. My God, it looked like he was shot-putting the ball up there. Guys were stacking themselves up like Iraqi prisoners, trying to get to the bat rack.

Oh, how the obscenities did flow last night, as we entered the seventh inning with our fearsome lineup having scored exactly ONE run, and that on a passed ball. (Hey, didncha usta be Charles Johnson, the All-Star catcher?) Last night was the "wet dream" lineup, where everyone in it has hit double-digit home runs. Against Jamey frickin' Wright, in that bandbox, we should have set aim on our Denver record of 26. Some of our guys even ran the count up! His pitch count was spinning faster than our electric meter in July. How in God's name did he escape?

That's the question that's bothering me today. That, and I hear talk that Reg'lar Sweaty Joe is ALIVE!, and pitching. No surgery was done, just rest, I guess. He is going to start a re-hab assignment soon, to get his confidence back as he mows down Beloit Snappers and Kane County Cougars in the Midwest League.

I just have this mental picture in my head: Joe got his $4M last year, 2 milldo per year. He and his wife just went hog wild, then, ala Rocky 2, and they went out and bought the townhouse of their dreams, along with some furs, leather strap accessories, and everything else they had out at the Chess King and Pier One. So while living in the lap of New Jersey Luxury, in their mauve-n-teal pool room, Joe forgot what it took to get him there.

Now, on the DL, he stumbles over drunkenly to a Newark Bears game, and being the local god that he is, permits himself into the bullpen area, where he runs into RICKEY!, running in from the outfield. He and Rickey decide to get the Eye of the Tiger, working out diligently in the bowels of Newark stadium, doing curls right underneath the steam pipes, and then they strip down to their tight shorts and run wind-sprints on the polluted, syringe-laden Jersey shores. Sweat glistening, muscles thrusting, feet bleeding on the broken glass, the heavy, winded 80's hair band Survivor following behind them awkwardly like they do on that Starbucks commercial.

The moment of truth arrives, and JoeBo leans over the filthy sink in his townhouse of love as he peers at his visage in the mirror. There, he sees it: is it the Eye of the Tiger? Or is it that itchy mole that has been nagging the fuck out of him for months, that he just now sees since he has lost ten pounds of face fat?

Now you know, the rest....of the story. We did not get a closer this July, because...they knew...Joe was on the mend. And under the radar, I must hasten to add. I honestly figured they shipped him off to Siberia, to find the supposed nude photos of Maria Sharapova. But he is still in the plans, kids. So we were able to focus all of our resources and attention to Nomar, and the history.


Wednesday, August 4

Ivy Chat Chuck could not be MORE correct

Lunchtime!! And I am RUNNING, not walking, to the nearest Suncoast Video right NOW to pick this up:


This is why we watch the games

8th inning of Cubs-v-Rocks last night, Todd Helton's at bat, is the reason why we watch the games.

Let me set the scene for you from the Casa de Sloth.

Cubs are clinging to a 5-3 lead. Neither team has done much since the second inning, and Wood is pitching a masterful game. This is the furthest along he has pitched in a long time, since before his DL stint. Very rarely does he move along with a low pitch count, and entering the 8th, he was only in the low eighties. Might this be the most improbable of complete games? Especially considering how badly he got jocked in the first inning? A little Greg Maddux seems to have rubbed off on him, as Kid K only has a small handful of K's entering the inning. There are more efficient ways to record the out.

I had somehow missed ever seeing an Aaron Myles at work, but I knew that he was a candidate for the Greek Olympic Baseball team. I always wondered how that could possibly occur, but unshaven in the 8th, he sure looked Greek. Anyway, he popped up, I believe. The rasta-loser Royce Clayton did get on, though, which brought up the always beastly Todd Helton, who started to proceed to foul off fastballs.

And I'm sitting there moaning, because I'm watching the pitch count go up, up, up, and I'm sitting there CONVINCED that Wood will tire out. I can see the slider isn't working, and I can see the situation where he decides to try the slider ONE MORE TIME, only to watch Helton bang it in the stands and tie up the game.

