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?

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Tuesday, February 15

I’m mildly disappointed

I caught some hell about Rush, but nothing on Boston? I realize everyone OWNS Boston, but it has been trendy for about 20 years to rip the band for being over-the-top commercial and overproduced. Maybe it’s all been said before, maybe that’s the reason why you all let that one slip.

And yes, “Highway to Hell” over “Back in Black”. “Black” is just so obvious. I like it as much as the next guy, and I would be willing to sign a petition to make it a law that it must be in every jukebox in the world, not that the law is strictly necessary. I rode every night for about 9 months in Thorn’s dad’s LTD2, and he only owned one 8-track, and we would just play “Walk All Over You” again and again, even though it fucking broke in the middle to the next channel. Best song intro in the bizness.

And I knew that Chuck-o-san would be all over my shit about Corey batting third. Yes, I know that Corey does NOT get on base, that he has lived under the delusion all along that he is a middle-of-the-order hitter. But you know what? I for one feel that he has earned the right to BE that hitter. I sure as hell don’t want him batting leadoff, or second. And he always loses interest when he bats sixth or seventh, and I don’t want him hitting eighth, because then he’d NEVER see a pitch in the strike zone. For all his faults, he did manage 65 extra base hits last year, and I only see that increasing in the next couple of years.

It’s time to find out if this guy is a winner, or a loser, once and for all.

Jose, Canseco.

Gawd almighty, say what you will, but I was shooting milk out my nose when I read that Mark Grace would literally find himself a “slump-breaker” and pound her like troutmeat whenever he was in a hitting slump. The mental image of Mr. Lucky Strike himself leading a big ol’ pig out of a hotel bar, up the elevator to his suite, and just fucking SNAPPING OFF on her Dogg style, his muscular forearms just yanking her lovehandles as he slams his pelvis against her, with that flabby assfat shimmering and flapping like a flag in a hurricane. A grunt and a groan, and even before she gets a chance to roll over and ask for a kiss, he’s already got his belt buckled, his pants zipped up, tucking his shirttail in as he’s heading for the door.

It is going to be good to just sit back and watch the fallout, who sues who, who fingers who, who leads the league in homers this year with 31?