Red State Blue State

All Teams Dissed Equally

The interwebs are a buzz about RSBS' propensity for picking on what seems like only a select few players/teams, for striking at those more prone to ridicule, the bottom of the baseball barrel.  We're talking about the Kyle Farnsworths, Brad Lidges, Milton Bradleys.  We're talking about the Chicago Cubs, Pittsburgh Pirates, Kansas City Royals.

We're talking about easy marks.  All of them.  They are weak, addled, flawed.

But let it be know that dear readers galore have spoken; and we at RSBS are not ones to disappoint.  So here ya go, folks... a quick slanderous slaying of all 30 Major League Teams... in one minute or less (or more, depending on your reading level):

Hey, Yankees, is that Mo'nique or C.C. Sabathia?...
Boston Red Sox? More like Boston Sucks Cox!...
Dear Rays, I can't wait until you disappoint all your new fans by letting Carl Crawford go...
Blue Jays, if you're gonna let an Italian destroy your franchise, why not give one of the Gottis a shot?...
I didn't know the Oriole way included a sharp decline in season ticket sales...

Sorry, Twins, but you'll never be as good as Kent Hrbek farting in George Brett's face...
Hey Tigers, remember when people used to live in your city?...
Attending a White Sox game is a lot like attending a vocational school open house...
I think we can all agree that Charlie Sheen could make the 2010 Indians squad...
The Kansas City Royals... did I mention Kyle Farnsworth?...

Oh, sure, I love the California Los Angeles Angels of Los Aneheim California Angeles Los L.A....
The Texas Rangers: Where born again drug addicts find Jesus while not making it to the playoffs...AGAIN...
Wow, Mariners, your most famous player outside of Griffey and Ichiro is... Harold Reynolds? Seriously? Ouch...
A's... it stands for "moneyball doesn't work so it's best we go back to employing known juicers"...

Dear Phillies, if the Phanatic isn't a phag, I don't know what mascot is...
Sorry, Marlins... if you're not cocaine or the Dolphins, Miami doesn't even know you're there...
Atlanta Braves...14 straight playoff appearances and how many World Series titles?...
Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Met will now be play by a corpse...
Hey, Nationals, two words for ya: Dunn's ^ss!...

The Cardinals? The Cardinals!?! You're... you're... aweso-- you're... (Sorry, I can't do it; I tried)...
For insults directed towards the Cubs, please see the 2+ years of RSBS archives
Hey, Brewers, is that Mo'nique or Prince Fielder?...
Just wait, Reds fans, two more years of Dusty Baker, and you won't even have a pitching staff!...
Houston, we have a problem... and it's called the Astros...
Yeah, picking on the Pirates is a lot like picking on the quadriplegic fat blind kid whose parents got divorced and forgot they even had a kid...

The Dodgers' m.o. is: show up late, leave early, hope no one notices the messy divorce...
Ok, Rockies, Dante Bichette called, he wants his inflated numbers back...
Hey, Giants, is that Mo'nique or -- nope, that's Pablo Sandoval. He's just fat...
Padres? Friars? Perhaps Molested Altar Boys would be more suiting, considering the amount of back-bending abuse they've taken from Sandy Alderson...
The Arizona Diamondbacks? More like the Arizona Diamondhacks!

Whew...

My vitriolic verbal leg sweeping knows no limit.

So don't hate me 'cuz I'm right.

Peace,

Jeff

P.S.  The Cardinals?  Fine.  If I must.  Here.  Have fun with *THIS*.

*also thank you, matt

Ninemen's Morris: No Sweeter Sibilance

Prattling ninny! 

 

Eastman Thune proved a Little Lord Fauntleroy!

 

I can’t think of a greater malfeasance than the continuation of your poppycock and piddley-poo!  While casting a vote for the windy-city murderers to appear in the La Belle Serie Mondiale is a safe (some would say namby-pamby?) bet, the notion that Detroiters would be denied another time is tantamount to an Irishman demurring at an unwatched distillery.  A foppish fantasy!  Nonsense on stilts!

 

Ty Cobb dominated ripped up the basepaths and the shins of his opponents throughout the last saison, and this correspondent sees no reason why this status should not remain quo.  And while a Killer Cubs World Series is plausible, there is no reason to suggest they would easily win.  They do indeed feature a murderous pitching rotation, led by Three-Finger Mordecai Brown (27 wins to 9 losses) and his bewitching colleague Orvall Overall (20-11), and lead all the leagues in Chadwick’s newly devised Earned Run Average (a tetchy 1.74).

