Ploesser Pleasure

I've been a fan of Randy Ploesser since he popped up in Slap's One In a Million a few years back and promptly got snatched up by Birdhouse. Much like Element, Birdhouse is a bit of a coverage vortex, so him jumping ship to The High 5 is probably a good thing for those of us on the prowl for some more of the St. Louis native. Case in point, a banger web clip like this that could easily be a stand out video part.

I don't know much about The High 5, but I was tickled with nostalgia at them adopting the NBC Special Presentation animation for their intro. There's a half dozen well known spots in this clip that he managed to barge in a way I've never seen before. A gimmick-free creative eye is always refreshing and his bag of tricks isn't too shabby either. Thumbs up yer butt, Randy.

Go Ahead And Let That Door Hit Your Rump On The Way Out

Edwin Encarnacion was claimed off waivers by the Oakland A's today. Although this shouldn't surprise anyone, his stay in Toronto always seemed pretty tenuous, my god am I glad to see him go. I'll miss Jerry Howarth and Alan Ashby riding him for being lazier than even Alex Rios, but that's about all I'll miss. He missed the boat on getting in on those Hustle and Heart commercials (wouldn't that have been deliciously ironic?). He brought some decent power numbers to Toronto along with a somewhat hefty salary, but that came with a wretched glove and he conveniently left his OBP back in Cincinnati. Barring a Zach Stewart breakout, that trade for Scott Rolen will still haunt me. Good riddance.

Cleansing My Sinz

If you've read this blog before, you probably know I have a passion for the Lord. By Lord I mean Jesus, and by Jesus I mean Jesus Fernandez. Here's a clip from another Spanish scene video I'd never seen that's also pleasantly heavy on the Daniel Lebron action.



Like the other Jesus' sensual exploration of Mary Magdalene's naughty bits, Jesus Fernandez's fakie 5-0 to fakie nosegrinds are the only thing that bring his divinity into question. That's not a trick, that's a dutti dance.

Vaya Con Dios

Farewell dear Yankerinos. How I'll miss you so. Put your sweet sweet post-season dreams to bed for another season and lay in restless slumber as your roster grows grey.


Hose me down with ginger ale as a single tear trickles down Derek Jeter's Gilette cropped cheek. Although I'd rather have such goings-ons occur through the hand of a certain bird species, much respect to the Rangers of Texas for slaying the beast that is the New York Yankees. With only one quarter of the payroll the Yankees through around this year, Texas got 'er done with the hit and run. Cliff Lee makes me pee. Vlad Guerrero deserved the sombrero. Ron Washington endorses Cock Shan.

I must admit to conflicting feelings at the prospect of a Giants/Rangers World Series dynamo showdown. You kind of win either way. Seeing either a franchise or a city getting their first championship is exciting business.

Philadelphia needs to go though. Fond memories of past Blue Jays pitchers aside, I can't root for the Yankees of the NL. Disgusting business.

In conclusion, baseball needs more of this:


Wild locks and marijuana fines baby, that's what I wanna see.

Kickers

At the risk of becoming a youtube propagator insulator masturbator, I came across this little ol' Spike Jonze documentary about teenage Texan bullriders by way of Etnies' omega-delicious 90's throwback bizness. I thought it was pretty interesting. Maybe you will too? Maybe you're a turd who likes to spoon J-Wad and listen to Lenny Kravitz? That's between you and your god.

Spanish Fly Is Always On My Shopping List

Peep peep. Never saw this one before. Javi and Jesus share a part in this Spanish scene vid and do it up proper. Ledges, lines, pushing. "That's what I like to see!" Javi pulls off a couple of the more tolerable looking ledge to manual tricks and Jesus somehow makes a switch noseslide kickflip out look good.

Chavs? Neds? Where The Fuck Am I?

Sweet mongoloidism makes my ticker boom.

A Good Spot To Have Lunch

This is SE Hinton in 1968 after she wrote the Outsiders.




This is Bryan Herman blasting over a picnic table off flat.



What do these two things have in common? I guess you could try and make some sort of connection between an author who popped out a couple books and pretty much just chilled and a skateboarder who seems to have a similarly irie work ethic. Really though, this is about Emerica's new video Stay Gold.

