Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Werk it Sister

I think these dudes had a pretty good idea of how to make a music video for fifty deutschmarks. All you need is an imagination and that theatre school mentality.

Saturday, December 26, 2009

City of Analgesics

I'm sure a heavy back catalogue of spots in the Los Angeles area looms large in the mind of just about any skateboarder. Who's done what. Who killed. Who lagged like a cripple. It's no secret that a small vicinity of land mass has pumped out and played host to a sizable portion of raw skating over the last 20 years (perhaps on a per capita basis that even rivals New Jersey). Gonz to Girl. Menace to Marko Jazbinsek.

It's hard not to feel that LA dropped off the map a little in recent years. Post-Barcelona explosion, shit got way more spread out and international. No longer is LA the top dawg city of four wheels. Outside of Daewon Song, it's common place nowadays for dudes to have half the globe covered in a video part. It's hard to fathom the pull that California and LA specifically had on the skate world 10 years ago.

You could see the cohesive zeal of the region start to slip after the LA County video came out. I'm not trying to write off a whole generation of dudes that came after, but once Chris Franzen's time zone dipped, some of that LA spark faded. I guess kids get tired of seeing the same spots in every issue of a magazine, so the spots go unskated until they're new again. People go elsewhere, and the limelight on the city dims a bit.

Good skaters can come from anywhere, but some real LA street shit has been hard to come by the last decade. That's not to say it's not there. Take a look at Vincent Alvarez. Straight kills. More to the point, take a look at this dude I'd never heard of before, Justin Guillen:

(Disregard the embarrassingly bad intro on this one)

If that doesn't give you some faith for progressive nu-Menace bone thug rawdoggin, you may as well never touch a ledge for the rest of your life. Gone but not forgotten, the city of angels will rise again.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Fat Man Comin Down Yo Pipe

Gather round one and all,

Christmas time is here again
A time to spend, with drinks to blend
A holy day to get new socks
Visa bill ungodly shock

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Brandon O Brandon

Look, you can trade Scott Rolen for garbage, you can get a package for Halladay that won't satisfy my immediate and unreasonable desires, but when you get rid of Brandon League, that's just too much.

Brandon League, I mourn for your loss. You can point to all the times that he came into a game and blew up, but when that young man was on, he could've miffed Satan himself. All the tangible qualities of excellence were there, just not at the same time. Never did the stew congeal into a palatable solid to rest upon your bread. Still, I feel he wasn't given the full reign he might've thrived on. Had they thrown him in there instead of Downs or Frasor in the post-BJ ambiguity of the closing curtains this year, who knows what might've flourished. Granted, too many what ifs, too many parallel universes (universi?). So, farewell delicious unpredictability. So long complete dominance offset by wild shit. Goodbye, the perfect closer that never was.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Disco Queen

1977 World Series
Game 666
Dodgy Fuckers vs. Yankee Dude-les

I'm dying for a baseball fix in the off season. As exciting as the Blue Jays filling their bench with subpar infielders this past week has been (I've already pre-ordered my Alex Gonzalez jersey ... not), sometimes the visceral sensation of a game is required to recharge your baseball senses.

Much like a junkie returning to his old ways after a month away from the hard stuff, I stooped so low as to take a DVD out of the public library of an old-time sizzler Fall Classic. Finding full game downloads on the internet is not so common (if anybody has a link to the full game 6 of the '93 series, I would be ever so indebted to you), so sometimes you just gotta make do with watching the fuckin Yankees win.

Perhaps we'll draw some comparisons between the '77 Yankees and the 2009 Skankees as this rambling turd unfolds, but fear not, any analysis will be completely superficial and ill-informed, as is my want.

So, picture it, New York City in the year of our lord, nineteen hundred and seventy-seven. Richard Hell is at the peak of his creative powers, Abraham D. Beame is in the mayor's office, and the city is crumbling. It probably looked something like this (jump to 4:00):

Billy Martin's Bronx Bombers plow their way to within one win of the Series, anchored by the heavy burger bat of Reggie Jackson, showboat extraordinaire. Billy and Reggie's squabbles had come to a head earlier in the season when Martin had to be restrained from dealing some short man vengeance Reggie's way after he pulled him from a game for lack of hustle.

Tommy Lasorda helms the boys in blue and eggs them on towards a brighter tomorrow. The moustaches of Ron Cey and Davey Lopes are invariably laced with cocaine as they hunker down at VIP tables on the sunset strip.

The pantaloons are so tight, mobility becomes limited. Here, Ron Cey hoofs it home with the stanky leg as he begins to resemble a mannequin in motion.

Game 6 is of course famous for Reggie's power performance. "Hi mom!" mugging aside, what he did here is substantially gnarly. Perhaps it does take an ego the size of Manhattan to go into a pressure cooker situation like this with so much confidence at the plate. You know, him referring to himself in the third person, calling himself "the straw that stirs the drink" in the Yankee organization, and the ineptitude with which he self-promoted himself smacks real similar to what A-Rod could've been without the coaching of one million press relations lessons. But for all the "New Mr. October" accolades that A-Rod got with his "post-season renaissance" this year, I'm sure he would trade em all in a heartbeat for three dingers in the last game of a Series.

