8/08/2005 09:07:00 AM by Rob

Absolute dejection

OK, imagine you're Derrek Lee, for a moment.

incredibly futuristic sound effect here

Now. You're Derrek Lee. Don'tcha feel taller? And stronger?

And really tired? And kind of depressed?

You've been playing ball, every day, since March. You just had the greatest four months of your life. There is absolutely NOTHING more you could have done since day one. When you lay your head on the pillow, you can sleep the sleep of the just, for you have performed far beyond anyone's expectations of you. And, for what?

Your team still sucks. You came over from Florida, and you rightly figured that the Marlins would not repeat their performance again, not for a few years, anyway. You joined the team you were lucky to beat in the NLCS. You were one of several seemingly positive additions during that off-season after the Cubs' division title, and there was all the reason in the world to believe that the next several years would bring more of the same success.

You did okay last year, and looking around you, several other teammates had decent statistical seasons. But for the first time, you experienced firsthand the pain of having an overpriced, overrated clubhouse cancer on your team, and when they got rid of him in the offseason, you had every clue that the fresh air would blow the stench out of the dugout, and for the first time, you were the Man.

You've played your fucking ass off, and yet again, your team sucks, and when it is clear to all and sundry that a Radical change was needed to jumpstart the heart of this ballclub, Hendry gives us, what? Matt Lawton, and the reserves from the M*A*S*H unit. Your management isn't sticking their dicks out for you, so why should you? The next two months are going to last an eternity, and in the end, you're going to have to hide out all winter, to avoid having to answer the questions everyone is going to have, about whether or not you can do it again, and in the meantime, you know they're going to back up the truck and start over, and you're on your knees praying that your management team will do it right This Time.

You want to go back to your old self? I don't blame you...zzzappp!

Look, I don't know exactly what's wrong here, either. I think I know, but the one thing I am Certain of is that: Nothing will change between now and the last game of the year, and I'm not much of a Bear fan, so what in the fuck do I have to write about?

I spent time this weekend with an old friend from the big CC, he comes out here from time to time, and we talked about this here blog. In case yer new here, I started this actually at the advice of my therapist. She wanted me to journal, to get the toxins out of my head rather than letting them rattle around, making me miserable. So I became The Uncouth Sloth solely to bitch about what was bothering me, and being me, the topics were a) the Cubs, b) my last ex-wife, c) the other idiots wasting OUR oxygen in this here world, d) particularly the dyslexic party-boy currently serving as our POTUS, and e) the fact that this world is teeming with smokin' hott sluts, and due to my particular circumstances, I have absolutely NO chance in hell of ever porking one of them.

I don't know if it's to my credit or detriment that the topic taking up the most brain cells at that particular point in time was A) The Cubs. Fact is, I started this blog the same month that Dusty Baker was hired to manage the team, and regardless of my feelings about his laissez-faire management style now, the fact is that this was the Ballsiest move the Cubs had made in a long time. Dusty Baker gave us credibility, the Cubs became a Destination team, guys would sign free-agent contracts and waive their no-trade clauses to play for him.

So I started writing more and more about the Cubs, and less and less about the South Side bitch-face deserting twat, and the other stuff, at least I did up until the 2004 election. It came clear to me at that time that we were on the verge of actually Re-Electing the scumbag criminal that started a war solely for the financial benefit of his West Texas friends! I tried my best, but most of you people, including my old friend, shouted me down. You told me not to go political, that I lacked the knowledge, and to focus and stick with what I know; namely, the Cubs, and Jailbait.

Well, at this point, I can stand here and tell all you red-staters "Told Ya So!", and I just did. Past that, it isn't any fun. Likewise, I can tell all you Cubs fans "Told Ya So!", when we entered this season without a leadoff man, and without a closer. Dusty is only effective when All The Pieces are in Place. I knew we weren't going to win anything, yet I figured that when the meltdown occurred, it would be so terrible, so devastating, and so spectacular, that 2004 would pale in comparison. Coming into this year, all Cub fans thought that Prior, Zambrano, Wood and Maddux represented The State Of The Art in pitching, and to waste all that would cause such a rift in the psyche of the sports world that no fate would be too outlandish for us to endure.

Instead, this season is wasting away with a whimper. The world has finally learned that Kerry Wood embodies "flash in the pan" like no other. That Mark Prior may still become a Clemens-type stud, but not on THIS club. That Big Z may always suffer from the curse of his hot-blooded Latin forebearers, that the true pitching ace must have the ice-cube veins of a Michael Corleone, not the boiling-hot temper of Sonny. So now, there will be NO cry to the heavens about the wasting of a once-in-a-lifetime confluence of pitching excellence.

We now know that last year was the apocalypse, and as I said, I'm sure you'd be sick of reading "Told Ya So" as much as I'd be sick of writing it. So what else is there? Even the young breast-implant patients don't hold my interest as they did a couple of years ago. I'm PAST 40 now, and I'm honestly getting to the point in time where a really good, cold drink on a hot day compares favorably with a steamy, moist blowjob from a hott babe.

One summer during college, I worked at the chemical plant on an insulating crew. My foreman, who was a true loser, tried to convince me one day that, at his age, a good shit was better than a good fuck. I actually went home early that day, shocked to my core by his complete and utter lunacy. If I told you that if I squint into the sunset, I can see this wacky motherfucker in the distance now, do you understand why I'm having such a hard time writing this bitch?

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