Thursday, September 30, 2004

Little Bingo

More involved post coming this afternoon, but here's a little something to help you prepare for tonight's debate. Did I say debate? I meant joint press conference. Anyway, this is pretty clever. But if you actually print it out and play along, then you're as lame as a FDR's legs. Too soon?

And here's a little note for the day you'll be fast as hell. Until then, keep making the dinner, cleaning the floor and licking the grundle.

More to follow...

Wednesday, September 29, 2004

Thanks Midget, Shocking Report

It's been one helluva day, and I'm sorry for the lack of posting. But if you guys want to pay me for the pointless drivel that I provide, then I'll write at all costs. Until that point, the guy who pays me my salary needs me attention. And now he needs some coffee. I'll be right back.

I did check the site a few times today, because our hit count was incredibly higher than normal. At this hour on a good day we'd probably have 75 unique visitors to Slack. Today, we're already near the 180-mark. What explains this phenomenon? Fucking Boston.

I'd guess that at least 100 people came to our fair blog today looking for the Pedro Martinez/Midget story. Apparently many a Bostonian heard about Douchie McPitcher carrying a 25-inch South American midget into the clubhouse and wanted to read all about the hijinx. Typing the phrase "Pedro Martinez Midget" into Google won't land you here, but as of post time today Slack happens to be the third site on the Yahoo! search results page. That's pretty cool. Oh, fuck you, it is.

Well, I gotta get back to fluffing my guy. In the meantime, listen to Jewboy rock icon Gene Simmons and always wear fun stuff to work.

Monday, September 27, 2004


Earlier today an Anonymous poster posed this very good query in the comments section: "Is it just me, Ace, or is Livestrong a total rip of WWJD? What is it about a bracelet with a message that people find so appealing?"

My thoughts on the Livestrong bracelet are another matter entirely, but the poster submits an excellent question for consideration. Unfortunately, this is an inquiry for which I have no suitable answer. As usual though, when I'm ill-equipped to respond to such a doozy, I am always willing to point a seeker of infinite knowledge in the right direction. So allow me to answer your question by asking another: Why is it that people find seek guidance and wisdom in the mythical figure of Jesus Christ when the real deity they should be praying to is the Greek God of Vidal Sassoon Deep Hold Styling Gel?

That's right, Livestrong is crap, WWJD is crap...the next great bracelet slogan craze is What Would Uncle Jesse Do? I'm not sure who created this WWUJD site I'm redirecting you to, but I'm starting a slow clap right now in their honor and I welcome you all to join. Clap. Clap. Clap, clap. Clap, clap, clap, clap, etc. (I wasn't kidding about that slow clap, fuckers). This tribute to UJ is simply masterful work, I mean, a true brilliance of creation in every sense of the word. I'm not kidding, it's Class A comedic material.

If I were you I'd take the next 20 to 85 minutes and peruse this thing for all it has to offer. If you're strapped for time, my quick-pick recommendations are as follows: "Uncle Jesse Vs." is clearly my favorite portion and includes UJ's epic battle against Booker T. Washington; runner-up goes to "Facts," which includes "Uncle Jesse never has to pay roaming charges" and "Uncle Jesse always got more Halloween candy than his brother"; for a not-so-distant third place, try "Uncle Jesse's How To" for in-depth tutorials on how to make such items as fruit salad or a laser. But for the 93 percent of you that are completely bored as shit at work right now, the whole site should be explored like Bruce Dickinson's studio space. Really, explore the space (yeah, I'm tired of the cowbell jokes too, fuckers, but that had to be done).

As for the Livestrong bracelet, Anon. poster...Instead of wearing one, you might as well have a big, yellow penis on your wrist that shouts "Lick my saffron-colored balls" in crowded subway cars. I'm not saying it's the same thing per se, but it's pretty damn close.

And, and as an added bonus to tonight's post, here's some funny reading about a recent tiff between Jon Stewart and Bill O'Reilly.

Business Ethics

Business Ethics...the ethics of business. It's painful to watch Eric from Billy Madison try to answer that question, ain't it? He just has no clue what to say and stammers nervously, using the same words over and over again as he becomes visibly flustered in public view.

The following snippet of our President reminds me of that scene, as I'm sure it will remind you as well. Again, to our dear readers turned off by political chit-chat, I offer no biting political commentary of the man in office, and I'm not trying to be Paul Begala's clever little forehead. I just saw this today and thought it was pretty funny hilarious, figured I'd share with the whole class.

Without further Freddy Adu, here's the clip. Soveriegnty this.

Weak Weekend

As good as last weekend's sporting events were, this weekend was pretty much the exact opposite. Well, the Jets didn't lose due to bye and I advanced in the world famous Knockout Pool, but everything else fell apart.

The Yanks got Red Sawxed in Fenway, flipping the script from last weekend almost exactly, winning the first game and getting torched in the weekend games; Northwestern got trounced by the 19th-ranked Minnesota Golden Gophers, who whilst up 19 points with nearly no time on the clock ran a halfback option on fourth down (paybacks are a bitch, 'Sota); because I disclosed them and said I was having a good season, I went 4-7-1 in my weekly picks against the spread; and my fantasy football squad got annihilated by the likes of Aaron Stecker, Tiki Barber and Javon Walker.

Not even a "Win one for Yom Kippur" speech could help any of this. A terrible sports weekend by all accounts. But you gotta keep your head up. Good things will come.

In any event, Slack moderators are a bit busy on this glorious Monday, so here are three sports-related columns I consider a must-read:

The first is about Pedro Martinez bringing a midget into the Sawx clubhouse this weekend...that's just insanity peppers. The article reads, "The place has been derided for its circus-like atmosphere for the past few seasons, but the tipping point came on Saturday evening. Pedro Martinez, one day after calling the Yankees 'my daddies,' came in an hour before first pitch carrying a Latin Mini-Me named Nelson de la Rosa."

The other two: Peter King's weekly MMQB column and Jayson Stark's end of the year records column. Great reading, so do yourself a favor and do it. Until later, enjoy.

Friday, September 24, 2004

Random Friday Stuff

You know when you're laid up and you mindlessly say, "I'd rather be back at work than be this sick." Well, now I'm not so sure. I forgot the middle option, which I'm struggling through right now: being 50 percent healthy and back at work. Sorry 'bout your car man, that sucks.

But I'm in much better spirits and ready to smile...but since I now have to catch up on all the crapola I missed whilst in bed, that leaves very little time for a Slack post. So, without further ado, here are five interesting stories to read to get you through the day:

1. Nobody doesn't like Sara Lee, or Sara Lee executives for that matter. Check the freezer section at your local grocery, or at the local rental storage unit.

2. This is the quote of the year: "Just for being prostitutes, society marginalises us, and we want to exercise our rights as women and as mothers." You're gonna want to read this.

3. The thought of a four-year-old in lingerie is, well, okay, insert your own joke here.

4. This guy is a douche, plain and simple. And I can't believe he thought of this idea before I did.

5. Just a great headline...clearly makes the "Gee, ya think?" file. Right up there with "Britney Spears 'increidbly trashy'" or "Mary-Louise Parker gives Ace 'incredible boner'".