Shit gets buck when they close it out. Reggie had just called time to go switch his hat for a helmet as some scummy New Yorkers were throwing firecrackers near him in the outfield. With the last out, he's off like a shot taking fools down like The Fridge on a Sunday. Harsh barge the large Marge and you're off to poison the clubhouse.

Maybe Reggie is just the King of the Nerds. I picture him as a feeble basement dwelling poindexter concocting some kind of suave medicine to get that go-to gumption. Much like the episode of Family Matters where Urkel transforms into Stefan Urkelle, Reggie becomes a muscled freak trotting the bases, knowing that darkness will bring his reversion to his former, lesser self, which might explain why he was in such a hurry to get back to the clubhouse. His puny medecine-free body must never be viewed by the public eye.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Requiem For A Beam

If you watch a few minutes into this opus, you'll witness probably one of the sweetest jobs to ever grace the land. The guy that had the cahones to lay down some of the most savage video effects ever cobbled together with decaying BBC technology.

Watch from 5:00 if your attention span is decaying rapidly.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Imma Slave 4 U, R U a Slave 4 Me?

Personally, I feel that Slave would be a better name for a German company composed entirely of white rastas. That way they could truly get in touch with the oppression of their people. But, as it stands, it’s a name representing a collection of dudes I’ve been mostly unaware of occupying the third string at Black Box.

I’m gonna go out on a limb here and assume Jamie Thomas had little to do with the production of their new vid Radio Television. I don’t know who made the thing, but right off the bat you’re hit with a wall of stock footage that pulls you away from the clip clip bang bang Zero style that spilled over into Mystery and Fallen video productions. Slave brings their own unique brand of brand identity to the table, but I don’t know who they’re trying to appeal to specifically. California scumlords? Next generation all terrain hammer babies? Old dudes who like a little tranny with their stair jumping? Fuck, I dunno.

Complete lack of titles here. Do I know who any of these people are? Maybe, but probably not. Pat Burke breaks off the safety conscious middle aged bicycle enthusiast with proper gusto. Although it might not be sound advice to play dead when you encounter a bear, when the bear is wearing a helmet and you just kickflipped over him, playing dead might be the best option you have going for you. Burke might squeal like an excitable retard when he lands a trick, but his looseball zeal and proper frontside heels are hard not to enjoy.

A bearded goblin with freckles. What will they think of next? If Frecks is around long enough, I anticipate an eventual personal backlash against his own nickname. Kevin Long, Brian Hansen, I don’t know what Frecks’ real name is, but if I was him I’d demand people address me as Mr. Frecks.

One thing that becomes obvious real quick with this vid is that instead of the ultra fast edits typical of the traditional Black Box output, Radio Television gives you a lot more runup and a lot more rollaway. This makes it much easier for my slow gears to process. I’m only half ADD addled at this point, so a little bit of context before the images travel from my eyes to my noodle is much appreciated. Probably why this video is twice as long as say, Misled Youth, but I’m fine with that.

Matt Mumford footage is almost nostalgic at this point as I haven’t seen anything from him in ages. He’s still gnarly, his style is still pretty awful, and he still has the tendency to look like a mannequin standing on a skateboard when he sticks his arms out.

Self styled gearhead Jon Allie blows doors with a banger of a tune and a back to back flip to board rail combo just so you know he still can. “Let me tell you what melba toast is packing right here. I’ve got four-eleven positrack out back. Seven-fifty double pumper, edelbrock intake, bored over thirty. Eleven to one pop up pistons. Turbo jet, 390 horsepower. We’re talkin some fuckin muscle.”

Jon Goemann of Birdhouse fame (is there even such a thing as Birdhouse fame anymore?) closes out the video with some largeness and that’s that.

So, what do you get out of the whole thing? Despite the faux-VHS quality, Radio Television probably won’t adorn your shelf of classic vids, but with a decent bag of not so obvious tunes and a surprisingly unobstrusive cache of greatest hits newsreel clips, it’s a pretty decent watch. Would watch again. One and a half thumbs up yer bum.

Friday, November 13, 2009

Get Their Grease, While You can

A tasty nug just happened to ramble my way:

The greatest achievement in the history of organized sport.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Expedition to the Center of Your Mind

4 Wheel Interlude, bumbaclaat.

Thinking about Expedition. Who do voodoo. This clip is somewhat of a revelation to me:

Thinking about what their team is like at this point is somewhat mind boggling. Whoever's been makin the decisions over there has been pretty on point as of late. On one team you've got: Enrique, Richard Angelides, Welsh and his trusty sidekick Joey Pepper (are these dudes attached at the hip or what?), and a thoroughly stellar am squad in Kenny Hoyle and Spencer.

