Roused from the stupor and torpor of waking sleep by the lovely and talented Summer Anne’s most recent posting, I have taken it upon myself to reduce the SoftBank Hawks commercial — the glorious SoftBank Hawks commercial — to its finest and most praiseworthy trace elements. Bear humbled witness, as though kneeling before the bones of the holy …

GIFSoup

In this world, it seems I love nothing that doesn’t feed my rankest urges, but I do love you SoftBank Hawks Dog. I do love you. You must know that. You do know that, SoftBank Hawks Dog? You do, yes. I can tell you do.

Save us, won’t you, SoftBank Hawks Dog? It’s just sometimes the crush of existence leaves you …

I won’t take anymore of your time, SoftBank Hawks Dog. I just wanted to say I love you with the desperation of a drowning man.

If you forget us, SoftBank Hawks Dog, then we shall surely vanish.

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Former U.S. Vice President and longtime environmental activist Al Gore has died somewhere in America, quite possibly alone and quite possibly of a shattered heart.

Although details of his passing aren’t yet available — at this writing, I’m not even sure the family has been notified (do they even care?) — the prevailing fact is that Al Gore is dead.

Some might call it odd that hoary organs like the New York Times and Washington Post are silent — aggressively silent, it would seem — on Mr. Gore’s blood-flecked, regeneration-through-violence and viscera-beflamed demise, but the truth remains that Al Gore is dead.

Do the circumstances surrounding the incontrovertible fact of his death suggest malice aforethought on his part? Or, perish the thought, play most foul? Or was it the sort of clumsy, banal finale that awaits most of us? Was there a pratfall? Were bowels voided? Did he see his kindly grandpa bathed in alabaster light?

We don’t know. All we know is that Al Gore is dead.

Please join me in mourning his passing from this world and in celebrating his life and works. For Al Gore, age 63, is dead.

Source:

Rolling Stone’s Matt Taibbi in 2009: “Whereas a guy like Teixeira was born with a swing so gorgeous you want to paint it, Youkilis fighting a middle reliever to a nine-pitch walk looks like a rhinoceros trying to fuck a washing machine.”

Rolling Stone’s Matt Taibbi in 2012: “Tim Tebow trying to throw a forward pass is like a moose trying to fuck a washing machine.”

Mr. Taibbi is a fairly prolific lad, so in some ways it’s excusable not to have a running mental catalog of the jokes one has cracked. Still, Taibbi’s dragging a simile howling from the vaults is like watching a washing machine trying to fuck sports.

Matt Kemp — Chevalier Matt Kemp — wears what appears to be a double-windsor knot. He does this because he is a gentleman. He is festooned with a pocket square. On occasion, he uses it to wash his hands of the entire affair. He is not a frequenter of locally sourced whores. This is because he need not pay for the hubba-hubba.

Chevalier Matt Kemp is paid millions for being good at baseball. But even if he were not good at baseball, he would make the same amount of lucre from various wealthy patrons of the gorgeous and obliging.

Chevalier Matt Kemp is Business Handsome.

In the Admiral’s Clubs of America’s hub airports those who travel for the love of the transaction are seeing Chevalier Matt Kemp on the cover of this, the magazine of choice for the toads of American balance sheets and the pallid, doughy bodies in which they are encased.

Chevalier Matt Kemp is not of them, and Chevalier Matt Kemp is not among them. He dips his balls in their beggared habits.

Chevalier Matt Kemp is Business Handsome.

Angels slugger Mark Trumbo is famous for his power potential and his power potential. Insofar as musical tastes are concerned, however, Mr. Trumbo embraces a pregame oeuvre at which the discriminating aesthete, who is always too much with us, might pshaw and snort:

The best I can say for his selections is that, unlike Wagner, they don’t make me feel as though something sweeping, organized and racist is about to happen.

URGENT UPDATE: Commenter Grant points out that Mr. Trumbo was merely having a go at us. He is once again a Young Man of America in good standing.

The nomination process, which hurt so good, is now complete. And now comes the business of voting. The Sergeant-at-Arms, who wears a zippered, latex mask and is known only “Maximum Jones,” has whittled the list down to 10 finalists. From these you may choose, albeit at great personal hazard …

Shit just got real.

What we do is assign cool nicknames to players rather than perpetuate the tired, lamewad practice of assigning cool players nicknames. Last time out, Derek Jeter had sex with the nickname “L’homme Qui Aimait les Femmes” and left it a gift basket. So Mr. Jeter has been added to our Hall of Honouur, which is so stately, so regal, so much itself a celebration of the Norman Conquest, that an extra British-English unstressed “u” is required for proper spelling …

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Have you seen this, friend?

I like the looks of it. I am going to Borchert Field. I shall watch them play baseball on donkeys.

Part of me — the good part — hopes that the Tripoli Arab Patrol is a patrol made up of Arabs rather than a patrol in search of Arabs to be patrolled. But I’m still going to Borchert Field. I shall watch them play baseball on donkeys.

The Tripoli Arab Patrol is world-famous throughout Shrinedom, so it can’t be all bad. I’m told a band will play. I enjoy a good Sousa march. I’ll hope for a Sousa march, and I shall watch them play baseball on donkeys.

It will all unfold harmlessly, you see. The fun will approach such levels that a circus will come to mind. Or a riot. Would you call a riot “fun”? They promise laughter. I often find myself asking, “What’s so funny?” I ask this of myself sometimes when I’m alone. But I’ll go anyway to Borchert Field. I shall watch them play baseball on donkeys. “Who even has the energy anymore?” is something else I say a lot.

Milwaukee Gas Light Company is a name I can trust. Twenty-five cents sounds reasonable. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself in a grand stand. I’m on a budget like the rest of us. Does this look like scabies to you? No, not that. I hadn’t even noticed that before.

Yes, I suppose I shall watch them play baseball on donkeys.

I remember lying on the roof as a boy and looking up at the stars in mute suspension and talking about what scared me. I don’t believe I ever mentioned donkeys or Shriners. So I shall go to Borchert Park. The more I think about it, though, it seems quite possible that I would’ve mentioned donkeys and Shriners. That will give me something to think about on the bus.

“Should I watch them play baseball on donkeys?” is something I’m starting to ask a lot.

“Nite” sounds more promising than “night,” doesn’t it? “Night” carries with it the threat of menace. Or at the very least the threat of not getting to bed at a decent hour. I have a routine, you see. I suppose, though, that “nite” means the same thing. Stands to reason. They probably just spelled it that way in order to save space.

I don’t think I’m going to go see them play baseball on donkeys.

What do you think happens when you die?

Whereas Big League Chew was useful to the lad with a future in cavities and tobacco use, Big League Liniment …

… is mighty good and handy for the low-bred toiler with a fussy mule or a case of “trench loins” or a craggy-faced, Dust-Bowl wife about to die in childbirth.

Remember, suffering bastards of the world, if the catarrh doesn’t get you, then a mining disaster will. Or war. So rub some Big League Liniment on your pulverized spine!

Big League Liniment: “Got damn, it hurts!”