Anyway, on an unrelated topic, I'm 20-11-1 so far this football season, and because this is the first week I'm giving you guys a glimpse at my unbelievable handicapping skills, I'll most likely lose every game. Still, here goes (all picks with the spread):

Bengals over Ravens, Vikings over Bears, Browns over Giants, Cards over Falcons, Rams over Saints, Texans over Chiefs, Titans over Jags, Dolphins over Steelers, Lions over Eagles, Broncos over Chargers (my best bet of the week), 49ers over Seahawks, Colts over Packers, Raiders over Bucs, Skins over Boys. And of course, Yanks take two of three in Boston this weekend.

Don't you want to know the reasons for any of these picks? Well, I do too. This whole thing's a fuckin' crapshoot, but so far I'm doin' okay. So until my luck runs out, use these picks and enjoy.

Thursday, September 23, 2004

Got to Admit, I'm Getting Better

A little better, all the time...

My nasal cavity is still more stuffed than a twice-baked potato, and I still sound like Bea Arthur after chaining three packs of unfiltered Camels and gargling gravel. Some would even claim that's what I look like too. But I'm feeling much better...much, much better. I was feeling like such doo doo yesterday that I actually went to see a doctor, a practice I generally despise and resist at all costs. I feel like I'm just wasting everyone's time every time I see a doctor.

The only thing that keeps me sane in a doctor's office is my habit of feverishly searching through the doctor's drawers and playing with his junk. Wait, strike that last sentence, too fruity. Searching through his drawers and playing with his junk? OK, let's go with: The only thing that keeps me sane in a doctor's office is when I root through his shit and...OK, nothing I say here is going to sound remotely heterosexual, so let's just assume that you know what I mean. I don't spy on other people; never have, never will. I don't look through people's medicine cabinets or search through their closets for hidden porn or stashed jars of fecal matter. I don't go through my roommate's stuff when he's away or my co-workers files when they're out. But for some reason, when I'm in the doctor's office, I feel incredibly compelled to open every last one of his drawers and cabinets and touch and/or play with every last thing he owns. Every time. I must explore this man's office. I won't lick all his tongue depressors and put 'em back in the jar, but stranger things have happened.

Well, this doctor's a pretty good guy, so I didn't do that this time. And he pretty much saw me right away, so i didn't have time for my medi-spelunking practice. I originally selected him as my doctor a few months ago because of his proximity to my apartment, which is literally in the next building over. But he's good, I like his work. He stands on a wall and tells me no one's gonna hurt me tonight, not on his watch. Before yesterday I had only been to him once before actually, when I took a speeding softball off the shin and my leg blew up like a swarm of Africanized bees had stung me repeatedly (isn't that a bit racist, that Africanized bees are the most harmful? Think about it. I'm appalled.). Meanwhile, five months later and I still have that bruise on my shin, no joke. The doctor was shocked when he saw that. I'm a medical marvel.

Long story short, he told me that taking over-the-counter medicines like Dayquil and fever reducers like Tylenol are bad for my body in fighting off this infection, and that I should be spraying some saltwater shit up my nose several times a day to help the process. Doctors could tell me to take a dump on a homeless guy and I'd probably do it -- I just think they know a lot more than I do about the human body. My diet is impeccably unhealthy and most of the water I drink each day comes accidentally from the bottom of a bong. But so far, this doc's advice is dead-on balls accurate, and I'm feeling better. Plus, the doctor is kinda dreamy. I almost asked him to check me for a hernia before I left. You know, just in case. Cough, cough.

Praise Jesus that he told me to stop taking the Dayquil. I'm not kidding, I'm 99 percent sure that shit was kicking me back into a four-year old ecstasy roll. Not the good part, though, and not even the part we called "Drizzlepiss," the section of time after the peak and before the comedown where you're not still "rolling balls," but it's still coursing through your system, the time when you can smoke a bowl and kick right back into it pretty easily. (Incidentally, the term was coined by a good college buddy, who used that term to describe that five-second part in Mario Kart when your guy's star wasn't blinking any more but you could still knock people off the road. Clever as hell). Well, Dayquil didn't even kick me back into drizzlepiss, it put me straight at that part where you're coming down hard, shivering and sweating while sitting Indian style on the couch, staring blankly at the television that's somehow tuned into Dora the Explorer, pupils all big, testicles all small, wondering when in the world you'll ever feel normal again. Where the fuck does it say that on the Dayquil box? All I see is that stupid fuckin' "stuffy head, sore throat yada yada yada so you can rest" slogan...Well I didn't get no rest. I got post-ecstatic depression flashbacks.

Needless to say, I'm feeling better. Occasionally I'll laugh too hard and cough something up that looks like Slimer. Like yesterday when my old roommate told me to check out the Macho Man Randy Savage's new website, complete with his new rap song "Be a Man," featuring 50 Cent. I wish I were kidding. This dude actually raps, and apparently the whole point of his little exercise is to call out Hulk Hogan and challenge him to a fight. My sides almost split. If you don't listen to this rap, we're not friends anymore. Just go to his site and do it for your ol' sick pal, Ace. It's an instant classic.

And sometimes I'll be so stir crazy from being in this apartment for so long that I'll replace the lyrics to Baba O'Reilly with new ones about making toast (It's onleeee, toast-ed, wheat bread, ba dum ba dum ba dum dadadadadadum). It's a pretty good song, just ask my roomie, who is probably singing it at his desk right now. But I'm starting to get real crazy in here, so I think it's time for me to go outside.

Before I go, I just saw the US Postal Service commercial again, the one with Dave Brubeck's Blue Rondo ala Turk. This song, this album (Time Out), incredible stuff. In fact, I'm pretty sure it was the first jazz album to sell a million copies. Take Five is the track most often played, but folks, listen to the rest of that album at some point, especially Blue Rondo. It won't change your life, but it just may fuck your father in the shower and have a snack. Kudos to the USPS.

Wednesday, September 22, 2004

Out: Sick

Usually when someone I know calls in sick, they're not in too terrible shape. Maybe the sniffles, maybe the gout, you know, something they could probably go in for but just don't feel up to it. Not me. I'm legitimately sick today (and yesterday), to the point where I wouldn't mind taking a Jennifer Jason Leigh high heel to the ocular cavity. Or is it Bridget Fonda's heel? I don't really remember -- they were both single, white females. It's too confusing.

I'd gladly take work over this sickness crap -- feels like someone's taking a Cleveland Steamer on my chest at all times. This little illness is making a real party animal out of me...I cancelled my plans for last night and tonight, and last night I even got into bed at about 8 PM. I feel like I'm in Del Boca Vista on these fuckin' hours. Jerry, take the pen. Sorry, just practicing.

Anyway, I have no motivation to live right now, let alone post you're on your own folks. In the meantime, teach yourself how to calculate a magic number.