If you look back at what came out of the ashes of Tree Fort (I could be wrong about that one), there's been some heavy shit passing through the Expedition biscuit ever since they've been around. Biebel, Janoski, Alf (sort of).

Recent rumours of Ryan Gallant power moves abound as well. I've never been too crazy about hardflip 180's (Chet Thomas's ghost still haunts the skateboard industry), but snatching people off the Plan B roster shows that they're not a second string Kayo roster filler.

Really, the whole deal has been looking up since they dumped this deadweight into the toilet (or into a warehouse job, who knows):

Friday, November 6, 2009

Bee Bop A Lu Bop

Turning away from the horrors of the postseason climax of destruction, let's plug our ears with some pleasant tunage and drown out the screams of our subconscious.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Lite Brite Lite Brite Turn on the Magical Shining Light

Series of the World
Game 6

Hideki Matsui, a case study:

Apparently he made a cameo in this here movie, for reals. Nine consecutive year Japanese Central League all-star. Career .517 post-steezin sluggin percentage. Known to walk to the plate with this tasty nugget blasting (watch till the end if you want to have your mind blown by an interstellar drum solo):

Well, Matsui rifles a two run dinger to bring my bowels to a freeze early this evening.

Then Rollins' sac fly brings in Ruiz's doubleday to bring it within one in the third.

Teixeira made a very audible "haaaaaahhh!" as Pedro popped him in the leg to load the bases.

Grotty New Yorkers swallowing victory wines seems palpable for the swine on hand at Ol' New Yankee Stadium. Matsui brings in two more to make it 4-1, all his runs. His scaly green ass looms large.

Posada really can't catch for shit, can he? As much of a turd as A.J. Burnett is, it's understandable why he doesn't like to work with the chinless wonder.

Pedro out after four. Not really thriving on the raucous atmosphere like you think he'd might. His slight adversarial hate-thriving Bonds-esque streak is in hiding under the cover of night.

Teixeira reels one in to boost it to 5-1.

Jesus Christ, Matsui gets another two run hit, a double this time. He is single handedly turning this thing into a slobberknocker.

But, Howard awakes from his lengthy slumber with a a two run paint scraper. Dare I dream and place my hopes upon the fragile mantle of a late game gear shift into offensive overdrive? Could I be that foolish? There's a very slim window between Pettite starting to fall off and Rivera coming in to lock shit tight.

Rivera steps in during the eighth with one in the outhouse. Ibanez, who is probably a satanist, gets a doubleday but it amounts to zilch.

Victorino's prolonged valiance as the 27th out brings the fartknockers onto the field with turgid gusto and the vicious reality of a truly shitty season is complete.

There's always next year, bumbaclaat.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Hyperdermal Cigarette

The World is Serious
Game Fievel Goes West

Did you think the tin man would rust unless you changed his oil? Mr. November sez: "Chase knows that what's good for Chase is good for Chase... I mean Philadelphia. Godspeed my Ferengi warlords."

Some may debate the accuracy of the above quote, but let me assure you, a little birdie told me they heard it plain as day when they were squatting in the handicap stall at Citizen's Bank Park.

Let's just get down to brass tacks and say that A.J. "Choking Hazard" Burnett was quite the marvel this evening, he does not disappoint his audience (alienated Torontonians). The realtime crumble in just under three innings speaks volumes about the power to envision a world without borders, a world beyond the thunderdome, a world where all you see becomes unto thee. I'm talkin bout goin downtown, baby. Cripple the child in their own crib. Eradicate the necessity for the Brad Lidge turd blossom and your reality becomes a sevenfold enigma encased with golden showers and a jubilant parade.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Broomhilda and the Jumblingtons Greatest Hits

World Series of Poker
Game 4

Juice Ape plunked for the third time. Methinks some measure of violence could possibly follow. Are you gonna take that, Juice Ape? Be a man and stand up for Kate Hudson's honor. Yankees have already managed to squeeze out a deuce of runs in the first.

If I could divert your attention away from the game for one moment, I'd like to talk about this commercial:

Sexism is still sadly rampant in Western society. As much progress as has been made since the good old days of public bra burning and outrageously long armpit hair, the status of the female in North America is still not one of equal footing with the male. You'd think that as far as Hillary Clinton has made it, there should be some kind of equal opportunity for women in this country. The fact that they can't show a woman with a black eye in the above commercial is a damning indicator of how old fashioned the values of our culture are. Perhaps one day, we can dream together a world where women and men will fight each other on a pay per view basis.

Back to the baseball game. CreamCorn Sabathia beefcake burger thug at the plate. I love watching pitchers hit, I really do. If they actually get a hit, it's ten times better. If they don't, it looks so inept it's just as entertaining. I also love seeing position players have to pitch, so maybe I should just start following the Venezuelan softball squad for the Special Olympics.

Fuck Joe Buck. Fuck Buck. "The new Pearl Jam album is terrific." Get that shit outta here, I don't need to hear that during a ball game. Nor do I appreciate the NFL updates during the World Series, you turd.