 

But curse you Thune, calling for their dominance for the duration of the cententary and beyond is nothing short of swinging a dead cat in a Chinese opium den and feigning surprise when striking a harlot.  It’s a virtual certainty, man!  They have the most devilish fireballers, the dandiest batsmen, and a crackerjack defensive infield of Tinker, Evers, Chance, and Steinfeldt.  Sweeter sibilance couldn’t be dreamed up for any newsman’s reel.

 

Be that as it may, your tone of conciliation leaves me no choice but to lob up a softball prognostication for you to masticate upon, Alabaster, and I will not equivocate.  Look you to this come springtide: this season will show an unlooked-for boost from the man of your last column.  I predict a mighty effort by those Cuyahoga Clippers, the Cleveland Naps.  Arrogant namesake though he may be, I predict Napolean Lajoie will lead his upstart brigade nearly into the pennant, only to have his efforts dashed by Cobb’s wizardry. 

 

Confound you Old Man Winter, when will you forsake your slumber for the gilded lilly of Lady Spring?  Men and boys alike trudge through the mush and brave the howling gales for your respite.  Come soon.  Please?  We need your sweet breath, and the following crack of the bat.

- - -

Written by

Silas 'Red' Quigley
Editorial correspondent for the Boston Wax-Intelligencer.  Editor/Publisher of various workers rights publications, sporting weeklies, and Ladies Garment Journals.  As a youth he was attache to Henry Chadwick (claims to be the uncredited co-creator of the box score).

For more on the nature of Ninemen's Morris, please click *HERE*

Ninemen's Morris: A Reign of Dominance Will Commence!

Quigley!

 

You are a turd-encumbered wretch!

 

(Just thought that I would remind you.)

 

Ok.  Throw your bananalla peels at me, for I readily accept them.  While I am typically a soothsayer unparalleled in my ability to prognosticate outcomes in all matters, sporting and otherwise, I must nonetheless admit an insipid failure.  In the ante-annum, I was quoted as follows:

 

…while the Detroiters seem to be a lock to waggle the pennant American (hopefully they will be able to hoist it a few times before Cobb uses it to rid his posterior of residual defecate), they will nonetheless fall hard in the World Series, at the hands of Chicago’s dear Orphans, the mighty child bears, the blessed Cubs themselves.

 

While the Bengals of Windsor’s cross-water tongue-thumber did, indeed fall in Global Series showdown, it was not at the hands of the mighty Cubs, but rather the scurvy-lipped Buccaneers local to that intersection of Three Rivers known for its defecation of steel.  Local-boy Honus Wagner, though on the down-slope of his career, was somehow able to rise up and help the Alleghany Arses take the match-up in seven.  He out-hit the cur Cobb .333 to .231, and stole six bases, establishing the new Series record.

 

I was so angered, that I took all of my Honus Wagner baseball cards (I had roughly 30 of the brand new T206 series) and relieved myself on them before setting them on fire.  I guess I must find something else to leave my unborn (and unconcealed) son.

 

If I have been silent for some time, it is out of shame.

 

But let it be stated now!  In 1910, the Chicago Cubs will once again win the World Series, once again placing this, the greatest of the nine-men’s quorums National or American, once again at the pantheon of the game!  A reign of dominance will then commence that will surely last the duration of the Millennium, and far into the next!

 

What say you, Quigley?

 

You ding-bat!

- - -

Written by

'Alabaster' Eastman Thune
Former editor of the "Follies and Whatnots" section of the Chicago Inter-Ocean. 

Currently unemployed.

"Alabaster" is known for coining the popular quip:  "An Irishman and his whiskey are like the Father Sky and his Sun - you are guaranteed that the latter will show up in the former each day of God's blessed week."

For more on the nature of Ninemen's Morris, please click *HERE*

Jose Offerman: Still a Creep Who Will Murder You in Your Sleep

Sometimes it's nice to go through life knowing certain constants remain... constant.  You know, like the sun will always rise in the east; Republicans and Democrats will always hate each other; Jose Offerman, as a player, coach, manager, whatever, will do everything possible so that he can continue to assault people on the baseball diamond. 

Oh sure, this time the weapon has changed -- preferring a clenched fist over a maple bat.  And the victim is one of the men in blue instead of the opposing pitcher.  But the one reassuring constant in this matter is that no one in professional baseball seems to care that Jose Offerman is a complete psychopath.

If I were running a team in the Dominican Republic or the Independent Leagues or even the Majors, and Jose Offerman was involved with my club somehow, I would make sure that he always remained secure in one of those Hannibal Lecter type restraining device get ups.

I would let him take his swings or go out to the mound to talk to his pitcher or argue with an umpire if a play called for it; but I would definitely make sure the creep was strapped down to a board so tight that his every word would just barely squeak out.

Pedophiles are strongly advised to stay away from playgrounds.

Washed up, asinine, troglodyte excuses for baseball players who can't resist attempted murder during a game should be kept just as far away.