Tuesday, September 21, 2004

Tuesday's Thoughts on Sunday's Shit

Morning Slackers...last week I promised a weekly wrap-up of the weekend's foosball activities. Then I realized that proposition takes some serious time and effort, serious time I don't have and serious effort I clearly don't want to put forth. Last night I spent the majority of that game begging for more touchdowns and more yards from Donovan McNabb, only to be left five yards short of a miracle comeback against my fantasy league's other top team. A man who begs for yardage and points from a man who begs consumers to eat his Chunky Soup is in no position to write a weekly wrap-up every week. But I have some comments anyway...

One-hundred and seventy-one people this week exited the world famous knockout pool I'm in, 139 of them losing with the Green Bay Packers. Brrr Green Bay, cold Green Bay. That’s 139 people who obviously don’t know the oldest rule in the knockout playbook: Don't Bet on Monday Night Winners. The Pack had everything going for it this weekend when it took on the Bears: It was their home opener in Lambeau, they were coming off a huge win on national television in the den of the NFC champions, Favre and Green were lookin’ like Ax and Smash of Demolition at the height of their success (complete with "Here comes Ahman, and here comes the Fav-ruh, go Green Bay Packers, walkin' disaster..." theme music).

The one betting rule that trumps all of that Lambeau good will, though: You absolutely, under no circumstances, ever take a team that played and won on Monday night, especially one that played and won on the road. There’s a bevy of problems involved -- there's short rest, there’s the let-down factor, there’s the adjustment to the day game schedule again. Whatever it is, it's the cardinal sin of one-loss suicide pools. I’m not saying a road winner never reigns supreme the following Sunday, I’m just saying it’s not a great idea to fuck around with that shit. That proceded me to taunt the Packer losers with repeated cries of, "What’s with you, mon? You fell for the oldest trick in the boooook." (Dark Helmet, 1987)

I myself was sweating it out like Kirstie Alley in the shade. I also overlooked the easy pick in New England to take the Fucking Saints. Why the hell did I take the Saints? Seriously, that's not rhetorical, why the fuck did I take the Saints? There’s no reason to take them, ever. They showed me nothing in the first week, looking like a soulless, poorly coached group of naturally talented athletes playing without pride, heart or smarts (I like when heart and smarts are in the same sentence, it kicks in the Boston accent in my brain when I read it -- haht and smahts). Yet I took ‘em, because they were playing a 49ers team led by Amateur Hour Ken Dorsey and Kevan Barlow, the latter of whom I thought was overrated but ran over my fantasy squad for 23 points this week. Well, the Saints lost Diggity Deuce McCallister for the day and then proceeded to blow both goats (I have proof) and a 20-10 lead, and then I nearly blew chunks. Trailing by four with less than two minutes to go, I was absolutely cursing myself for not going with the Patriots, until Aaron Brooks engineered a marvelous drive and saved my white ass. Thanks to Mr. Brooks, who after seeing this picture looks like he's got a Chunky Soup commercial in the works with his mother as well.

The J-E-T-S Jets Jets Jets march to the Super Bowl continues, as Gang Green jumped out to an early 17-0 lead against the Chargers and held the lead throught the game. Unfortunately it ended up a lot closer than I'd have liked, but to borrow a line from our President, the offense looks strong, and it's getting stronger. And with a bye next week, the defense will straighten itself out over the next two weeks and show up as a cohesive unit in Miami for Week Four. New coach, new players, it takes some time to adjust. But I wasn't terribly displeased -- after all, Jon McGraw accidentally shot Drew Brees in the face at some point in the third quarter. And as some of you know, Brees is my unofficial nemesis. Would you like me to explain? I would love to hear this. So would I (That's from my new My Cousin Vinny one-man show off Broadway).

So Brees. Two groups of women never fail to take a liking to me: the unabashed fatties and the criminally insane. Well, a pleasant combination of both happened to live in my house senior year in college -- this chick wasn't fat per se, but she was plumper than the average bear, and by all means uncomfortably crazy, like on more than one occasion I thought she'd boil my bunny crazy. Anyway, after her attempt to ask me out was thwarted by the 2000 Subway Series (and by my vomiting in the corner like the new guy at a crime scene), she covered it up with a string of doctored e-mails from a fake and clearly transparent hotmail account, claiming she really wasn't asking me out but was taking me to meet her boss Conan O'Brien at the NBC Studios, where I'd get hooked up live via satellite to the Yankees and Mets lockerrooms before the first game. I'm not making this up, this girl was that crazy that this lie didn't seem far-fetched to her. So there's some background on this bitch.

Fast forward a few months and a few envisioned fists punches and judo kicks the right temple, and we're having a party in our house. Despite inviting way too many people, we neglected to invite our crazy upstairs neighbor, who takes offense in the biggest way possible. And then unbeknownst to me, she concocts the following story, and procedes to tell many people on campus...I had maybe three people come up to me and ask me if it were true or not. How she picked Drew Fucking Brees, I'll never figure that out -- maybe she thought I liked the giant thing on the right side of his face.

Here's the story she came up with to spite me and show me how cool she was: Drew Brees, star quarterback of the Purdue Boilermakers, came to visit this neighbor on the night of the party, and knocked on our door. Being the ridiculous sports fan that I am, I opened the door and immediately began fawning over the arrival of our guest: "Come on in, man, can I get you anything? A beer? Wow, Drew Brees, I loooove you man." Brees, invited by our upstairs neighbor to her place and not to our party, hatefully responded that he had no intention of coming inside, for if the neighbor/his close friend/perhaps boyfriend/looney slutbag wasn't invited, then the lovable QB wasn't gracing us with his presence and coming to our party. "I wouldn't go to any party thrown by someone who doesn'tinvite [crazy neighbor girl]," I believe he said. I forget how it all ends, but I think I was so distraught by the turn of events that I spent the rest of the night sulking in the bathroom (which is actually the only accurate part of the story and how most parties ended for me in college). The relationship between Brees and I has never been the same since.

Maybe that's not the funniest story in the world, but it's definitely one of the freakiest I've ever been involved in. Imagine being the central character in that ridiculous charade..that's some crazy shit. So yeah, the Jets beat my unofficial nemesis and continued on their path to Jacksonville, as we keep you updated on, The March...To the Super Bowl. (Eat Snacky Smores).

For the record, I gotta start putting my weekly picks up on this here site, because I'm having a pretty good season...and because I need to be loved and admired, maybe I'll get some people writing in and saying things like, "Your picks are so good I want to fellate you nightly." I told my mom not to post on here, but I don't enforce the rules all that well. Anyway, so far I'm 20-11-1, which ain't too bad. Look out on Friday for the picks...

Sports sports sports sports, sports sports sports sports.

Monday, September 20, 2004

Monday Monday

A great sports weekend that requires a rather long post, but unfortunately it's not going to get one right now...Perhaps later, but I'd hate to over-promise.

Between the Yanks/Sawx series, yesterday's brilliant foosball day, the Ryder Cup debacle, great college games, especially in the SEC, some close fantasy foosball games headed into tonight, sweating out this week's knockout pool pick (I hate the Saints), and even some bowling with the out-of-towner friends at Chelsea Piers on Saturday, this was a classic sports weekend.