Hoo boy, Ryan Howard ties it at two by bowling over the chinless wonder. Fully didn't touch the plate and it looks like he knows it too. Plenty of grievances to air at your local bronx watering hole.

Two more Yankee runs courtesy of Jeter and Damon ribeye singles.

Utley once again brings the fire and brimstone with a solo carpet bombing in the bottom of the seventh. CreamCorn is pulled out and tossed in the fridge. 4-3 Yankers. Pedro Feliz follows up Utley's biscuit in the eighth to tie it the same way.

Damon finagles two bases on a steal with the massive shift on. Teixeira gets the kerplunk treatment. Juice Ape up for hero status with a ribeye double. Brad Lidge is a stressed out leprechaun. Chinless Posada drives in a pair of assholes and it's 7-4.

Three up three down in the bottom of the ninth and thus concludes vigorously disappointing outcome. A substantial pit has been dug for the Phillies. Little Timmy has fallen down a well and it's gonna take more than Lassie to pull him out.

The Dawning of the Age of Aquariums

I'm a new resident of the modern world. I got a cell phone about a month ago. I don't really have a problem with the technology, just the way that turds use it. You know what I'm talking about. Fartknockers yakin on a public transit type of thing.

Anyways, since I got this new number, I've got a couple calls from people looking for the guy who had the number before me. This morning, or this afternoon rather, I woke up to a bunch of missed calls and text messages. Here's what was on my phone verbatim:

#1: "Yo yo wa poppin"

#2: "Yo holla at me nigga"

#3: "Yo jemal holla at me wa wron wit u b?"

All these texts were within about 15 minutes. Then the phone rings and I answered it. To the best of my recollection, the conversation went like this:

Me: Hello?

Dude: Yo

Me: Hello?

Dude: Yo

Me: (silence)

Dude: Yo

Me: What can I do for you?

Dude: Yo jemal dere?

Me: You got the wrong number.

Dude: Where jemal at?

Me: I don't know jemal.

Dude: Aight

Me: Okay.

You'd think this kid would realize that Jemal isn't at this number anymore, but the text messages keep pouring in:

Jemal's Buddy: "Yo i dun gots da wrong num... Where jemal at bra?

JB: "If i gots 2 reach down there imma be pissed

JB: "Yo r u gonna reply back an let me kno wat good

No more texts for a while after that, so I decided to text him back:

Me: "I've had this number for about a month. I dunno any jemal, is he a hot stud?

Literally a minute later, he texted me back:

JB: "Yeah he iaght still... Wats about u wat do u looks like an wat iz yo nationality r u b"

JB: "How old r u?

Me: "87/sexual/latino"

JB: "Your 87"

Me: "My hip ain't what it used to be, but don't think I ain't still got a mean charleston."

I guess he doesn't believe me, so he asks me again:

JB: "How old r u?"

Me: "I was born in 1922. My grandkids think I'm kewl!"

I'll keep you guys posted on the hottest story since balloon boy if any more scintillating transactions transpire.

Honcho Notorious

World Series Game 3

Despite Jayson "Nickelback" Werth having a dilly of a 'Back Attack, Cole Hamels' handsome visage crumbled like the oldest cheese around.

Juice Ape getting plunked twice almost made up for his 2 run camera popper, but not quite. My world series dry patch fantasy wilted terribly, how awful.

CreamCorn Sabathia is up again tonight against Joe Blanton's big swinging dick. They aren't gonna use Cliff Lee on short rest, and old man Moyer is nowhere to be seen. Get his walker out and let the silver fox throw down, dammit.

Saturday, October 31, 2009

Old Man's Winter

Cito Gaston is from the future. He was created by the Bell Telephone company and sent back in time to put a financial strain on Rogers Blue Jays baseball operations. Under the guise of putting nostalgists in the seats, the main purpose of the Gas-one cyborg unit is to slowly but surely alienate every player on the team and reduce them to a bunch of infighting diaper soilers. Really, who goes to a game to watch someone manage it? Even if they exhumed Sparky Anderson from the old folks home, that's not gonna put me in a seat.

So, Cito's staying on for another year. We can thank the newly anointed emperor Beeston for this one. What was it that Caesar said about refusing the crown until they have you begging to take it? Well, fuck what Caesar said, but he made good salads.

I'm not really sure how a sober mind could put Cito back in the driver's seat after this season. When the turds hit the ceiling fan at the end of the year and players were openly pointing to Cito and saying "this is the problem, this guy right here", you'd have to be somewhat retardo montelban not to do something about it.

From shitting on Barajas, feuding with Accardo when he was one of the few half-bright spots in the bullpen, the rumours that he was a big part of why Rolen split town, to his inexplicable enthusiasm for Kevin Millar's brand of washed up baseball, Cito's track record this season does not warrant an encore. Even Brad Arnsberg has flown the coop to Houston, which might indicate that the rumblings that even the coaches had a problem with him were true.