Don't hate me.  'Cuz you know I'm right.

Peace,

Jeff

Hugo's White Friends

From the beginning, RSBS has been about both baseball and politics. But, it's easy to lose track of the politics when the baseball plays out like it did this year. Also, the politics have been sucking. I mean, something needs to happen with health care but I'm sick of talking about it and even more sick of hearing about it.

Luckily, whenever I hit a point where American politics isn't doing it for me, all I need to do is look south. No, a bit further south. No, not Guatemala. Keep going. Ok, there it is. Venezuela and it's coffee-swilling chuckle-head of a president. So, what's happening in the mind of el presidente today?

Hm, a little baseball over in that corner of the brain which makes sense. I mean, he is Venezuelan. Yep, definitely a little crazy over in that corner which makes sense since he's from the same country as Ozzie Guillen. But those are just sideshows. If you really want to know what's going on just step into the three-ring circus of Hugo's anti-American paranoia. It's a non-stop riot of fire-breathing, wild animal taming and tiny cars full of clowns. And this time it's all about the war the US is apparently trying to launch against Venezuela from Colombia. 

Here's the thing, Hugo. Even if we wanted to start that war (which we don't because, let's face it, no one really cares about Venezuela), we don't have the resources to do so. Cutting off ties with Colombia over this makes about as much sense as the proverbial cutting off of the nose to spite the face. Really Hugo, you need to sit back and take a lesson from someone who understands putting aside differences so we can get along. Deuce Poppi, take it away:



Happy Monday, y'all.

-A

Yankees Win; Well, At Least Vicente Padilla Shot Himself!

First, I tip my cap to the New York Yankees.

Congratulations on winning the World Series, fellas.  You kept me interested by keeping things interesting; you played great baseball all season long; you are champions of the universe.  You deserve -- and receive -- my recognition.

But I still don't like you.

And that's a good thing.  It's good for me, good for you.  It's good for baseball in general.

I am human and humans hold grudges... even if they are stupid. 

That's right.  1996.  Three terrible things happened to me in 1996: Tupac Shakur was murdered.  The Yankees won the World Series for the first time since 1978.  And MC Hammer went bankrupt.

I can only hope that this present calamity is not followed by two equally devastating events.

Luckily, it has coincided with at least one current positive from the baseball cosmos: Los Angeles Dodgers pitcher, Vicente Padilla (species name vicenteticus padillicarpeus), shot himself in the leg earlier this week near his home in Nicaragua, lending even more credence to the "Padilla Once Shot Himself In the Face" theory of explaining why he is so goddamn ugly.

Life is about balance.

I like it that way.

Y'feel me?

Hate me 'cuz I hit neanderthals below the belt, just don't hate me 'cuz I'm right.

Peace,

Jeff

(Image at the top courtesy of Three Frames)

Awaiting One's Praise

Relax.  Breathe easy.  Enjoy this, fellow Yankee haters: Cliff Lee and the Phillies have given us another precious day of hearing "twenty-six rings" over the inevitable "twenty-seven".  And remember, God made a "firmament" in just one day.  Think of what we can do with ours!

Because let's face it, whether it happens on Wednesday or it happens next year, the year after that or whenever (it's gonna happen in your lifetime), the Yankees are going to get their twenty-seventh ring.  That's fine.  I'm okay with that.  The franchise more than deserves it.  You see, if you spend a billion dollars on something, it will work.  Ask our government.  And if I spent a billion dollars on something in just 9 years I'd expect that something to at least win me a trophy of some kind, or get a bill named after me, or land me a free room at Holiday Inn Express (they still make me pay there).

The point is: the Yankees will win... sometime... eventually...

...probably.

Until then, A-Rod, Party Boy, Mo and Tex... you will have to wait patiently for this hater (me) to shower you with praise. 

Speaking of people who want to shower me, I believe Mr. Krause lost the World Series of Metaphors and owes the winner (also known as Me) a meritorious essay on the topic of why I am awesome.

Can't wait!

Hate me 'cuz I flash a flair of fetidness, just don't hate me 'cuz I'm right.

Peace,

Jeff

The 2009 RSBS World Series of Metaphors (Game 3)

In this epic best of three game battle of metaphors -- mixed, extended, absolute and beyond -- Jeff and Allen pair wits and leave it to YOU, the dear reader, to decide the champion.

The humbled loser will be forced to shower the winner with a carefully constructed essay of praise. 

For real.

And now... the FINAL MATCH...

