It started out as a Cub blog with cuss words. I'm still cussin'; it's the Cub part I'm a little squishy on these days.

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Bruce, we gave you tha keys, and THIS is what you brought home?

¿Dónde está mi dinero, las rameras?

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Monday, October 11

Dead pools everywhere are abuzz

Gotta see what they're saying about this weekend at

Ken Caminiti and Christopher Reeve died. Pardon me if I'm not racked with sorrow.

I don't really have anything against Reeve. Just never thought that he did any more than any other person in his sitchy. He was frustrated with his new lot in life, he thought of dying, but ironically could not muster up the mobility to pull it off. Then he found a certain level of acceptance, and he was working hard to make small gains, a little at a time. I don't wish him harm, but I never understood the hoo-ha about his Bravery. Live in the ghetto, and try to keep your kids safe from gangs, that's bravery.

Now, as far as that fartsack Caminiti, Big Boy Rules, Kenny. You suck the juice, you die a grotesque, premature death. He had to win, he had to get ahead. He saw others doing it, so that made it ok. At the time, I'm sure he would have freely admitted his desire to win was so strong, he was willing to cut his life short.

So far, today, I have not see or heard anybody springing the alligator tears for the felonious bastard. But if I somehow missed you, and you're torn apart by the pain of the sudden death of the 1996 NL MVP, e-mail me and I'll be happy to point you to all of the Ken Caminiti and Sammy Sosa and Barry Bonds and Gary Sheffield and Brady Anderson websites, and you can lock yourself in your room, and squint real hard so you can imagine that they're naked, and you can lather on the Jergens Intensive Care formula all over your hands, and feel free to rub your wang any way you see fit.

Or you can rub it to Sarah Michelle Gellar. I figured, since I had Alyson Hanigan on here, and Michele Trachtenburg, both from "Buffy", well, why not Buffy her ownself?