It's gonna be a hard battle for the Jays to get their shit together before the world ends in 2012.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Ultra Juicy Couture

European Series Game 2

I know who my daddy is, do you Derek-san?

Nice shorts bro. Behold the majesty of A.J. Burnett's cavernously flared nostrils. Revel in their glory. The permanent sneer resembles a puckered asshole.

No way bud, those tattoos are stylin.

To the play by play.

Second inning. Matthew Staircase coming up with a prime cut to shoe in a ribeye. One-nothing Philadelphians.

Juice Ape's curve swerve gets him out looking, 5th K in the series. Let's see how long we can ride this out, eh? As much hubbub as there's been about A-Rod's supposed post-season renaissance, how tantalizing would a full world series thorough bed shitting be?

Raul Ibanez old man hero catch.

Bottom of the fourth. Teixeira gets the solo paint scraper. One to one. Heart to heart. You see how when he pops one it's a paint scraper and when Utley gets one in the same spot it's legit? You see how these things work? It's called bias. Turd bias. Weed out the turds and use em as compost, man.

Juice Ape third encounter. Now we're at 0-7, lookin good, feeling fine. Hideki Matsui, jewel of the orient, plops one over the fence. Two to One Yankees.

Runners on the corners in the bottom of the seventh with no one in the outhouse. Pedro needs a re-up of the Jheri Curl, but he gets yanked instead and smiles like a big goofball on his way out.

They're playing this at the Yankee crap shack to get the meatheads pumped:

Posada chinless wonder reels in a ribeye, outhouse is still unoccupied, 3-1. Lucky Philadelphian call on the double play, I'm not complaining.

Eigth inning. Rivera enters night and walks Rollins. The Hawaiian follows with a Clyde Singleton. All for naught.

Juice Ape with his fourth attempt at the razzle dazzle. 0-8 with another K. To quote a dude named Ronald, I'm lovin it. But, that's about all I'm lovin this evening. Yankers take it 3-1 and send it to Philadelphia with one a piece.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Yeehaw, Frosty Mug

"I have rediscovered the joy of baseball."
-Alex Rodriguez

World Series Game 1

Juice Ape, first at bat. Cliff Lee whiffs him like a cur. The atmosphere is lookin pretty dismal at the ol' new Yankee Stadium. A wet den of sinful iniquity. The house that Hideki Matsui built.

Speakin of the house, old news, but I always think of how this could've been a sweet jinx. A little curse like the goatman at Wrigley Field.

Back to the play by play.

Redemption for Utley's Boner in the top of the 3rd. Pip pip, one to nothing Philadelphians old boy. Trip out brodeo drive...

Derek Jeter, or Jerek Leter as the commentator refers to him, gets on with an erect doubleday, but it goes flaccid.

Juice Ape/Cliff Lee round 2. Whiffed with gusto and sends him through the rotash. Cliff Lee spittin that hot fiyah.

Mischievous Matsui manages mischief, man.

This fucker again:

Utley drops another solo sling dropper in the 6th to push it to a deuce-zilch.

Phil Hughes bringing the bad news with back to back strolls in the 8th. Now, full loadage. Robertson the Rawbertson drops one to Ibanez and two squeak through, 4-0 in the zoo.

Cliff Lee is coming up like some kind of loose goose catching everything in his beak with the greatest of ease. He has been suave and sultry with a little swagger.

Carlos Ruiz gets the doubleday and Jimmy Rollins follows it up with a single in the 9th. Maholo Victorino gets one more through, 5-0. Rollins comes home to make it a six pack and Victorino goes Flyin Hawaiian right into where Posada's chin would be if he had one.

Bottom of the ninth, Jeter and Damon both get on. Potential double play, Rollins puts the ball in the dugout, 6-1. Juice Ape final showdown... triple k. That's kkk to you, Juice Ape. A-Rod neutered like a homeless cat. Cliff Lee takes the chinless wonder down for good measure. Two earned runs in 33 innings. Yipes.

Through the magic of the internet a lurker dude who is both grimy and retarded just sent me a pic he flicked of the Juice Ape hitting the showers after his devastating triple strikeout performance tonight.

So, Yankers in the hole by one game. Mighty fine. See you tomorrow.

A Series of Unfortunate Events

The interstellar universal series of the world beckons to turds everywhere. Get off thy couch and go to thy fridge for some snackables. Then return to thy couch and sit for eons as you get a fervent rump groove worked into your seating apparatus.

As much as this series is a let down to me in terms of who's playing, at least it presents the hope of being competitive. Aside from the fact that Jeter's merry minions could get another ring out of the deal (with A-Rod, Melky, Cano, Mark Tx, and Nick Swisher's grandparents all getting their first), what bums me out is that the outcome of the season was so probable. No big upsets or dark horses with skeleton knights riding on them (maybe the Twins), just two titans slowly walking towards their inevitable collision.