Thanks to my Sawx fan buddy, I pretty much sat in the Yankee dugout on Saturday -- best seats I've ever had in the Stad, three or four rows in front of Stephen King. Take that, horrorbitch, I got better seats than you, ya three-pairs-of-glasses-wearing whorebox. Highlight of the weekend: a yankee fan yelling out, "Your books suck...and your movies, too" when King stood up with his Sawx hat on. Great times, got to see the first game of a 25-5 drubbing on Saturday and Sunday, and almost saw Jonny Liebs throw a little no-no. Great times.

But for now, duty I'll leave you with this right now:

Man Tries to Sue Wife for 5-Day Sex Denial

MADRID (Reuters) - A Spanish man tried to have his wife charged with domestic abuse because she refused to have sex with him on five consecutive days, Spanish newspaper El Sur reported on Friday.

The middle-aged man from Seville -- the city of Don Juan and Carmen -- said her refusals amounted to "degrading treatment" and domestic abuse, a term used more often to describe wife-battering.

The judge shelved the case, Andalusia-based El Sur reported.

Friday, September 17, 2004

Sit on Her, Malph

As a running service here at Slack LaLane, here's the best story of the day:

CEDAR RAPIDS, Iowa -- Rick Fisk of Cedar Rapids doesn't take crime sitting down -- or does he?

Police say the 52-year-old man came home Tuesday morning to find a woman standing in his home holding items from his house.

They say the woman, 34-year-old Julie Dye, ran from the house but was chased down and tackled by Fisk in his front yard.

Fisk, who is 6-feet 2-inches tall and weighs about 280 pounds, sat on top of Dye until help arrived.

Fisk's phone was out of reach so he yelled for help. After 20 minutes of sitting and yelling, a neighbor called 911.

Dye is facing a charge of second-degree burglary. She is being held in the Linn County jail under $19,500 bond.

I'm Still Dead, Bitch

Wow. So apparently Rick James really did die of a heart attack, bitch, but check out this report of what was in the guy's system at the time of death:

The coroner's office also listed focal pneumonia and "effects of multiple drugs" as other conditions contributing to the cause of death.

"Toxicology revealed the presence of the following drugs: Alprazolam (Xanax), Diazepam (Valium), Bupropion (Wellbutrin), Citalopram (Celexa), Hydrocodone (Vicodin), Digoxin, Chlorpheniramine, methamphetamine, and cocaine," the statement said. "None of the drugs or drug combinations were found to be at levels that were life threatening in and of themselves."

But I'd almost rather be dead with a slew of drogas in my system than be this dude, who married the Lorena Bobbitt of Romania. The headline of this story is fantastic, by the way, whoever wrote it should be promoted and given a scrotum tickle immediately.

But I'd almost rather be neither guy. OK, I'd definitely rather be neither Rick James or Reattached Balls Jones. I'd also rather it didn't fucking rain this whole weekend, as we've got some Yankees/Red Sawx games to play, folks. The charging Sawx come into the Boogie Down with a three and a half game deficit to make up, but unnamed sources tell me they're a bunch of fuckin' pansies and will most likely get swept, leading them to cry like little girls with skinned knees. Hey, I just report what people tell me, I have no personal stake in this whole baseball thing.

I've got tickets for tomorrow's game (do you have tickets to the gun show?) thanks to my favorite Sawx fan in town for the weekend. But will they even play tomorrow? Who'll stop the rain? This series needs to take place, it's not even an option -- it's just way too hyped up for a letdown at this point. It'd be like buying a hooker, getting her up to your room, at which point she discloses it's that time of the month and her mouth is full of razorblades, so nothing is gonna happen. At all. I mean, you'd have to brutally attack her with a meat cleaver and an exacto knife, dump half the body in the East River and the other half in P.S. 132's cafeteria freezer, right? So let that be a lesson to the Yank'ums and Sawx -- if this game is rained out, there could be some angry fans looking for revenge, and possibly necrophilia. Shotgun Matsui. Always dug Asians.

If they do play these games though, there's no doubt in my mind the Yanks are going to win at least two of them. The Red Sawx come into town just waaaay too confident and ugly as sin. David Ortiz and Johnny Damon are taking shots through the media, saying they're the better team this year. Hey, Papi, remember that game a few months ago where the Sawx woulda won had you not let a ball go right through your glove in the late innings? Remember, you then ran to the dugout and changed your glove like it was an equipment malfunction? Yeah, so Janet Ortiz, let's keep the yap shut and play some ball.

Bottom line though, let's please play some ball. No rain, no rain, no rain. Lather, rinse, repeat after me: No rain, no rain, no rain.

Thursday, September 16, 2004

Happy Happy

L'Shana Tova (I think) to all my Jewish friends...a very Happy New Year to all of you out there. This is the first time I've ever worked on Rosh Hashanah, but I'm not too upset about it. I truly don't know which I'd rather do less: work or temple. I'm pretty sure I'd rather work all day...that's a sad statement about my religiousity. Is religiousity a word or did I just Cornel West the English language? Well, in honor of Rosh, I listened to a killer version of Avenu Malkenu by the popular rock band Phish on my way to work. That's my celebration for the day. That's it.

I don't expect many readers today, but I'll try to post something later for you goyim and bad Jews and former Jews out there...

Wednesday, September 15, 2004

Nine Innings

Morning, Slackers, gotta make this brief...

The Ambiguously Gay Uno, his unambiguously female girlfriend and I watched Nine Innings From Ground Zero last night, a really good documentary about how America's pasttime helped heal the wounds of the September 11th attacks. It's amazing, I'm now absolutely convinced that I'll never be able to watch footage of that morning without weeping like the little girl that I am. I spent 65 minutes with tears welled up in my eyes. That's always fun. Shoulda watched Scrubs after the documentary instead of before, just to cheer me up and return me to normalcy.

Two things blew me away about that documentary: The first is how much everyone loved our President. This guy rallied us together for a while, stood with us and made us feel safe. Say what you will about him now, Lord knows I have and I will, but at that time, he could do no wrong. We watched in simple amazement as President Bush walked unaccompanied to the pitcher's mound in Yankee Stadium and delivered a legitimate strike to home plate before Game Three. And the Stadium went bonkers. Here was a representative we all could get behind. He was on fire. Fast forward three years and look where we're at the hell did we get here? I'd love to be able to rally behind a leader again, only not following a tragedy. Is that really too much to ask?

More importantly, the scenes from Game Four and Game Five left me just about speechless. I still remember the 9th inning of Game Four like it was yesterday, sitting on my roommate's bed while he sat at his desk, talking to friends on instant messenger. The game was over, the series was over, a 3-1 lead was virtually insurmountable. The Yankees' run for the people of New York was over, for the the people of America was over. And then Pauly O dropped in the bloop, and Tino provided the blast. Jeter won it shortly after midnight, and the improbable run continued.