I'm gonna go ahead and claim Bryan Herman's first part in the video is the greatest human achievement in the last thousand years. Yes, even greater than the invention of the printing press, more earth shattering than Isaac Newton's bangers, more stupendous than the creation of the Human Centipede. So, why am I so excited about a bunch of lines on picnic tables in a baby bottom smooth california schoolyard? Didn't picnic tables fall out of fashion after Daewon OD'd on em and his setups started to resemble something out of a lego kit?

To answer that question: fuck no. If there's anything I wanna see, it's gnarlers with flavour getting down with some gimmick free ledge skating that would've blown doors in '96. I can hear you saying, "C'mon guy, Herman's just cruising some perfect tables. I'd like to see him come to Hoboken and flex on my spots covered with syringes and human feces." Well, shit, your crusty spot might look pretty thrilling if you get the lighting just so, but really you're just doing a 50-50 that my grandma could do switch.

Now, picnic tables. There are no illusions about them. Yes, those california tables are low. They are also wide. Tricks over them is no small feat. You can't deceive the viewer with a picnic table. They are like a unit of measurement. The tables Herman is skating are the same ones that Keenan switch flipped and Kareem 360 flip smith-smeared. You know what you're dealing with. Have you ever been to a famous handrail only to find out it's knee high? Did you feel cheated that the death lens made it look 10 feet tall? The tables don't lie. They are as constant as the stars. I take some small comfort in knowing that a trick over a table off flat will always be some kind of benchmark in that trick's history.

It probably speaks volumes that some lines Herman probably filmed in a few days eclipsed anything else in the video for me, but other gems abound. Brandon Westgate crushes with a Huf Barley speed barrage, Spanky cries for the children, and it's beyond me how Reynold's knees are still functional.

Yes Way Jose

So, way back in May, I foolishly claimed that Jose Bautista couldn't possibly keep up his power at the unprecedented rate he was going. Of course we all know that was a bunch of baloney. That fool sped up and hasn't slowed down one bit.

Amid groundless speculation on possible steroid use, he passed the 40 home run mark today with mucho swagger and gusto. Giving Ivan "Chevy" Nova a little taste of "don't fuck with me" in his major league debut, a half assed bench clearer followed his first tater of the day, which he followed up on later.


As his knock knees continue to knock them out, George Bell's Jays season record of 47 doesn't seem too far fetched with over a month left to go. My humble apologies for doubting your prowess Mr. Bautista (I was right about Vernon though).

Cut The Cheese (Out of Your Diet)

As far as aging skater post-drug comebacks go, I guess Guy Mariano set the bar pretty high. These days pools of drool are piling up in anticipation for a Gino part in the next Chocolate video. However, one dude you don't hear that much about who's back from the brink is Lavar.

Peep this recent footy:



Trife filming, zero crap filter, and some weird switch noseslide vortex aside, it's obvious his ability is still there. The serious library gap bangers at the end remind me of him shutting down hubba hideout in a single day. Over the past decade you'd see the occasional burgered-out Affiliate clip pop up every once in a while that would make you cringe a little, but this shit gives me some faith for what he can put out.

So, why hasn't he been welcomed back and celebrated the same way Guy was? Was it a personality thing? Maybe he never had the same kind of familia business Girl/Choc has going on? All I know is that I like lines. The longer the better. I wanna see fools push and skate ledges, none of this clip-clip bang-bang nonsense. Gimme some room to breathe. That's what Lavar has always done with absurd consistency, and that's why I think he deserves some breaks. One can dream of some kind of McBride brother reunion at DGK, but in the meantime I hope Turf does him right.

Filthy Fathers

Raddy Daddy-ism is pervasive in the four wheeled walk of life. Whether you're being coddled by Steve Caballero's taco neck, or Old Man Olsen's rapid reality realizations of growing up fast, it's all groovy baby.

Neptune is getting dry.

Hey Heather, OMG I Double Dare You!

Girl in white: "Can you see me? You can? OMG I'm gonna do it. Here I go! OOOOMMMMMGGGGGGG I totally did it! Daddy's gonna kill me."