Reminds me of a monster truck rally I went to as a kid. In between Grave Digger blowin your mind and the demolition derby, they had this interlude with real live Transformers. Two cars about 100 feet apart took ten minutes to unfold and then one of em shot some sparks and a hole blew out of the other and the battle was over. Mondo lameness. Then the voice of the Transformer came over the intercom and told the children in attendance not to use drugs.

So yes, this world series is a lot like that, a conclusion to a season that seems like it wouldn't have ended any other way. That doesn't mean your biscuit can't have a little sizzle, we're talking about the potential to see Steinbrenner's stoolies crumble like some kind of ancient cheese.

The pitching matchup for game one is gonna look like this:

Cliff Lee is coming in at a sterling ferocious clip. Post-season ERA of 0.74 in 24 innings pitched, 0.69 WHIP. Sure, three games isn't a huge sample size for career post-season stats, but clearly this maricone's bowels do not turn to ice when October rolls around.

I wonder if him and Jimmy Rollins ever chat about this little nugget:

Anyhow, Lee vs:

Cliff Lee's former teammate and known diddler of underage girls, CreamedCorn Sabathia. 1.2 ERA this post-season, 0.9 WHIP. Marginally less marinated in sweet basting juices than Lee, but stellar. Big guns all around.

I predict the sensitization of erogenous zones, a reduction in life productivity, and sitting through hours of painfully crapulent commercials. The Diamond Conspiracies: We Deal Excitement. Is that slogan taken?

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Vicious and Pernicious

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

Monday, October 26, 2009

Darren Oliver's Earplugs

You vs. Me
ALCS Game 6

I can't hear you. I don't wanna hear you. I wanna shut out Rudy Giuliani's boyish glee and picture him crying instead. But, alas...

I don't know that the Angels could've come back after the 9th, even if they hadn't put on such a horrid display of infield ineptitude in the previous inning. Kazmir's feeble crippled lob to first was pure little league.

The kid on the far right? The one sitting down? Yeah, that's Scott Kazmir. I half imagined that the illusion would melt away and Kazmir and Kendrick would be left in the middle of a howling stadium, children in oversized uniforms. I know these things happen, especially when you've got legions of criddled guidos breathing down your neck, but that was one of those "what the fudge" moments (using curse words is for bad people).

A Phillies/Yankees series doesn't give me much of anything to root for, except possibly the Philly Phanatic.

Get that nut you twisted mutant.

Sunday, October 25, 2009

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Kershaw's Last Stand

Crips vs. Bloods
NLCS Game 5

Clayton Kershaw is perhaps the most farm boy lookin dude around. Kinda like a mix between:


Anyhow, right now this ain't lookin too promising. Need some...

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Cthulu Stickin it to You

New Jersey Yankees vs. Orange County Angels
ALCS Game 4

Last night during the Dodgers game, I started to piece together what is really transpiring behind the closed doors of the Dodgers' clubhouse. It came to me as a revelation. An image of staggering spectacle, I saw it all. After every game, Manny Ramirez (aka Predator) runs to the clubhouse, sits back in a chair, and spreads his mighty dreadlocks out across a table.

What happens next is truly disturbing. As the other players filter in from the field after a hard day's competition, they gather sitting around the table entrenched with Predator dreads. Like moths to a flame they come, they come to feast on the succulent juices of the Predator's gnarled locks. They suck away like fiends for a fix, it was a sight to behold.

All the pharmaceuticals that Manny has taken over the years have left substantial traces of performance enhancing properties in the ancient strands of energy that hang from his head. Scientists and MLB officials might wanna look into this, because evidently the Predator's unique genetic makeup has transformed all the steroids he took into a new type of undetectable gun pumping juice that can be sucked from his hair.

Dick the Bruiser

When I was 9 I didn't think there was anything wrong with this guy. I even put a 33 on the end of my bat in his honor. Maybe I just had my head in the clouds, but children don't usually have the same kind of turd radar that you develop later in life. So, let's take a brief look back at some of the many faces of Jose Canseco.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Bingenheimer's Bulbous Boner

Yonkers at Hollywood
ALCS Game 3

Izturis pops his sack out to pop the halos ahead by one in the bottom of the 7th. Craving a Gatorade bucket over A-Rod the nu-amerikan playoff hero. I'll bet he'd melt like the witch in the Wizard of Oz. Aybar gleaning some wizdom with a line sizzle to the righteous field.

Ah, fuckin Posada chinless wonder. Jeter brings the top of the 8th to a close with a ground out. Jeter, I use your gillette products to shave my ass.

OH!! Abreu you fuckin retard. Is your brain clogged with cholesterol? Torii Spelling be whiffing. Commentator reminds of the Punto's gaffe, truly a horrid reoccurence. We gonna see a sweep here too?

By jiminy, extra biscuit again. If I'm in for another marathon burger juicer that leaves me flat, someone's gonna have to pay. That someone is chinless Posada. Fuck that dude. Don't grab your twig berries at the pitcher, you just struck thrice.

Mathis let your buck swing wild. Thas what I like to see, Abner Doubleday with noone in the outhouse. Rivera power move to try and hold on. Mathis gets some luck of the oyrish at 3rd. All for nothin.

