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.