Sergio's Shenanigans

Of course the game is better known as "the Buckner Game". Game 6, 1986. However, that date in October also marked an occasion of unprecedented daring and flawless execution. Say what you will about sloppy suburbanites running onto the field at a home opener, but you have to admire the skill and dedication required to parachute into Shea Stadium in the middle of a World Series game. You can read about Mike Sergio's exploits here or peep the footy, son.

The Rich Stuff

The fact that there are filmers sitting on stacks of footage from the mid-90's seems almost criminal. The unused gems from Socrates' vault in the World box set were stellar, the NY Revisited vids are orgasmic, and Brad Johnson assembled a whole vid's worth of mostly unused clips from SF's heyday. I certainly hope this sparks a trend for putting out old footage, cause 90's fetishists are frothing at the mouth to get at this shit.

What do you get in Brad Johnson's vid? Pier 7 lines up the wazoo, a full Lee Smith part that I can only guess was supposed to be used in the Menace video, Lennie Kirk droppin in on hella rails, Trilogy scraps, a young Welsh grinding a sizeable handrail, and lots of clips of all the Gs that you can't get enough of. I think Lavar got more lines in a day than most people got in a career.

Download the vid here, I really think you should:

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=AQDXNZ7H

Shakin That Milk

This song is kinda dirty, yo.



That shit got some smarm to it.

Turgid Movies # 1

You won't catch me riding wholesome much these days. Most of Hollywood's bloat chokes out anything good in what's pumped out of the studio colons. Ah, but once upon a time, the studio landscape was peppered with gems. I don't need to tell you that TCM is the greatest television station in North America. So, let's take a trip down dusty old memory lane and delve into yesterday.

You are a 10 year old boy. The year is 1959. You walk across the town hall courtyard of a small Midwestern burgh hurriedly on a sunny summer afternoon. You keep looking over your shoulder half terrified at the thought of seeing your mother behind you. You'd pilfered some coins out of her change purse while she was talking on the phone in the kitchen. You could tell it was gonna be one of those conversations that seemed to last forever and you took advantage of the situation. You could always tell right away you were in for a doozy because her chat would start with a high-pitched cutting "HIIIIIIII, NAAAAAAAAANNNCCYYYYYYYY!!!"

You make a beeline for the movie theater. You'd hesitated at first to go through with it, you'd never stolen from her purse before. It seemed to break some moral code you held close to your prepubescent heart, but you went through with it anyways. You are so dedicated to the eternal celluloid battle between cowboys, indians, sheriffs, and villains, that you were driven to a life of crime to satiate your constant desire for western cinematic repose.

Like a junkie that can't escape the thought, your whole world is the wild west. Any chance you get you are right there in the theater, front and center, six rows back. And that's right where you ended up on this bright afternoon, in the dark cool of dim light flickering through cigarette smoke.

The curtains rise and the picture starts. Titles fall on a rocky landscape and your complete attention is absorbed into the movie.





The story has it's share of twists, but you readily gather that Randolph Scott's harsh good guy is bringing in this Billy John character to get hanged. Scott plays Ben Brigade, the hard nosed bounty hunter that tries to play it straight despite the fact he's put his fair share of men to the rope. James Coburn and Pernell Roberts are along for the ride to get amnesty for helping bring Billy John in, and the ever lech-eyed Lee Van Cleef plays Billy John's brother who is in hot pursuit. Karen Steele provides the blonde sass when her husband is killed by Mescalero Indians and her bod is thoroughly coveted by all males in attendance.


You notice the distinct otherness of the Indians. Always looming in the distance, always waiting in the wings, they are presented as a constant threat. When you hear that drum beating in the distance you grab your women and circle the wagons. Your 10 year old mind is used to such a portrayal of Indians. The only time you ever get to see em are in cowboy pictures and on your Bob Feller baseball card. You think to yourself that it's kind of funny you never get a cowboy picture from an Indian's side of the story.

Your grade 5 education has yet to present you with situational ethics, but being a student of western pictures you're waist deep in the stuff without even realizing it. You're well aware that one of the most delicious things a good western can present, even in a half hour of Gunsmoke, is a blur in the line between right and wrong that makes you question your own value system. Contrasting models of greed and the absence of greed clash delightfully as the plight of Billy John's bounty plays out before your eyes.