Howie Kendrick getting that straight horizontal one base carpet bagger.

FUCKING MATHIS!!!! Kendrick's home and that is fresh biscuit with gravy right there. 5-4 Angels in the 11th.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Balloon Boy's Father Is George McFly

The 7th is getting a little cozy here. 2-2, Aybar and Figgins on, 1 in the outhouse. Phil Coke's vials are getting some condensation on em. Abreu at the throne. Slider vacated from the pot, scandal bags.

Here comes Joba:

"Furry children es me mucho!"

Torii Spelling got Jeter starcrossed when he got to da choppa.

Holy shit, Vladimir got impaled. Double impaled in both tits. 6 runners stranded, full loadage of the bases twice, and he has soiled the poop deck thoroughly.

Rivera spittin that hot fiyah.

Chone Figgins triple aggro fist pump on the big bopper ribeye double.

Mr. Kate Hudson with the new Yankee paint scratcher... madre dios. Tied again.

Awww mannnnnn, what a shitty way for that to end. Awful.

Silver Surface Surfer

While I'm waiting for Alex "The Greek" Anthopoulos to make some off-season power moves (by late winter I'm gonna be yelling shit or get off the pot), let's discover our inner fashion diva and take a look back at the evolution of the once beloved Blue Jay uniform.

Here we have the OG. Basic, straight forward, good colors, groovin fonts, pretty decent in my books.

This sucker is my pick of the litter. Button up instead of pullover, subtle modifications, choice cuts brogan.

Addition of an alternate, allright, you've still got me. Looks good mister.

Here's where it starts to get wonky and not just cause the models got preety creepster here all of a sudden. Putting that maple leaf behind the ol birdbrain in the logo was some pretty tasteless shit. That's getting a little too Molson Canadian two four give away for my liking.

At this point, your bed has been thoroughly shat in. You can salvage no redemption.

Yeah. So, maybe while they are going out and dropping some payroll on a shitload of free agents and building a new stadium they can either do full time throwbacks or come up with something new that sizzles? A degenerate can dream can't he?

New Age Windows Phone

Angelica Huston vs. Fran Drescher
ALCS Game 2

I missed most of the first nugget in this happy meal, but my rapture is yours, dear reader, as I dwell delusionally while sick in bed on a Saturday night. S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y Night.

I got a hot date with Johnny Fever.

Anyways bro, I'm cloud nined. Chone Figgins is as rough as a crocodile's asshole right now, pussy ass earflaps are for Texeira type turds, and stank call on AJ's dirtball third strike here in the 4th. Fuck your fake ass Charlie Hustle aspirations Jeter-san. You'll never have the real hustle, son.

Dude had maybe too much hustle. But as the old saying goes, it doesn't really count unless you bet against your own team.

Figgins has not been living up to his reputation of legendary fig consumption. He clearly does not have a case of the trots.

Fuckin Jeter, shut your mouth when you're on the field you cock rustler. That fuck will do anything for an edge. He'd slit a teammates tendon in the shower with a straight razor. These are some allegations right here.

Abreu takin it to the outer realm in the top of the 5th here. Hella foul balls, fowl balls, Ethan Fowler's balls:

Johnny Damon actually caught something other than a case of gonorrhea. Nah, I don't mind Damon that much. For a Yankee, I find him tolerable, don't ask me why... Maybe he just looks allright compared to the vomitous sludge sitting on the bench on either side of him.

Burnett you shit baller. You're blowing it. I'm loving it. I want a cheeseburger.

Friday, October 16, 2009

Tonight is a night for Chicken

Whirlwind trip around the world in 90 seconds... Go!

San Fernando Valley:

Grimy old London town:

The Dutch Oven:

But Don't Fear the Reaper

Utley's Udders have been milked in the bottom of the 8th. He's blowing the proverbial goat with the Codgers this series.

Old Man Thome lurking in the shadows, springs one into the corner with some sizzle to bring el dude to 3rd with one in the outhouse. Lookin hot, loadage of bases.

Andre Ethier of the Deadly Snakes works the fully and coaxes a surely satisfying trot to 1st. 2-1 LA Codgers. Predator shits the bed and we're on to the 9th.

Chase chasing redemption off big bottom Broxton... NO DICE.

He's gonna have to eat a couple of these puppies to toughen up.

I guess scoring on an error and a bases loaded walk might be a bit of a pyrrhic victory, but I'm sure the Dodgers could give half a shit how they win as long as they win.

It's a little weird that they play "I Love LA" at the stadium when the Dodgers win.
Just take a gander at some of Randy Newman's harsh satirical bite:

"Look at that mountain
Look at those trees
Look at that bum over there, man
He's down on his knees"

Envy the Dead

Codgers vs. Philadelphia starring Tom Hanks
NLCS Game 2

Here I lie, sick at home on a Friday. But, a little sesh alleviates the horror and you're smack dab in the middle of some kind of microcosm of Ferris Buehler's Day Off.