Then Wood decides to reach back in the day, when he had the curveball from hell, and he bends up a muthafuckin' bitch-spit pretzel that, to Helton, must have taken about six weeks to cross the plate.

The league's leading hitter bent his knees, dropped his hands straight in front of him, snapped his head back and swore. My kid thought he used the Lord's name in vain. I thought he tossed out the standard obligatory F-bomb. Nevertheless, it was nasty, dripping, filthy, fucked-up, wack, sick, stoopid, and grab some bench, Nature Boy.

That's why we watch the games. Sure, anyone can watch SportsCenter and gawk when Sam-Me actually gets ahold of one and sends it ten miles high in another area code. But actually watching the games gives you the good stuff, watching a guy crumple like a used rubber on a 37-inch curveball.

That's why it has been so important this year to win. WE have never had such talent on the pitching staff, and who knows when in God's name we will ever luck out like this again?


Tuesday, August 3

I share a birthday with Martha Stewart and Tony Bennett


That must mean that I spend the rest of my life either a) singing in Mafia-owned supper clubs, or b) stabbing people in the back, climbing the pyramid on the backs of my underlings, and eventually going to jail for cheating other investors.

I'll take jail. I've heard they have a mean lobster roll in the commissary there.

The big big big news around here today has been dubbed Nomar-Gate. Is he hurt, or was he jakin' it for the BoSox? Did Hendry knowingly take damaged goods, as claimed by Theo Epstein? Or was he ok all along, and just couldn't bring himself to step up this year in spite of the fact that his team wanted A-Wad more than himself?

Wanna know what I think? Sure, or else, why are you here?

I think it is fucking sick that THIS is all they can think of to write and report about. Jeeezus H. God-dancing Christ, the fucker has only been in town two DAYS!! He got a clutch 2-out base knock for you, he ran his ass all around the diamond catching pop-ups in the wind, and most importantly, WE ARE TRYING TO CONVINCE HIM TO STAY HERE, you lip-drooling morons!!

What do we know about Anthony Nomar Garciaparra?

1) His dad's name is Ramon, which is Nomar spelled backwards, thus the middle name. He is as American as all of us.
2) He hit, like, .372 and .357 a few years back. Since then, he has been bothered by injuries. But so was another fine American, Moises Alou. Now, after renewed interest in off-season conditioning, he's now Aloooooouuuuu!
3) He's one helluva lot better than Alex fucking Gonzalez.
4) If he is only here this year, we gave up a hella bunch for him. I can deal with Justin Jones and Francis Beltran being good, if we are able to keep a .300 hitter for the long term. Otherwise, I might have a reason to piss and moan.
5) He is EXTREMELY sensitive, and you might try giving him a chance to show us whether or not he is hurt. If he is, then it's not HIS fault. If he's not, then shut up, smile, enjoy it, RIDE THE FUCKING COW FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH, then at the END of the season, discuss whether he jaked it for the BoSox this year.

God damn. And you all think I'm the one who always pisses on the picnic.


Monday, August 2

Lordy, Lordy, look who's forty?

First of all, please tell me you're surprised at THIS?

Anyway, what was I gonna say? I forgot. Some guys walked into my hole to ask me something right after I typed the word "Anyway", and I lost my train of thought.

But I'm entitled. I'm old, or I'll officially be old tomorrow.

Forty years ago, two teenaged parents brought me into the world, and five years after that, I got hooked on the Cubs while watching a Kenny Holtzman no-hitter on a decrepit B&W Zenith that my parents only had because my Grandpa didn't want it anymore after he bought his fancy-assed color set. In those days, it didn't occur to people to have MORE than ONE TV. (Then, you'd need more than one antenna).

Somehow, I lived in a house without air conditioning, and only one fan, which of course my parents used, and they wondered why I wanted to sleep in THEIR bed until I was, like 13. We had no air conditioning in the car, either. No FM radio, no CD player, no DVD screens built in the back of the headrests.