You walk out of the theater into the still bright day as your eyes struggle to adjust. You have gorged your brain on cowboys and the outside world looks better because of it. It feels as if you're walking on a cloud, floating above the dull realities of the modern world when less than a hundred years ago, cowboys could have been shooting it out right where you're standing. The mere thought of the past lights up your face like a bulb ... that is ... until you remember the grim spectre of your mother. At this very moment she could be waiting to paddle your bottom as soon as you step in the door.




Alas, it is not the year 1959. I don't have a cocktail party to go to and there aren't any tailfins in my driveway. It is the future, and in the spirit of the future and the internet, here are some links for Ride Lonesome should you care to partake:

http://rapidshare.com/files/276077960/Lonesome_JBd.part1.rar

http://rapidshare.com/files/276089794/Lonesome_JBd.part2.rar

http://rapidshare.com/files/276100379/Lonesome_JBd.part3.rar

http://rapidshare.com/files/276175963/Lonesome_JBd.part4.rar

http://rapidshare.com/files/276183596/Lonesome_JBd.part5.rar

http://rapidshare.com/files/276190781/Lonesome_JBd.part6.rar

http://rapidshare.com/files/276167796/Lonesome_JBd.part7.rar

"Take that Cincinnati!"

Braden's Bounty

Hot on the heels of eternal classless turd chewer A-Rod's mound crossing debacle, Dallas Braden pitches an emo perfect game on mother's day. His words to his grandma (who raised him) after a lengthy embrace: "Let's go eat". Karmic baseball gods are always lurking and you've got to get boners at the fact that A-Rod questioned Braden's caliber as a player after marching across his mound. Peaches, straight peaches and cream.

Power Blasterz

Alright now, I'm not going to make wild predictions. I'm not going to try and lay some heavy jive upon the palette of your frontal lobe. I'm not even going to try and convince you that the Blue Jays are the unexpected harbingers of unholy power in the American League in 2010...

Because really, both you and I know this whole shebang-ge-bang is not gonna last. Turds sag into gnarly slumps, and bummers crump the ends of those who look too much into tiny sample sizes.

BUT, with that disclaimer fully in place, lets take a look at some of the HEAVY HITTAZ of April and project what they would punch up if they kept on the same keel all the way until the end of September (not gonna happen, bud!).



Big Vern




He'd be on track for 48 home runs if he kept this tease of a blistering rate up till the end of the year. Wouldn't that be nice? Wouldn't that be wonderful? Wouldn't life be a land of milk and honey with a mattress full of cash?


A-Gon the Magnificent



This old crone would clock in at 42 dingers if he kept goin' at er like he's been. Someone told me that he resembles E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial. I can't say I don't wholly agree with the comparison.


Bautista the Pirate, Plunderin' Yer Booty



This saucy fellow would be in line for 24 home runs this season. He'll give you some zow for your kermuppets, but don't expect that virile stamina inherent in so many latin lovers.


We all know these things won't happen, Vernon Wells will not hit 48 home runs this year, Jose Bautista probably won't come up with 24, this is just fantasy. However, such discombobulated numbers should give you an indication of what an enjoyable April this has been. It won't last, the Yankees haven't even been played, this is not realism ... but it is a fresh biscuit.

The Mask Starring Jim Carrey

I was poking around some of the crevices of the world wide web through the technological marvel that is my America Online account and I came across some pretty frightening images. Seeing as how there is a shitty Robert Englund-less Nightmare on Elm Street remake just coming out, check out these completely related pics of Dave "The Cobra" Parker channeling the spirit of Jason Voorhees:



Towards the end of the 70's in a collision at home plate, Parker broke his jaw and needed a fix to get back in action as soon as possible.



I imagine having this fucking maniac on the basepaths would feel something like having the grim reaper breathing down your neck.




It almost looks like his face is burnt up behind that mask on some Darkman shit, but that's probably just adult acne.

Methuselah's Grandfather

I'd like to take a moment to speak about the ancient wonders of old man Jamie Moyer. At the ripe young age of 47, he's somehow still being trotted out to the mound every fifth day. No matter that his heater clocks in at a thunderous 80mph, this old dude still maintains when there are latin multitudes clamoring to criddle his slot.