As awesome as that game was, being at Game Five will always be one of my greatest memories ever, one I'll tell all my illegimate kids about for sure. Thankfully my buddy's father got sick at Game Four, so the ticket opened up and my ass got to see a World Series game, in New York -- a city grieving and cheering and rooting and crying, all in one emotion. The security was craisins, there were military helicopters constantly flying over the Stadium, it felt like an Iraqi soccer game. And the magic happened for us. For us! There was a certain Goonies feeling about it, that this was our time, down here, that the Yankees and the Higher Powers were conspiring to do right by us, to console us and lift us out of the fog that had fallen less than two months before. They showed us resilience, they taught us how to get back off the canvas and fight another day. This wasn't just baseball, this was life. When Brosius cracked his improbable 9th-inning homerun, it breathed new life and spirit into a city, a state and a nation. That sounds funny now, but that's how I saw it then, and that's how I see it now. That wasn't only the best game I've ever been to, it's one of the best moments I've ever shared with people in all my days.

Much thanks to Corey for bringing me to the party, and to his father for developing bronchitis or influenza the night before. Only two other games I've been to even come close to that night: Northwestern's 54-51 defeat of Michigan in 2000, and the Rangers beating the Devils in double overtime to advance to the 1994 Stanley Cup. Each of those games deserves a post of their own, because they were that special. But neither had the social and cultural significance of the Yankees three home wins, two in utterly ridiculous fashion, in October and November of 2001. I'll never forget. Sure we Fisked away the Series in seven games, but those three wins at home, in New York, were our World Series. We won. Our time. And I will never forget.

On an unrelated note, here are a few more Google and Yahoo searches that brought people to Slack within the past 24 hours:

--Drea de Matteo's ass

--Tiger-cock zodiac astrology

--Linda Cohn breast

--Zoloft recreationally

Tuesday, September 14, 2004

Wire Story of the Day

Our main man Lukas combs the wires all day, and found this gem for you Slackers out there:

The family of a Frederick man who died while trying to perform motorcycle stunts, without wearing pants or underwear, said he was doing the stunt for money.

The half-naked rider was performing stunts along U.S. Route 340 near Frederick moments before the crash that killed him Sunday afternoon.

Maryland State Police identified the man as Shaun Matlock, 21, of Walkersville. They said he was wearing only a T-shirt, helmet and sneakers as he and six friends were riding their motorcycles near the Mount Zion Road exit.

Police said Matlock did a "wheelie" then lost control of his machine and hit a parked tow truck. The medical examiner is performing an autopsy and a toxicology screening.

Now, THAT'S a way to go out. Try explaining that to St. Peter, or whoever the devil it is that guards the gates to non-Hell. "Um, see, I was, uh, the thing about the no pants, I mean, er, you, Ruth Bader Ginsberg?"

For you poophop...Did you guys hear some lady in Oakland got hit with a chair in the 9th inning of last night's game? Crazy. She probably deserved it. Jim Ross loved it, I'm sure.

Go Cheney, It's your Birthday!

Isn't it time that Slack touched on the greatest conspiracy of Campaign 2004? I think so. The Bushes, W and Gov. Jeb, are manipulating the weather in order to win votes. Charley? Frances? Ivan? All three are obviously a re-election ploy: Beat the shit out of Florida with hurricanes, let Mother Nature take the rap, and then distribute federal relief funds to rebuild. What better way to make the people of Florida vote GOP than for Bush to give them all kinds of disaster relief to build a new trailer home or alligator farm? And it's not fair. Just because Bush can control the weather shouldn't give him an election edge in a major swing state. Isn't that under McCain-Feing...uh oh. Someone's at my door. C'mon in. It's open.

DF: Why, Mr. Vice-President, what are you doing here with that taser?
DC: I'm here to stop you from spreading those lies about Bush.
DF: Oh yeah, what are you going to do about it?
DC: What do you think I'm going to do about it?
DF: Um, are you going to dance?
DC: You're goddamn right I am.
DF: Are you going to do the Watusi?
DC: I'm particularly fond of that dance, so yes I will.
DF: Should I set up the disco ball?
DC: Sure, Don. Also, this isn't really a taser. It's a kick-ass black light that makes things glow.
DF: Radical!
DC: Where's a radical?
DF: No, the black light. That's really cool.
DC: I know, it's hella tight.
DF: So you gonna do the Watusi now?
DC: You bet. Don't you think it's great that I can shake it like this?
DF: I sure do. You're way cooler than Dan Quayle.
DC: I know, he couldn't spell or dance properly. Now back up, I'm gonna breakdance on my head.
DF: Nice. You're moving like a total freak.
DC: I know. Should I do the worm now?
DF: Totally. Go for it, Dick.
DC: What'd you just call me?
DF: Um, well, I thought that your name was--
DC: --Just pulling your leg, Don. I love using the fact that my name means "penis" to catch people off guard.
DF: You got me again, Dick.
DC: So how about that worm.
DF: I'm waiting with bated breath. Ho, snap! That's a sweet worm.
DC: Sweet as hell, right?
DF: Totally! I love your moves, Mr. Vice-President.
DC: Thanks, Don. I just want everyone to know how cool and hip I am. Now, Donnie, are you just gonna stand there or you wanna break it off like Dick?

The moral of the story is: Don't accuse the Bush Administration of using natural disasters to garner voter support unless you're prepared to boogie down with Dick Cheney.

The Goose and The Moose

My plan is to provide even more noise for you football fans by doing a Monday Morning Quarterback kind of take on the weekend. Didn't exactly get that going this week, but I do have one note from this past week's slate of games. Here's an example of what I'll try to bring to the table, as excerpted from my league's weekly fantasy football newsletter:

Dick Stockton and Daryl “Moose” Johnston did the play-by-play and color commentary for the NFL on FOX’s late game – the Eagles versus Giants. Since there are more than a fair share of interested parties in this league, I’m sure that game was watched intently. Anyone else catch the fact that every time they threw it down to Tony Siragusa on the sidelines he started the sentence by addressing his broadcast partners upstairs in the booth? Yes, in case you missed it, EVERY TIME that Stockton introduced a segment by the Goose, it was followed by, “Moose, Dick, I’m here down on the field…” or “Moose, Dick, I just talked with Andy Reid…”

This guy legitimately said the word “moosedick” on live television approximately 10 times. Moosedick! Where’s the outrage about that, parents? Where are the letters to the FCC? I’d gladly take a little Super Bowl Nubian Nip over the image of a blatantly large animal phallice any day of the week and twice on Sunday.

Anyway, I thought that was hilarious, it cracked me up for a solid few minutes every time they popped down to him. So I figured I'd share that with you. I hope you chuckled, and if not, I hope a ferret bites your lips off and tears out your duodenum.

Yo, I'm Cuban B

(Second time I've used that title by the way, both very appropriate.)

After the whole Joey fiasco, I'm actually a tad bit afraid to document my likes and dislikes on this here blog...I mean, suck one dick and it's youthful indiscretion, watch and enjoy the first episode of Joey and all of a sudden you're chuggin' cock and takin' on all comers from all angles, gay as Harvey Fierstein in a pride parade. Ok, so I liked Joey, there's no need to tell me to change my name from Ace Cowboy to Fagitor: There Are None Gayer Than I.

