I Gave Him the Wrong Finger
It's peanut butter playoffs time! It's peanut butter playoffs time! It's the Major League playoffs with a baseball bat...
But since I don't have anything especially funny to write (outside of a kickass Mark Foley scandal joke I just came up with: "Foley ran out of bookmarks so instead he just decided to bend over the pages"), I'll just mention how excited I am about this Yankums squad and hope they crush the Le Tigre like everyone says they should. Then I'll watch as they advance to face a small-market team in the ALCS and every single sportswriter in the country uses the tired David versus Goliath analogy in their tired copy (everyone except Deadspin, actually).
Instead, I give you this fantasy baseball year-end update and horribly self-deprecating anecdote: I finished out the season in the top half of the table for both of my leagues, though I owe all the credit for any success to my partners. In my long-standing, big-money league, Chuck B and I guided Berger's Mom Still Stankiwiecz to a fifth-place finish after flirting with third for much of the season. We didn't do great, but we didn't mismanage the lineup or make bad trades, and we were a handful of better pitching outings and solid hitting days from the money. And never once did Chuck or I have to schedule a closed-door meeting with our players to, ya know, straighten shit out.
But I'm also a silent partner in Roommate Dorsey's league, and we're taking home the second-place prize purse. It came down to the last week, and injuries to Travis Hafner and Rickie Weeks probably lost it for us, but I'm pretty sure I blew the league for us back in May.
Dorsey, a fantasy sports savant, woke me up early on a Saturday to tell me I had to pick up Jered Weaver, who made his major-league debut the night before. Why couldn't he do it? He was in the Virgin Islands and had no computer access. Yet somehow he knew Weaver had started and we should pick him up. Well done, Dorsey.
I stumbled over to his computer, locate a "Je. Weaver - LAA" on the page and tried to figure out whom we should drop. It was between Adrian Beltre and Ryan Zimmerman, and Beltre had just begun to heat up (before cooling off again), so in my haste I decided to drop the Jew-sounding rookie third-baseman for the ol' Expos.
Well, not only did I drop a strong NL Rookie of the Year candidate who hit 20 homers and drove in 110 runs, but I picked up Scumbag JEFF Weaver instead of his more talented (and actually good) younger brother: same team, same first two initials, same natty head of hair, totally different statistics this year. Terrible.
So much for me being a silent partner. I, as always, blow goats.
Slack Google Searches of the Day (how people randomly arrived here): ball-gagged bridesmaids photos, james worthy arrested prostitutes, love of black cock, show me the fever into the fire higher and higher, Bush OBGYN practice their love freely, who invented the blocked shot, and vegan bowler hats.
Slack Link of the Day: Pitchfork reviewed Jet's new album Shine On without a single word, and it may just be the best review ever.
Slack Video of the Day: I've posted this before, but there ain't no way you can watch this enough -- The Lady Suckerpunch.
Slack Song of the Day: I had a very Sideways experience last night, in that I saw a decent band that was somehow extraordinarily overrated, and now I'm curious as to whether the American public can ever be trusted to judge anything again.
I was told I'd walk out of the Secret Machines show sockless, as a result of them being rocked off. I'm kinda sad to report, though, this is not a band that rocked my socks off, nor did they even peel my socks down to the ankles. My socks were firmly affixed all night long, in no danger of being removed completely from the feet.
This was one of the more underwhelming shows I've been to in a long while. The set-up was awesome, the In The Round idea being cool as hell. Musically, well, I just don't get it. As Hoobs and I discussed on the way out, I really don't think these guys are all that adept as musicians. They make "decent" to "eh" music as a whole, but the guitarist proved to be nothing more than a light strummer, and someone should tell the drummer he's allowed to switch up the beat every now and then...three straight minutes of his playing Animal on the drums made me wonder whether he could be replaced with an eighth grader, or a Mark Foley e-mail recipient. Ho, snap.
Anyway, I want youse to make up your own mind, so here's the band's MySpace page. And here are some more pics from last night's show: From the balcony; more from the balcony; and more balcony bartakamous. Secret Machines, wish they were even more secret.