Who knows what brands of holy water this man of mysteries is consuming? How does he stay so fresh as his flesh fades to gray? Never mind the fact that Satchel Paige pitched until he was 59 (supposedly, who knows how old that dude really was), this is in the here and now. Blood of virgins? Alien ectoplasm cocktails? What's Moyer's secret? Randy Johnson has fallen by the wayside, how much longer can Moyer wheeze the juice?

I for one am pulling for the guy. His career has spanned the beginnings and ends of a whole generation of players and the fucker is still going. Have at em grandpappy, and make it snappy like a bum that's clappy.

Hashcake vs. the Mashman

Molina Love In

Sprung from the prodigious catcher producing loins of his mother and father (it was a team effort), Jose Molina be doing da good tings with the arm jelly. Although he lacks the offensive competency of his brothers Yadier and Bengie, that sweet sweet arm (4 for motherfucking 4 throwing out the Rays today) is churning that butter.

Not too sure why Cito wouldn't wanna run him out there for the whole series against the hard stealin' mohawkin' Rays. Do John Buck's marginally stronger offensive numbers warrant Molina's role as the number 2 dude behind the plate? Mehhhh, probably on the whole, but goddamn if that arm jelly showmanship doesn't get the juices flowing and make a HUGE difference against a running team. Obviously, aging catchers aren't what teams look for to build upon, but for only $400,000 this year and an option for 2011, that's a tasty meatball to help bridge until Travis D'Arnaud (THE UNFUCKWITHABLE SUREFIRE CAN'T FAIL GOLDEN FUTURE) hits town.

Here's to bright spots in a 6-0 series dropping loss.

Dutch Ovens $39.99

As the Blue Jays drop another to the impressive Japanese prowess of Godzilla Matsui's new angelic home next door to Disneyland, things resume the expected path. A much briefer early season tease than last year, it's easy to get carried away with delusions of mediocrity when you haven't faced the cream of the AL East crop with the punishing regularity that the Jays will encounter. I'm not one of the "AL East big bux creates an unfair balance for everyone else" whine-holes, but an unbalanced schedule can't help but stir the fuming colonic depths of aggressive apathetic non-acceptance.

If you happened to avert your eunuch eyes elsewhere in baseball this evening, you may have stumbled upon Ubaldo Jiminez' no-hitter out Atlanta way (the first in the history of the Rockies' high altitude franchise). As much as it pained me to see Alex Rios crumble Ricky Romero's...




...meager hopes of well deservedly ascending the rungs of the pitching hierarchy (Tallet as #2 man, what the fuck?) in his no-hit bid earlier in the week, I had to have a bit of a chuckle at Rios' hate fueled performance in Toronto.

I happened to catch what I thought was going to be the end of a Mets/Cardinals game in the 9th, which turned into a 20-inning epic of epic proportions. Position players pitching always turns some special gears for me in the realm of unusual pleasures, and this biscuit had some weirdness in spades. Scoreless through 18, the thing went on like some kind of perpetual motion machine.

Adieu, mon capitan.

Old Croutons Come Home to Roost

With young people around the world desperately trying to set their swagger to the on position, OGs all over scoff at their feeble attempts. "I've got more flavour in my little finger", they mumble to themselves as they stumble down the street while fluorescent children struggle to cope with the pressures of too many online friends. Large holes are beginning to form in the brain matter of high school students writing essays in text-speak. 2b or not 2b. The real question is, what happens when there's no one left alive who can remember a time before the internet? My pre-determined destiny seems to be leading me towards an early embrace of sitting on the porch to make sure whippersnappers stay off my lawn and away from my precious petunias.

Duos of Four

I guess I'm late to the party, but consider presently the nugs coming out of the geographical underbelly of the elephant to our south. It's strange to think that the skateboard industry has permeated all aspects of the modern teenage brain to establish a media so pervasive that it's self-referential to the point that you can title a video exploit thusly: "Don't Inhabit Your Mind Bag While Flaring More in Texas."

Banquet eaters take note, henceforth the profundity of said prose will be reduced to garbled musings on the state of this and that. Therefore, besot to you all and commence with the breakdown of this 4 Duos video...