But despite what some of you may say or even do (three distinct models of the new Matt LeBlanc dildo were shipped to my apartment actually), I'm sticking to my guns and giving you more of what I enjoy in my free time. And I'll tell you what: The Benefactor...I fuckin' loved it. Sure, some people can probably convince me that Mark Cuban is a giant toolbox, if they had the time and I had just ingested a small dosage of GHB with Sebastian Janikowski. But I really like Cuban, and I really enjoyed this program for one simple reason: If I were a self-made billionaire with a professional basketball team and lots of time on my hands, this is the EXACT show I'd want to put on the air. And I think you'd do the same. This is what we all want to be -- just a guy (or a gal, or even a chick with dick) who goes through life and does things on his terms, by his rules, on his schedule. There's never been anything more American than that. Well, except for Uncle Sam dry-humpin' an apple pie watching some baseball playoffs -- that's pretty fuckin' American.

Cuban kicked three people off the show last night, all with what my roommate and I thought was genuine remorse. But he kicked the first guy off because he called Cuban's show "stupid" while being watched on a hidden camera. I'd do the same. Then he held one-on-one interviews with the remaining 15 contestants and kicked off the bitch who refused to play AC/DC's "Back in Black" on the air guitar. She just got through telling him she's not shy and she wants to put 30-somethings on the map, and how she started taking guitar lessons, and then she refuses to mock play her own favorite song? Damn right, Cubes, kick this Margaret Cho-lookin' bitch to the curb...

The final choice was between resident annoying fat guy starving for attention and red-headed poker-playing slutty looking girl. Cuban decided against deciding, and decided to pit them against each other in the ultimate game of determination and skill: Jenga. And in my best Fire Marshall Bill voice, let me tell you something: Cuban owns a professional basketball team that has had some sick games the last few years...and I still think he was more into this Jenga game than any of those contests. It was nothing short of intense; for him, it looked like it was more intense than being in the room when Lance and Vinnie Vega plunged a syringe into the heart of Mrs. Mia Wallace. I felt the heat at home, the Ambiguously Gay Uno felt it (that's a weird phrase), we all felt it. Who knew that Jenga could be this nutty? This shit was nuttier than squirrel turds. Eventually the red-headed poker-playing slutty looking girl lost, but I think we all came out winners last night. We all were winners.

Finally, a show to precede Monday Night Football that I'll actually enjoy -- hasn't been that way since MacGyver left the airwaves more than a decade ago. In lieu of the dreamy Richard Dean Anderson, I'll take the loudmouth billionaire we all know we'd love to be.

(I've already gotten a "you're gay" response from one friend, who made some good points. In the interest of equal time, here's Lukas' opinion:

If I were a billionaire I would definitely consider buying a sports team and being a unique, loose-cannon, micro-managing owner, no doubt. But if you’re a guy who 1) pioneered internet radio and 2) is running an NBA franchise in an original way, why fall into the trap of knockoff billionaire reality shows? It’s not original. Not cool.)

Monday, September 13, 2004

Ola Bombay

I saw Tom Brokaw speak today, here at law school.


It's not everyday that your nonsensical property class ends and your classmate turns to you and says, "Hey, Brokaw's speaking in 5 minutes. Wanna go?" That's one of those instances when the only correct answer is "Would I?" with a corresponding widening of the eyes and a gaping smile.

When we got to the auditorium, we expected to be turned away. But no, the business school attendant, with wide eyes and gaping smile, said, "Go right ahead." At this point, we hi-fived and fist pumped and even the attendant was super-excited. I mean...Brokaw!

And you know what? In person, Brokaw sounds just like TV Brokaw. But he kinda looks like crap. His tie was too short and he is constantly fiddling with his face or picking his nails. At one point, it looked like he was making the "Cock Sucker" Face by jamming his thumb into one side of his face and moving his tongue against his cheek on the other side. Plus, contrary to popular lure, Brokaw does wear suit pants, at least here he did. No sock over the penis for Tom today as he typically does during his news broadcasts.

No. Jim Miklashevski wasn't there. And Tom didn't say his name either. Which sucks. It's been one of the pleasures of my life lo these past 20 years hearing Tom using his unaccented, extremely non-ethnic, non-gay voice to say, "Miklashevski."

But Brian Williams was there. And he didn't participate at all. Just sat there in a dapper suit, watching his predecessor, just months from passing the goddamned torch already, nodding nonsensically at whatever Brokaw was saying. So, does this mean that Williams has to follow Brokaw around like a lackey, even for non-NBC functions?

Tom: "Brian, pick up that piece of shit on the ground."
Brian: "But Tom, I really don't see how this piece of shit could be useful to you."
Tom: "Gee, I feel great. Maybe I can hang around through the 2006 mid-term elections...-"
Brian: "OK, Tom. Fine, I'll pick it up."
Tom: "That's better, BriGuy. You know, Bri? I think you should use this tiny coffee stirrer. Go ahead, put it in your mouth and prod that piece of shit into the street.... That's it.... Oh no, Brian, it's all over your mouth. Practice this, Bri: 'Stunning news from New York, Brian Williams, my eventual successor, just scooped poop off the street with a coffee stirrer.' Now c'mon, I'm late for my pedicure."

But there is nothing quite like being there to hear Tom Brokaw prattle on about the war and how divided our country is and his youth in Yankton, SD (home of Charlie Utter) and blogs. That's right, Brokaw visits blogs to get a sense of public perception of major events. Maybe, before he retires we'll hear:

"Stunning news from Manhattan's Upper East Side, as someone's sweaty, hairy back was seen masturbating to accidentally-downloaded gay porn while eating carrot cake, drinking vodka and harassing women in the service industry. Let's go to Nora O'Donnell with the latest..."

Ken O'Brien

J-E-T-S Jets Jets Jets...

Oh boy oh boy, did the Gang Green Offense look pretty damn good for a little while there or what? What a great way to start the season: Chad Sexington had no problem with the Bungals D, Curtis Martin looked well on his way to the 1,500 yards he predicted he'd rack up and the front seven on defense looked real good. Between these beautiful babies, my off-to-a-real-solid start fantasy squad and staying alive in the Knockout Pool to end all Knockout Pools, this was a fantastic week of foosball. More thoughts to follow when the busy day slows down...

In the meantime, check this out. And then this one.

Friday, September 10, 2004

How You Do-in'

So I walked into my apartment at 8 pm last night, all set to kill an hour before the kickoff of the first professional foosball game of the season. Bong blows and a schmeared bagel, sounded nice to me. And then I remembered that the series premiere of Joey was being TiVoed. "Allright," Ace thought, "let's see what this friggin' thing is all about." A night of premieres: this dude and some foosball.

Whether you liked Friends or even if you hated it, you have to admit that Joey Tribbiani is one of the all-time funniest "dumb guy" characters in sitcom history. Monica may have made you want to commit suicide when you heard her voice, Ross's shtick wore thin at times and Chandler's sense of humor ran out faster than candy from a Pez dispenser. But Joey was special. He truly captured that brand of dumb not everybody could pull off, the brand that made you think "This guy could really be my dumb friend Joey."