Pedro's jerri curl is greasing up the rubber, I can see it dripping onto the mound. I think it might be throwing Padilla off a bit.

He knows how to take a pop on the chin.

But don't think he doesn't know how to dish it out too.

At least he shits on the Yankees and looks out for the little guy. Go Expos!

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Balloon Boy is A-OK

Trolley Dodgers vs. Phineas Philadelphia
NLCS Game 1

Predator's back son, peep the healthy glow. Complexion like roast beef, focus like a mongoloid. Pops a trifecta in the 5th to pump the biscuit to 5-4 Philadelphians. Pumping guns and juicin runs.

Old King Cole was good till then despite some early hiccups. But yes it's true, Cole Hamels' wife was a cast member on Survivor.

Not enough juice to keep the thang pumpin, Dodger fall off, Philapelphian ferocity.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

The Great Outdoors

So, there's a couple of dudes who are interested in building a baseball-only outdoor stadium in Toronto. I'm certainly not holding my breath by any means, I mean it says right in there they haven't even spoken to the Blue Jays about this stuff, but my member gets some tingles just thinking about it.

Really, the "Rogers Centre" has such an oppressive atmosphere, if the field wasn't green, it wouldn't feel like baseball had anything to do with that place. It is a harsh vision of the future, where you must seek shelter from the acid rain and the toxic atmosphere that came from the fallout after the great fresh water wars with the EU sometime in the 22nd century.

To me, it seems like one of the biggest cockblocks for some new digs would be what the fuck you'd do with the Skydome without the Jays. Sure, the CFL will fill your coffers (not), but it'd be a perfect setting for the Toronto contingent of the new cyborg/robot baseball league that Rupert Murdoch is set to fire up by 2015.

The future is now, repent sinners for your soul has become obtuse.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Exasperatingly Sorry

I'll bet you're sorry. What this video could've been. Maybe not an omega biscuit for the ages, but at least a flavour of the season. Makes me feel like an Eastern European immigrant seeing the crapulence of North America for the first time.

In this case, we've got a Western European immigrant (Geoff Rowley) makin it big stateside. All those wild ass ads over the last few years revealed in full glory. Right away, this vid blows it like a cherry bomb. All this Shane Cross footy that people have been clamoring for like wild women of borneo, and whadda they do? Throw in a bunch of animation that is so distracting you can't even think about how bad the music is.

Rowley's part skimps on the music rights coming up shy of what could've been a doozy. Had they shelled out a bit for the original Stand by Me, that would've been taster's choice. From there the music all goes downhill into some kind of black nailpolish choker necklace lurker composing gothic anthems on a computer in his parent's basement. Yes, I hear you saying, just lay down your own tunes overtop of this, but c'mon, do you really think I have my shit that together? I'm just not that motivated, man. But yeah, this music fuckin sucks.

Damn shame too, cause Rodrigo's part is fuckin legit. I imagine this shit is what Fabian Alomar would wanna skate like in his weed dreamz. Lack of trendy tricks, ender is bonkers, and don't tell me that switch varial flip manny didn't have some Gino flavour.

Suprising amount of Boulala footage, alternate angles from the 90's and some Somalian piratism. Really, a pretty traditional Boulala part. That's that, I'm not gonna speculate on any kind of comeback or anything.

Vov Vurnquist really blew doors with this one though, lemme tell you. He was straight toilet wig splittin with this bionic criddler shit. I loled, I said omg, I might have even squeaked out a zomg, that's how modern this biscuit is. Imagine if you went back in time and showed this part to like a young Bill Dorr or something, their minds would vaporize like a dried turd in a death ray.

Switch back tail the omega rail, and not only that, but they somehow managed to hold on to the make of his grand canyon paradrop and keep it under wraps? Unless I missed it somewhere before... pretty buckland wilder.

I could do without masturbating claymation, but I'm sure there's 13 year olds out there who will be positively thrizzled at the idea.

The british am chap was pretty decent and that Willow dude has the most switch looking regular stuff I've ever seen.

What can you say about this cave troll? It looks like he's making the transition to a grubby park dwelling 60-something homeless dude pretty well. But for reals, I still like Penny footage. Even though he's not at the same level as in his TSA heyday, seein his shit is kinda like seeing an old broseph skating when you haven't skated with em in years.

The only part of the clayfighter business that really jazzed me good was how lunatic fringe they made Lance Mountain look. Like a vampire ape loose in the streets. They make it look like he filmed his whole part in one day, which is a bit of that old George Powell video magic, but I don't think they were honestly trying to fool anybody, just for that old-timey vibe, man.

I guess Appleyard really does have that fly boy element goin on and the Mexican dwarf in tight pants with a ribbon wrapped around his head as last part was a real bad choice.

So, yeppers. I'd like to see some diligent freak re-edit this thing in its entirety with a couple juicy tracks overtop. As it is, it's kinda unwatchable as a whole video. Bumrush the show. Endgame