The Cubs, Cards and Brewers have turned the NL Central into a dogfight. With
Chicago and Milwaukee making big moves to bring in high caliber pitching,
St. Louis seems to be the odd man out at this point. What moves if any do
you think the Cards will make and which team (or teams) will emerge from the
dust in September?
Allow me to begin by sending out a great big RSBS EAT IT! to all the critics and analysts who said the NL Central would be the worst division in baseball prior to the season’s start. On the contrary, the Central has turned out to be one of the better, more exciting divisions to watch. Of course, with the NY/LA obsessed media still dictating what is and isn’t entertaining to the mass of US Americans, this competitive division will probably still remain out of the spotlight. This is a downright shame — not as shameful as the existing snoozefest otherwise known as the NL West — but still, it’s a shame.
And as Mr. Krause points out, the NL Central has gotten a whole lot better in recent weeks. But while the Brewers and Cubs went out and made heavy hitting deals for C.C. Sabathia (with periods on my watch) and Rich Harden respectively, it appears that the Cardinals front office really is sitting back — waiting for some divine intervention deus ex machina style.
Or are they?
Long gone are the Walt Jocketty days of going out and getting a guy to win now. No more Larry Walker or Will Clark-esque deals will be happening under John Mozeliak’s rule — that much was already made clear in the offseason when the Brewers, Cubs and Astros all went out and spent a lot of money to get better, thus leaving the Redbirds (and their fans) questioning the sincerity of Mozeliak’s commitment to now. To say that Mozeliak doesn’t want to win is unfair; I believe he does, but I also think his methods are unrealistic when considering our competition and their subsequent open pocketbooks.
Mozeliak and the Cardinals’ brass have been saying that the mid-season reactivation of Mark Mulder and Chris Carpenter would be their “big move” before the trade deadline. Well, the first part of that plan has already proved a bigger bust than the Billary Clinton campaign’s postponing cession from the primaries because “…Bobby Kennedy was assassinated in June in California.” So let’s not count on Mark Mulder’s bum arm/shoulder to be anything other than what it is: a bum arm/shoulder.
And while Chris Carpenter could be that mentally motivating savior in the clubhouse who simultaneously goes on a hot streak of domination, what if he’s not? What if he goes back on the DL? It’s very possible, folks. The guy hasn’t pitched a big league game since opening day of 2007 and while his presence was definitely missed last year, it really hasn’t been missed that much this season. The St. Louis hodgepodge rotation of Wainwright (when healthy), Lohse, Looper, Wellemeyer, Pineiro and Brad Thompson have done quite well for themselves. The Cardinals’ Achilles heal isn’t starting pitching.
Nor is it protecting Albert, though many people would like us to believe that. Rumors are afloat that the Cardinals could make a big, colossal, GINORMOUS deal for Matt Holliday. Really? Is that what St. Louis needs? Another big, expensive bat who we won’t be able to afford after 2009? No. Ryan Ludwick, Rick Ankiel and Troy Glaus, as far under the radar as they are, have been doing a good job of protecting A.P.
What the Cardinals really need is a reliever who can throw anything other than lollygaggin’ batting practice fastballs late in a game. And they are out there: Damaso Marte, George Sherrill, Brian Fuentes. One of those guys better be wearing the birds on the bat before July 31st or I may drink myself into delirium from anguish. In recent weeks, watching the last three innings of a Cardinal game has become as uncomfortable as this:
And no one wants to suffer like that — not even John McCain, which is why he hasn’t taken a liking to the moniker: MC CAIN. Too bad for him… and liberals abound.
So who will be at the top of the Central once it is all said in done? Hell if I know. If I did, I wouldn’t be watching the games so intently, or care. But thanks for asking, Mr. Krause. If you remember correctly, I did predict the Brewers would win the Central while secretly hoping the Cards would at least have a wild card bid. The second half of that may be true still, but those Cubbies are awfully tough, which is exactly why I’ll be so happy to see them crumble towards the end of the year (if my deal with the devil works out the way it’s supposed to).
On the flipside, in the American League Central, I hear that Jimmy Leyland is so upset, distraught, and bothered by the lack of urgency in his team (particularly the pitching staff) that he is exploring new avenues of work. In his preparation, he sent me this official press photo that he hopes will ignite interest:
And don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Wait. So who won the Home Run Derby? The only participants I even heard about were Chase Utley (for his expressions of love toward New Yorkers and Yankee fans) and Josh Hamilton (who apparently smoked super crack that allows him to destroy baseballs). Oh right. Justin Morneau. Oh well. Nothing to talk about there.
But there’s plenty to talk about when it comes to Josh Hamilton. Or at least that’s what I gather from watching Joe Buck’s play-by-play at the All-Star Game the other night. From Hamilton’s inability to brush his teeth by himself the morning after the Derby (I’m still not sure what Buck was trying to say) to a sloppy and drawn out True Hollywood Story rendition of Hamilton’s life, Mr. Buck managed to alienate most viewers within 15 minutes of the game’s first pitch. And that’s only if you were lucky enough to tune in late and miss the pre-game festivities.