He wasn't flaky dumb like Phoebe; he wasn't over-the-top, unbelievably dumb like Cody from Step By Step (who I believe starred in Kickboxer 2 and then kickboxed his real wife down the stairs); he wasn't small-town hokey dumb like Lowell from Wings; he wasn't so-book-smart-the-writers-had-to-make-him-really-dumb like Screech; and this may sound blasphemous to our one or two older readers, but he wasn't frontal lobotomy dumb like Coach from Cheers, who I kinda wanted to strangle sometimes. And I never fell for the dumb guy acts of Coach's Dauber, Michael Kelso, any of the Three's Company chicas, Skippy or Urkel, Night Court's Bull and countless others.

Besides Joey, only two other characters in sitcom history displayed to me the type of dumbness that I can get behind. One is clearly Woody Boyd, who was so funny sometimes I made a bit of wee wee in me trousers. Woody had some lines and some facial expressions that were nothing short of Emmy-worthy. The other, and if anyone debates this with me I may lop off their right tit with my molars, is none other than Buddy Lembeck. When Charles lived with the Pembrokes, Buddy was this frat boy, fun-lovin' dude who chased around skirts all day. But when they moved the Powells in, and Nicole Eggert's budding breasts joined the show, Buddy became a star. A fucking star. This guy had classic lines like, "I just had a great invention -- instant water, just add water." And he said it like he meant it! If Charles in Charge were re-introduced via reruns these days, a whole new generation of Buddence fans would be born. That, I guarantee you.

Anyway, back to Joey. Maybe it was my ridiculously low expectations, but I actually liked this show. I thought there was no way they could spin Joey's character off and make him truly funny, but the writers did a pretty good job of provoking the guffaws from my belly. How many new sitcoms over the past decade have made you actually laugh? Sure there were things about it that didn't sit quite right to me, like Joey's 20-year-old nephew who works as a rocket scientist at Cal Tech, or something crazy like that. And I cannot even begin to explain why I really liked it (I mean, now that I'm thinking about it, all I can think of is what I didn't like about it -- like, how the fuck did the college-aged kid from Road Trip end up playing a 20-year-old here? Why take Joey and put him into a world filled with stupid people? Can Joey really afford to live in a such a nice place in LA as an out-of-work actor?). But I did like it, I laughed, quite a few times, out loud, by myself. And it was generally *good*. It worked. It worked well. And the chemistry between Matt LeBlanc and Drea de Matteo's tits was outstanding.

That's my two cents. As for the foosball game, I never thought I'd say this, but man I wish I were a Pats fan. These guys are just damn good, well-coached (except for the last three minutes of that game -- I mean, stop throwing the ball, RUN IT, they have no timeouts!), and Tom Brady is the fuckin' man. So when the Jets meet those fockers in the AFC Championship, consider me officially worried. But I'll give the Pats their much deserved props, if only because the Red Sawx lost a game and a half to the Yanks yesterday. Rock 'n Roll.

Unrelated Quote of the Day, from some viewer mail thing on CNN (paraphrased): "If politicians are talking about banning these attack ads, can they start by banning the John Basedow work-out tapes commercials? This guy is on every channel, every five minutes."

That's very true. Actually, my roommate and I legitimately talked about me going as Basedow for Halloween. But I don't want to dye my hair -- this guy is fully dying his hair blonde by the way -- anyone else notice that? Just me? Either way, this guy looks exactly like a ripped David Byrne, no?
Unrelated Google search of the day (how this person got to Slack): "Jorge Campos" died of AIDS.

Thursday, September 09, 2004

Snooze Bar

Very difficult to get out of bed this morning...In fact, I think today was really the first morning since I started this job more than a year ago that I would rather stab throngs of pregnant women in the bellies with rusty shivs than get out of my bed. I'd gladly punch a wheelchair-bound senior if it meant another couple hours in the sack. Hell, some of those old fockers deserve it, with their pea soup and irritable bowels and their never-ending supply of talc.

But seriously, I'd much rather have 100 conversations that start with, "So, that Hurricane Frances, huh?" than get out of bed this morning. (And seriously, next person who wants to talk to me about hurricanes is getting punched right in the tits, man or woman). I'd rather have Iron Mike Tyson stomp on my testicles, rather be burned by the embers of 1,000 cigarettes or be repeatedly kicked in my already bruised shins by a gang of Asian schoolgirls wearing nothing but steel-toed boots, training bras and plastic tiaras than get out of bed. But, you know what, I'm out of bed, and I'm here now. So forget all that stuff. Except the schoolgirls with the boots -- as Enthusiasm Kerry would monotonously chant, "Bring them on."

Well, if you read yesterday's post and then watched some baseball highlights last night, you know I don't mess around. Beisbol been berry berry good to me. The NL Wild Card race is even closer and the AL East and West races are getting closer by the day. Some teams are playing their best baseball right now (like the Astros who bombed four homers in the first inning last night), and some teams are playing like a steaming pile of monkey feces (like the Cubbies who dropped out of first in the Wild Card standings after dropping six of nine). I would give the Red Sawx a compliment here, like holy crap these guys are so good right now I hope their team plane crashes into a serious mountain, but management has edited this post. For now, I'll just say: "Ay Papi."

But we do have the start of football season tonight, a great kickoff game of the Gaytriots and the Colts. Pretty excited for that, should be a sick game. But as far as the NFL season goes, I got a bone to pick with Bill Simmons...for a couple years already, Donnie and I (and countless others) have been saying the reason the Sports Guy is a Sports Douche is because he ruins every joke for everyone. You've been using a joke for years? Well, if he writes the same thing, and you use it one day, everyone calls you out on using a non-original joke, when in fact you've been saying it all along. Confusing, yes. Douchey move, also a yes. Look, the guy is so clearly the voice of a generation and a great writer, but for the love of Godsmack, stop it.

Anyway, in his latest column on the NFL season, this ass clown decided to tell everyone the Jets are this year's sleeper team! Why, Bill Simmons, why? So now all these morons who lack any semblance of original thought and worship all this guy's ideas (you know, the ones that write him e-mails like "I read your stuff in the bathroom every're so funny man...I want your mom banged a palamino") will be on the Jets bandwagon. That's not how it's supposed to go. Everyone's supposed to write the Jets off completely, and I'm the guy who's supposed to ride in on the white horse and write the "Get on the Jets bandwagon" article. Dude, this fucker's a Pats fan and he's saying this? Maybe it's a reverse jinx, but man oh man, nothing steams my chaps more than the Sports Guy stealing my thunder, especially when it comes to my Jets. I can only hope Bill Cosby stops ranting about the troubles of black people and starts ripping apart the Sports Guy.

Some quickie notes:

--Someone came to this site yesterday through Google looking for "David Spade's current love life and gossip." Too. Many. Questions. I mean, first, who the fuck is searching for that? More importantly, how the shit did they get to Slack with that? I love Joe Dirt as much as the next guy, but that's out of order. You outta order yourself.

--A Florida man who was trying to shoot seven puppies was shot himself when one of the dogs made the .38-caliber revolver discharge. You can't make this stuff up.

--This is one very lucky kid, man.

--Tube tops need to make a comeback.

--Shaq fights back through song. Rock 'n Roll.