No microwaves, no cell phones, hell, no dial tones. Everything was dial-click-click-click those days, to call someone in town, you just had to dial 5 digits: ie; to call us at 634-4702, just dial 4-4702.

No bottled water everywhere, either. Nobody took something to drink with them in the car, except Dad would have his thermos of coffee he drank on his way to work to wake up. RELAX...three-quarters of the time, he wasn't driving. He carpooled to work, since most of us only had one car. So if we needed something on the days he had to drive, tough titties. You did without.

Mom didn't work, hell, nobody's mom worked. Cartoons were only available on Saturday mornings, Sunday mornings, and you could watch old reruns of Speed Racer and the Stooges after school (of course, in the summers, all home games were on Channel 9, so fuck Speed Racer.) Landing on the moon was a HUGE deal, until we got sick of it a couple of years later.

Tennis shoes were either Keds, PF Flyers, or when you got older, Converse All-Stars. Of course, most of us only got the one pair of shoes, and Mom would always opt for the leather shoes, so I don't think I got to wear tennis shoes to school until fifth grade. Or t-shirts, either. No shorts, ever. In fact, I was forced to wear Jc Penney Super Denims (endorsed by Super Dennis, the robot who spent his whole life on his knees) in all sorts of odd colors until I was old enough to resist my mom's attempts to pull them on me forcibly. I mean, let's go through my fifth grade arsenal of pantwear:

1 pr. Super Denims, navy blue, 16 husky
1 pr. Super Denims, cranberry, 16 husky
1 pr. Super Denims, forest green, 16 husky
1 pr. Super Denims, brown, 16 husky
1 pr. Cub Scout issued trousers, blue, 18 husky (ran small) - for den meeting Tuesdays

Kids today, who bitch if they have to sit in the back seat more than 20 minutes, even though they have their own personal headphones, DVD screen, and bottled water.

Of course, there are the old-timers like Stew, who doubtless will regale me about how he had to walk to school 7 miles uphill, both ways, while his family would share one pork chop for dinner during the Depression, and that he would only get to take one car ride a year, and that being in the open seat of a Nash Rambler during the bitter Thanksgiving cold...who will think that my four pair of Super Denims was a pretty sweet deal.

Wonder what my kids will gripe to their kids about? Hopefully they will lecture them about the times when the Cubs didn't win the division every year.

Never thought I would live to see the day


Thanx a million, Fork for turning me on to this picture. You'd think the net would be flooded with good old number 8, but I had a hard time. Guess I need to stop drinking de-caf.

And howdy to all you speech-impediment Kennedy-licking Boston, in America, it's pronounced No-Marrrr. En-oh-em-ay-arr. Nomar.

What can I say? For the first time in my entire life, the Cubs pulled off the stud hoss trade of the year. Maybe there will be some other firsts for us this year? Now, once again I have to shit on the picnic lunch, but just a little. Justin Jones is going to be good. The Twins always seem to know pitching, so for them to give up Doug Eyechart for him indicates his worth.

All done, I've wiped, now kick up the tunes, the circus is on the road! When we start Walker at second, every position in the lineup has double digit homerun potential. I salivate at the scoring potential. And I LOVED yesterday's lineup, even if Corey Patterson is NOT your standard leadoff man. IF, only IF he could be taught the strike zone, he can parlay that combination of bunting and line-drive lashing....of course, this will piss off Chuck, who hates him some CPat mity fierce, I suppose because he's bangin' Gail Fischer.

Of course, kids, we still didn't address the closer. I have to assume Hendry is thinking one of four things, in order of plausiblility:

1) As the Tigers fade in their division, we can do a waiver deal for Ugie.
2) Maybe Borowski isn't as injured as we thought.
3) Maybe Ryan Dempster can close.
4) Hawkins is the man; he will close.

I hope for #1...please, please, please....