GAME 3

The Topic:        Phillies Fans v. Yankees Fans
Suggested by:  Jonestein from Baseball, Apple Pie & Lobster

Metaphor 1:

Yankees fans are the U.S. Military. Backed with billions of dollars and stacked with the Nation's finest, these chiseled warriors are built to destroy. And while it's going well, they tout themselves as being the very best EVER. When things aren't going so well they pretend none of it actually exists. Phillies fans? These are the relentless Jihadists. Playoff bound or not, they will blow you up, they will eat your children, they will terrorize everyone and everything around them; and they won't feel bad about it, for at the end of the explosion waits paradise with 72 Shane Victorinos.


Metaphor 2:

Yankees fans are Allen, dedicated but with a statistically significant percentage of ostentation. They claim to love their team but sometimes you wonder if that love is as intense as it should be. Phillies fans are Jeff, always spoiling for a fight and ready to punch you before letting you bad mouth their team. You never doubt the love but you wonder if maybe they're just a little off.

But both have one thing in common. They think they deserve to be number one. Like Jeff and Allen, though, it doesn't always happen.


Please vote!  Tell your friends!  Storm town hall meetings!

The best metaphor is...

U.S. Military v. Jihadists

Jeff v. Allen

ugg boots

Waiting for Hump Day

Fine.  It's okay.  No, really.

It is your right to not be excited about this series because it involves bullies and brawlers, overpaid free agents and neanderthals, pinstripes and... er... pinstripes.  But, as a baseball fan, it is hard for me to find a reason (other than everything else we here at RSBS have ever alluded to -- ever) to not look forward to this World Series match-up between Philadelphia and New York.

I mean, we are getting the two best teams in Major League Baseball to play each other in the final series, are we not?

And let's face it: when the crown of baseball fandom rests upon the head of someone with the mental (and carnal) acumen of this fella in the background...



... well, let's just say that a whole new field of dreams is possible.

Is it Wednesday yet?

Hate me 'cuz I jump on the buzz train, just don't hate me 'cuz I'm right.

Peace,

Jeff

The Filibuster

I know you guys are both baseball fans so you're enjoying the drama of the postseason but isn't it hard for you to get into it when your team is no longer in the running? Allen's team choked and didn't even make it and Jeff's team made it but then choked. I know it's still baseball and I know it's still the playoffs but doesn't it kind of take something away when you're watching as a fan of the game instead of as a fan of a team in the game?

-Dakota
Ames, Iowa
____________________________________

Just for today, I will put aside my pretentious baseball ego and do what politicians do: answer a question with a series of questions.  This is also what mathematicians call "proofing"; it's what women I've dated call "being obtuse" -- what I call "playing mind games."

If your local pub didn't offer a Maccallen 32 year, would you tell the bartender, "Nah, no Johnnie Walker for me, I'll just have a soda water"?

After a long night of partying that has left your stomach growling for sustenance, would you not eat Taco Bell because it isn't "authentic" Mexican cuisine?

If you couldn't get behind either party's presidential candidate because they both made promises they didn't keep would you simply not vote for the lesser of evils?

On second thought, forget that last one.

Just know this: Baseball is baseball is baseball is baseball... and a couple weeks from now, I (and a whole lot of like-minded baseball nerds) are going to be suffering from a supreme lack of entertainment.  This will be when I start looping the 1982 and 2006 Commemorative World Series DVDs; when I reread Tim McCarver's Baseball for Brain Surgeons; when I pop in the VHS tape of Morris v. Smoltz -- Game 7 of the 1991 Fall Classic -- and salivate over every pitch, even though I already know what's coming.

Yeah, yeah, yeah... it's too bad my (our) team(s) isn't (aren't) in contention.  Boo hoo.  But baseball is the religion, the individual teams merely saints.  I can live without my saint but not without my religion; and you can bet that those who follow the religion of baseball (thoroughly) are way more wacky than any suicidal jihadist or hypocritical evangelical.

And yes, I do see a therapist about this... from time to time.

Hate me 'cuz I teeter on the cliff of instability, just don't hate me 'cuz I'm right.

Peace,

Jeff


***IMPORTANT PROGRAMING NOTE***

Suggested to us by the always hilarious Jonestein at BABL, Mr. Krause and I will be competing in a World Series Metaphor Competition -- a Metaphor-Off... yeah, let's call it that. 

Why?  'Cuz we can.  And we will.

But we need your help!  As you know, Al and I champion ourselves as masters of the meandering metaphor; and we need your suggestions.  What do you want to see metaphorized?  (Yes, that's a word. I made it up.)  It could be something as simple as an individual player, a team, a rule, a concept, whatever.  We want your ideas.  Email us at kraulung@gmail.com, Twitter us at @RSBS or kindly comment on a post with your suggestion.  After selecting a trio of your topics, Mr. Krause and I will then post our metaphors during the World Series and YOU the reader will vote for the winner in this best of three competition.

Don't just sit there.... suggest, suggest, suggest!