I have taken the necessary and gravely belated step of petitioning the federal government to imprison Carson Cistulli for treason. To make this happen, we need your voice …
I have no doubt that deep-cover communists with work to undermine the will of people, so please do sign the petition while you still can.
Cap Anson is factually a Hall of Famer, but in a day when everyone was a racist, Anson still managed to distinguish himself on this front. He did so by refusing to take the field against any but the most porcelain-skinned of competitors. He was also, according to contemporary reportage, a huge asshole in other regards.
So today I, in Lance Ito fashion, sit in solemn judgment of Mr. Anson. Mr. Anson, you are a baseball rogue and a stain upon this game’s great history. What follows is your punishment …
Mr. Anson, not only were you a rank bigot who stood athwart progress and equality, but you were also, according to the testimony of the above coffee mug, the World’s Worst Grandpa.
Get the hell out of my courtroom, Cap Anson.
The Brewers of Hot Hard Milwaukee recently held a contest that allowed the Internetter to design a uniform for said Brewers of Milwaukee. The winner — to the extent that anything is won in the this life — would have his or her uniform brandished for a spring training game.
Therein you’ll find any number of fetching entries — notably one that prominently features Bernie Brewer, that disowned Vuckovich brother …
Most excellent! Most excellent if you cow before the threat of Real Talk, that is …
You see, I have no doubt that the Brewers will find a winner that best represents their preference for varnished municipal lore. However, being as I am nightwatchman at the Museum of Truths, I’ll abet no such myth-making.
Milwaukee, as the name of their hometown nine suggests, is a town for Drinking Men and The Things They Drink. One does not go to Milwaukee unless Men Are About to Drink. Business? Conduct it in Dallas. Cultural tourism? New York and Chicago are there for you. Restorative escape? The Bay Area will see you now. Cocaine in a hot tub? The San Fernando Valley serves no other purpose. But Milwaukee exists for the drinking of drinks. “Let us drink these drinks,” people in Milwaukee say, “and then try to throw this clock radio all the way to Michigan.”
In light of those authenticities, this is my entry, Brewers of Milwaukee.
On the front we have a Milwaukee Journal celebration of the Wisky electorate’s decision, in the late 1920s, to embrace wholesome, nutritious alcohol in defiance of both federal meddlers and awful Protestants. The shoulder patch is the regeneration liturgy known well to the Hands That Built America. On the back we have bon vivant, man of letters and drink and secret native of Fond du Lac Kingsley Amis astride a familiar and always near-at-hand cock-and-tail. The cap? The front boasts a rendering of the hepatic rot that will be the death of all of us at the bar — that bar in Milwaukee. And on the back is the shitty omelet you make after a night in Milwaukee, U.S. the fuck of A.
Take me not for a knave, Brewers of Hot Hard Milwaukee. I know the score, and, yes, I’ll have another.
The type-written sentiment to follow, which was found taped above Doug DeCinces’s locker during the 1979 World Series, is as 1970s as catching the clap during an urban riot …
There are things the modern gentleman can still say, such as “Please” and “Thank you” and “When in Tangiers, one does what one must.” One cannot, however, utter — in such a precise sequence — the words taped above Doug DeCinces’s locker during the 1979 World Series. But forgive the year 1979 and its discontents; for the music was too loud, the coke and ass too beguiling.
But let us not leave on such a note. Along comes a gentleman — quite possibly Al Bumbry — to redeem team, clubhouse and year of our Lord …
A rogue chooses hat and outwear the color of gold bullion. A gentleman chooses hat and outerwear the color of gold bullion frightened by the possibilities.
I hope you’ve learned something, Inexpedient Decisions of 1979.
(Source material: The YouTube)
Doubtless, you have heard about Ambrosial Danny Heep Nachos, the delicious, piping-hot bowl of tri-cornered chips and fresh flesh named after former Astros, Mets, Dodgers, Red Sox and Braves outfielder Danny Heep? Surely you have heard tell and caught whiff.
Scrumptious is what they are. Yet they are not scrumptious because they were lovingly prepared by retired outfielder Danny Heep. Lo and no, they are scrumptious because when one consumes an inviting heap (Laughing Out Loud) of Ambrosial Danny Heep Nachos, one necessarily eats many tiny Danny Heeps. Bear whetted witness …
Do the living morsels of Danny Heep tartare wish to die gruesomely in the service of your maw-stuffing pleasure? No, they do not. They must console themselves with the promise of contributing to your mounting angina pains. Being as they are quite tiny, though, they have little say in the matter. So consume without ceasing. We can always breed more tiny Danny Heeps.