Wednesday, September 08, 2004

Ran Into a Rainstorm

NOTE: I've been trying to post this since 9:30 AM. I guess Blogger's system is all wet too, like my ass.

Wow, what the hell prompted God to get so pissed off at us? What's gotten into this lickbag? Is it all the reality TV? Go-gurt? Well we're sorry, guy, now turn this goddamn spigot off. This omnipotent doucheface threw such a shitstorm at us this morning that the back of my shirt is soaked through and my ass couldn't be wetter. Nothing in this world is worse than wet ass, not swamp ass, not monkey ass. Uncomfortable wet ass is not exactly how you want to start the day. That just ain't no fun.

It also didn't help that I took the shuttle to Grand Central just in time for them to announce the 1, 2, 3, 9 lines were no longer running -- that meant a slow-moving and semi-long underground hike in what felt like sub-Saharan Africa to the A, C, E line. When all was said and done, I didn't know if I were still dripping from the rain or the sweat now pouring from my pores. I was sweating like Lamar Odom taking the SATs.

Good commute today. Really. There are gonna be a ton of smiling people in NYC today. Strangely, I'm in a decent mood. Just one of those days you have to laugh off...

Why? Well, for one thing, we're one day away from the kickoff to this year's NFL campaign, and I'm pretty sure everyone's as nervously excited as a high schooler in an adult bookstore. But I'm here with a simple message: Let's not give up on this amazing baseball season. Despite my undying love for the sport, I'll be the first to admit that baseball isn't our national pasttime anymore. Football is just insanely attractive, and the kids all idolize hoopsters the way they used to look at baseball players. But remember last post-season? Every series was off the charts ridonkulous, including both League Championship Series -- and you know, it escapes me Beantowners, what exactly happened in that ALCS? I'm sorry, I just forget sometimes. I just don't remember. Anyone? That's right, the Yanks gave Boston a rockin' donkey punch.

The end of this season, along with the post-season, shouldn't disappoint either. In fact, it has the potential to be even better than last year's awesomness. The same reasons most people tuned in last year will be around down the stretch and possibly into the playoffs: Bonds, the Cubbies' and Sawx' curses, Yankee haters, underdogs, small markets and big markets, jacked sluggers and nasty pitchers. It's all there. It's all happening. Emily Rugburn.

The National League Wild Card race surely ain't over (don't call me Shirley)...five teams are separated by less than three games, including America's favorite lovable losers from Chicago, the game's best player and a Cy Young candidate driving the Giants, the streaking Astros with the Killer B's (not these Killer Bees), the defending champs hitting their absolute stride and the underrated Padres, who I'm rooting for because they have my fantasy stud pitcher Jake Peavy and NU alumnus Mark Loretta.

I love football as much as the next guy, and I'm super excited for the season to begin...but let's not forget there's six more Yankees/Sawx games to go before we even hit the post-season; let's not forget we've got Bonds headed for 700 homers in the next week or two; let's not forget we've got Ichiro and his slipples gunning to break the 80-year-old single-season hits record, that we've got showdowns in both league's Cy Young races and both MVP races. This thing is on, and it's only getting, well, more on. (That's what you're gonna go with there? More on? Yeah, baseball isn't getting more on.)

All I'm saying is, don't write off the little round ball for the oblong pigskin just yet...we're not done here. I'm giving you the option to stick around and watch -- don't make me pull a Sonny and say, "Now youze can't leave."

Malapropisms are Fun

No political commentary here, as some people are getting a bit turned off by even the slightest amount, but I just wanted to report two hilarious Bushisms from this week:

"Too many OB/GYNs aren't able to practice their love with women all across the country."

"I went to Congress last September and proposed fundamental -- supplemental funding, which is money for armor and body parts and ammunition and fuel."

You can't make this stuff up, folks. Well, you can, but it might not be as funny.

Tuesday, September 07, 2004

Sin City

The first time I heard that "What happens in X, stays in X" cliche was when we went to the Bahamas for Spring Break freshman year in college. That was the first thing they told us when we got there: "What happens in da Bahamas, stays in da Bahamas, haaaay." That last "haaaay" is actually the punchline to the fabulous "What does a gay horse eat?" joke, but it was mostly for effect while these Bahamanians raised the roof and hinted this was gonna be a really fun trip.

Well, Las Vegas was nuttier than squirrel turds this I like to say, "Off the fuckin' charts." But since there's nothing I can really divulge about the trip that won't get someone in trouble, let's just say, "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." Twenty-two dudes getting the VIP treatment every which way makes for just a sick and expensive weekend. Thankfully there are no pictures of any strippers doing THE LYNDDIE to one of our crew (that link is safe for work, but it may not safe for chuckling your little balls off, so scroll down and check out those pics).

The one thing I can mention about the trip...the identity of poophopanonymous22 hath been revealed. Chalk that up to a mystery solved. My personal heckler happened to be on this trip and made the mistake of revealing his true identity. Poophop, you can no longer hide behind this shroud of secrecy -- the game is over, the jig is up. You better watch your step, punchy.

Oh, and here's a late addition that puts a great cap on the weekend...

Thursday, September 02, 2004

Up Five-Hunny By Midnight

The Ace Cowboy is off to Vegas...Along with 20 dudes and a pocket full of cash and snuff, Ace and company are off to the new hotel in the Mandalay Bay for a bachelor party for our first high school friend to get hitched. Poor sucker. I was commenting to a buddy last night -- this guy's got a house he just bought, he's got a job he'll be in for the rest of his life, and he'll soon to have a newlywed bride. Just add a kid or three and this guy's set for the rest of his life. His life is over already, right? And considering he reads this little rag, I'm sure he's not happy reading that last sentence. Enjoy the next month of your life, bud, and enjoy the fuck out of this weekend. I know we will.

I've only been to Vegas twice, and you could say I'm a pretty big fan. Go ahead, you can say it. Blackjack, craps, alcohol,, seriously, what's not to like? But I've only been there in the Phish capacity, been there twice see the popular rock band there in September 2000 and in April of this year. So this weekend's going to be a bit different than eating a bunch of rolls and hugging random hippies when the band plays Fluffhead, yelling "Yes, dude, yes, how nasty is this, brah?" Well, I'm guessing it'll be a bit different than that. Although, after the second night's show in 2000, Donnie and I stumbled into one of my older friends' bachelor party on the top floor of the Bellagio. Fifteen dudes in their late 20s in dress clothes all set to hit the town, three chicks doin' their thang on the guest of honor, two half-nekked chicks making out on the couch, and two college seniors, Donnie and I, in shorts, raggedy t-shirts and sandals on plenty of rolls and more ephedra in our systems than a dead football player in July. Now, THAT was a scene that had to be seen. I cannot do it justice. Anyway, Vegas. My excitement knows no bounds.

I've got plenty to sound off on, including the Kobe case, the Sports Guy's own nonsensical flip flop, and the Zell Miller speech (which I didn't watch), but I've gotta tie up my loose ends before leaving...will try to post a bit later, sports fans. Until then, keep your feet on the ground and keep scratching your balls. Or something like that.