Deep in the Heart of Texas




Hossenfeffer, what an introduction to this here satchel of video effects cobbled together by a desperate fellow surely plugging away at a computer for hours on end. Godspeed fathers of revolution. Underwater family vacation poolboarding fantasies turn nicely into the late night tv viewings of a troll mutant twisted on bad crank. They turn the hose on the "B" and pay the price for a job well done.

Is it wrong to refer to Michael Tang as a poor man's Jerry Hsu? These videomakers make the comparison, not me. You're the one that's racialist, man. Don't foist your white ideals on me, I'm into organic patchouli spiritualism.

There's a grip of familiar spots in this vid that have been in some flicks of recent years, your Fully Flareds and what have you. I wonder how Texan locals feel about that? I never had a bunch of sacred shred homes that were to be overly coveted (aside from West Coast Video in Ottawa), so it's hard to comprehend the localism I'd imagine could warrant some resentment on their part (at least I might). How hyped would these 4 Duos fellows be to have the "scoop" on all these concrete havens? Is that what skate videos are today? Competitive spot searchers jockeying for position in the favor of the most cynical vid crid. A fresh canvas never hurt any bench sanding artist, that's for sure.

In the vein of a full video's worth of Sloppy Lou Barletta footage, this 4 Duos video pumps the good time vibe, like trying to squeeze the last hour's enjoyment out of the fading sunlight of an East Houston parking lot for all it's worth. Feel the powervader and cop the wave of the ransack of Turkish delights.

As juicy as poached Sheckler footage is, I must here call attention to the marvel that is Guru Khalsa. Truly upper echelon nu-buck status. Tasteful blend of Jersey bun deliciousness and fearless Zorlac burl generational Texan spillover.

Luke McKirdy is another one of those well over 30 gnarlers pushing his business into the outer realm of what seems possible for a progressively used skateboarder's body. Dudes like him and Bro Gumpright give me some measure of optimism for what lies ahead as the osteoporosis sets in. Indeed, a sight to behold.

Conclusions must be drawn, and they shall be drawn accordingly: Not Too Shab, Babs.

Hats off to Roy Harper, Stephen Harper, and hell, even Ben Harper.

Evergreen and Gasoline

Time for spring cleaning all my bimbos and bambinos. Dust the couch lint out of your backside and prepare yourself for the return of the new energy dreadlocked park dwellers to the streets of our fine city. Disregard their spirited "jamming" on alternative rock relics that aged poorly and keep walking with your eyes averted and your nasal cavity pointed skywards. As we emerge from our dank winter basement caves to embrace the sun of another outdoor year upon this hurtling turd of a globe through the vast quiet confines of our galaxy, we are filled with a new zest for activity.

Delights of the 4 wheeled persuasion combined with the false hope of the fatman that another baseball season brings comingle and dance on the palette of the pleasure receptors to instill a general calm to quell the tempest of the cooped up mind. No longer imprisoned in the stifling dens of unsavory weather, we're free to do as we please.

Fling off your clothes and embalm your pale privates in the cancerous solar flares that bake your leather pants to a perfect crisp.

Bloomin' Onion

Bumped into this clip on the re-roll. Tasted it again for the first time.



Pretty legit shit in terms of the whole "creative urban exploration" thing that so many pursue these days. Just to inflame your blue waffle vagina a little bit, I'm going to claim he could out cruise Poppalardo any day of the week.

Phatman's Lament

Burger vs. Burger. Battle of the ages. Lasorda on Slimfast is like Samson cutting off his hair.

Saganic Worship

Huddle round the cauldron of the village elder and gaze at the images he conjures in the puddle reflections you can't look away from.

He speaks of celestial matters in a such a soothing tone, it's liable to peel the panties from even the staunchest foe of the space program. He will fill you with a sense of eternal new-minded wonder, able to make you feel as small as a gnat and as lucky as a rabbit-footed mutant child of the next millenium.

Once he has you in his grasp, there is no telling the effect he will impose upon your will. Gaze deep into his eyes and let him seduce your body and soul.


