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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
