8/20/2004 09:24:00 AM by Rob

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.

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