Join Senor Sagan on an epic journey aboard his "Spaceship of the Imagination" (not as incredibly retarded as it sounds, I promise) in a 13-hour time burglar found here.

Simply Mad About the Maus

If you aren't hip to the jive bub, you've been snowed. I'm talkin origins, capeesh? When your lobe don't get it and you think what they've been laying down is the real dealio, that's where you're wrong, frankenstein.

Conventional wisdom indicates that one Mickey Mouse, pictured here...


... made his debut to the world in the animated short "Steamboat Willie". The real origins of the character lie several years earlier than the Disney Corporation's proclaimed "birth" of Mickey Mouse in November 1928. Before Mickey, there was Oswald the Lucky Rabbit, Disney's main character. After his boss tried to chince him out of some loot, he was strong armed out of the rights to the Oswald character, so he took off and created Mickey. Or so the story goes.

Take a look at this Oswald clip from 1927, before Disney left his contract with Universal Studios. Note the Mickey-esque character that comes onto the scene at 3:00. Observe how much of a little fucker he once was as he gets his ass beat by Oswald:



Before he became the bright eyed everyman that stood for all that was deemed "American", Mickey Mouse was a deviant sociopath with revenge-bent aggression that would make Donald blush. In 1928 when Disney struck out on his own, he brought animator Ub Iwerks with him and commissioned him to create the Mickey design that's become burned into the rentinas of every post-war youth. Yet, before the oft-cited "debut" of Steamboat Willie and ascension to Apple of America's Eye status, a still malicious version of Mickey appeared in Disney's first post-universal short titled "Plane Crazy". Straight up tries to kiss-rape Minnie, dang.

To think what the world would have been like if the character had never changed. I couldn't see the public latching onto him the same way. Who knows what society would have become? Would Times Square still be dirty? Would Florida be considerably underdeveloped? It's tough to put any measure on the impact that Disney has had on the world, and I sure as shit ain't gonna try and quantify it. From massive media holdings to subliminal messages, you know that shit is Xtra large, sonnnnnn.

Trenches!

Castlevanian Creatine?

A smeared reputation, a tarnish that follows an athlete everywhere he goes. How do you react when an outcome you desire has an unfortunate moral dilemma?

It's easy to heckle a juicer. It doesn't take much to join in the chants of "STEEE-RROIIIDS" when the latest disgrace steps up to the plate. But, what would you do if a synthetic goliath showed up to play for your team? Would you turn him away at the principal or would you let him hit home runs for your pride and joy?

Enter Randy Ruiz.



He is pictured here taking a ball to the cheek from Josh Towers. In 2005, he was suspended twice in the same season for steroid use in the minors. He had his major league debut with the Twins in 2008 at the age of 30. He signed with Toronto for 2009 and turned up career numbers both in Las Vegas and in a stellar late season Blue Jay performance. When he reported to Toronto, he led the Pacific Coast League offensively and was was crowned MVP.

What do you make of a player who's prime comes at the age of 31? He only played 33 games with the Jays, which is an admittedly small sample size. But, in those games he hit .313 with a 1.019 OPS, bettering his .304 career average in the minors. How do you contend with that as management? With lots of power pieces in the system looming to take permanent positions at first and DH - i.e. Lind, Snider, and Brett Wallace - how does Ruiz fit into this puzzle?

It was plenty frustrating to see Ruiz get off days so frequently in September considering he was on such a fuckin roll. Depending on who else gets moved before the season starts - Overbay rumours are persistent - Ruiz at first or DHing on Lind's off days seems like a most reasonable prospect until Wallace is primed and ready.

So, how does all the juice-a-ma-tazz cloud your support of the dude? Do you dismiss the benefits and thrills that a power monger like that exudes? Or do you sit back and reap the rewards of the winning-at-any-cost mentality as balls fly out of the Rogers Centre like popcorn?

I'm affeared that there is a tough biscuit to condone. I'm not quite so naive as to place any kind of mantle of justice on the heads of professional sports oxen. How do you expect to cut down on that shit if the league turns a blind eye and team management condones it? Get your priorities straight. A culture of cheating threatens the legitimacy and longevity of all that jazz, so get it straight. That being said, it's a lot harder to hate on when it's doing your team some party favours.