Please do enjoy your Ambrosial Danny Heep Nachos in commemorative Franklin Mint Rock and or Roll serving crock.
Here’s a cake! A New York Mets cake!
Survey it! Lovely, won’t you agree? Delightful, even! Despite the best efforts of Ikea, craftsmanship persists! This cake would go lovely with a port, or perhaps a scoop of refreshing ice cream!
It would also necessarily go with this quote from Aleksandar Hemon …
There’s a psychological mechanism, I’ve come to believe, that prevents most of us from imagining the moment of our own death. For if it were possible to imagine fully that instant of passing from consciousness to nonexistence, with all the attendant fear and humiliation of absolute helplessness, it would be very hard to live. It would be unbearably obvious that death is inscribed in everything that constitutes life, that any moment of your existence may be only a breath away from being the last. We would be continuously devastated by the magnitude of that inescapable fact. Still, as we mature into our mortality, we begin to gingerly dip our horror-tingling toes into the void, hoping that our mind will somehow ease itself into dying, that God or some other soothing opiate will remain available as we venture into the darkness of non-being.
This has been Your Evening Cake and Quote.
Young fans of base and ball are likely aware that Phillies manager Charlie Manuel is known colloquially as “Uncle History,” but they may not be aware of the endeavors that earned him that hallowed honorific. The reason is quite simple: Charlie Manuel wrote the fucking Constitution.
While the likes of Bobo Cistulli see that august document as nothing more than a user’s guide to the dole, land-owning Deist Charlie Manuel, its author and smith, saw it as nothing less than the Sperm of the Republic, which over a sprawl of nights and days in the Philadelphia State House in 1787, he sent headlong out of his probing phallus toward the Egg of Liberty.
Uncle History, Huge Daddy of Swaths — Thy name is Charlie Manuel.
A recent pilgrimage to the Smithsonian brought to waking life the most sacred creation stories of this, our sovereignty …
Thank you, Uncle History Charlie Manuel. Thank you for forging America.
The name on Young Ryan Theriot’s fake ID reads, “Fraternity Paddle Made Man.”
“Are you the quarterback?” Angel Boudreux once asked Young Ryan Theriot. No, I play baseball, Young Ryan Theriot started to say. But he stopped himself. “Yes, I am the quarterback,” Young Ryan Theriot uttered instead. “I am the quarterback of your panties.” This simple statement of unassailable fact is now carved into courthouse edifices all over Louisiana.
Every time Young Ryan Theriot makes a band geek cry — usually by frog-punching him until he voluntarily climbs into the dumpster outside the cafeteria — his Eddie Bauer rugby grows a new stripe.
If Young Ryan Theriot isn’t under the bra by the fourth track of Better Than Ezra’s “Deluxe” LP, then Young Ryan Theriot knows he needs to try something different.
Young Ryan Theriot is not most alive when playing baseball. No, Young Ryan Theriot is most alive when he’s at the wheel of his Bronco II with a Bud Light freshly shoved into his Señor Frog’s coozie and doing donuts in some poindexter’s front yard.
Young Ryan Theriot derives momentary uplift from chucking his empties onto the stretch of highway that, in the service of avoiding double-secret probation, pledges have been volunteered to clean up for the remainder of history.
Young Ryan Theriot’s buddies know better than to mention that night on South Padre. If they do, he’ll frog the shit out of them.
At the outset of any party, Young Ryan Theriot picks out the exact patch of drywall that he will later punch when Melissa Arsenault’s Catholic boundaries prove stronger than his rituals of dirty suasion.
Every five weeks or so, Young Ryan Theriot goes to the Regis Salon at the mall. Once there, Young Ryan Theriot surveys the stylist’s rack, slackens himself into the chair and says, “Make me look like conformity veneered with trouble.” She does. She does because he is.
(HT: Our boy Kyle)
You went to the ALCS. You were not lost because you were not sought.
Inside your rented hovel, located on Tuberculosis Avenue, there is room to die but not room to live. It is but half the size of a better man’s wardrobe, were such a better man not to have a wardrobe at all.
In these vacuum-tube-powered pages I have previously rhapsodized on the artfulness and smoldering spiritual utility of Jack Chick tracts. Without them, young Evangelicals would be far less afflicted, and who needs that?
So it is with a minister’s righteous sense of mission that while at Comerica Park, Detroit, U.S.A., America, I happened upon this …
I read it immediately and discovered that the main character, John, had some misgivings about organized religion. For that, he died and is, as we speak, being cooked in hell. His wife and children, however, paid obeisance to the relevant jurisdictional authorities and were similarly rewarded with death.
Know this, rat-sinner, if you go to a ballgame, a wind-blown Jack Chick tract will find you.