However, none of this should really come as a surprise. Joe even recently admitted that he’s been phoning it in for awhile now. I mean, his on-air performance is about as thrilling as a Hilary Clinton stump speech and almost as inspiring as John McCain’s control of important health care issues.
It’s just sad that this is what Jack Buck’s kid has come to.
Anyway, it could be worse I suppose. He could make odd drunken sounding noises like his broadcast partner, Tim McCarver. Makes me wish for the old days, with guys who could really call a game. Guys like Ernie Harwell. And that’s all I’m gonna say because otherwise I’m going to come across as an old codger. At least it’s better than auditorily fellating an almost Home Run Derby champ.
As a man of the People, I am not adverse to opening up myself to the other side — to hear what the opposition has to say, to understand their positions and to really look at the world from their points of view. This willingness towards transparency is a fundamental step in creating good policy; and quite frankly, such idealistic strides are what makes being an US American so special.
That being said, even I have my limits. Rude, callous and hurtful remarks defaming my dear mother are not only uncalled for, they’re sophomoric and as I have said here before, I refuse to acknowledge any like correspondences.
Well, finally, this freakazoid (who won’t tell me his name) left my mother out of his hateful emails, so I thought, why not post some snippets here to show the dear readers just what kind of nutcase I have to deal with on a daily basis. He hides behind a computer, masked by the interweb; I know him only as:
…and he is absolutely chock full of misguided wrath.
Again, I receive a lot of hate mail; and that’s totally fine. I enjoy it — welcome it actually — but this guy is so off-the-charts that I might sleep better if he just disappeared. In fact, this vigilante posting of mine is done in part because I’d like to leave a record of his nastiness — just in case I happen to disappear myself.
Remember, this is just a small sampling. I have edited nothing accept expletives (there are a lot, so hang in there) and though I may have taken some liberties in what sections I’ve shared below, I assure you nothing has been added or deleted that would distort the integrity or purpose of the emails themselves.
– – –
Monday, June 30, 2008
“…Why dont you write me back you f****** ***hole? You know the cubs will kill you guys in any day or time. you dont even know how to write man prolly coz your a b*****. i bet you cry in your bed at night wishin you had something to look forward to haha lol or are you just another f****** f*g like all the other cardnl fans i know…”
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
“…hey f** boy f*** you and f*** albert pujols. pooholes. lol what a f****** f****t name in the first place you peace of s***. no one reads your f****** blog coz its stupid and dumb and you dont even know how to write it. i rotfl coz every time i think about how jthe cardnals s**k so bad i think your prolly crying about it like a little b****…”
Thursday, July 3, 2008
“something we can all appreciate? im a stats guy and i know that you cant even tell the diffrence between a f****** win and a loss. when was the last time the sox even won a world series? so what the cards won one f****** time this decade. you f*g* and b*****s are sox fans thats why no one goes to the games coz their scared to see them and gangbangers all at the sox park. and albert pujols is a juicer too and you know it if you dont say you do you lie like you do every day on your stupid retarded blog. everyone knows it why do you think they are behind the cubs now. i can prolly kick your a** so just do it. you wanna throw? come to division and clybourn any day of the week and meet a real f****** man!!! hahaahha. prolly couldnt find it write if u wanted to. i f****** hate s***for brains cardinal fans. especially you do you even know the cubs are in first or yare you blind. right. cant read ib et too. if the world series was today who woudl f****** be there? if its today we already won the whole f****** thing your prolly crying like a b****!!! id burn you and you cant stop it!!!!!”
Sunday, July 6, 2008
“hahahhahah. number five my a**. whod you hafta bl** to get that you b****. like anybody even reads your blog what a stupid belief. mr. this and mr. that you think you oh so f****** tough and smart you say but you say it like f****** peace of s*** and well your not smart and i would beat the s*** out of you for the stupid things you say which arent even true…”
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
“lol that you could even think about getting erin andrews you b**** theres no way shed go for you who wares f****** glasses. you think you know what to even do with a girl like that you think she wants to here your stupid f****** bulls*** p**** *ss stories that arent even true? your righting is not even as good as f****** kid could do it. when lou gets his ring again its not gonna just be one lame *ss ring like boozer larussa who got drunk and drove a car and fell asleep like the b**** he is lou will get back to back to back rings at least and thats if z leaves. if he stays then you can bet we will get even more and youll be crying like the b**** you are f*g bob howry would kill you with his fastball and i know for f******* sure coz he knows me from mesa every year i go he saw me at applebees and talked so f*** you and there i told you you dont know s*** about baseball…”
– – –
So there you have it, folks. A brief snapshot of the lovely, uplifting, always poetic words from cubluvr1995. My best guess makes him a pimply faced, braces-wearing, fat kid who has no life outside of Halo, X-men comics and Red Bull.
Maybe now that I’ve acknowledged his “grievances” and shared them with the public, he’ll finally leave me alone.
But I am prepared that he probably won’t. He hates me. He hates because he knows I’m right… and it’s killing him.
Verily! Since its inception, Red State Blue State has been forum to many a heated debate. From the heresies righted by yours truly against my opponent, Mr. Krause, on issues concerning the Designated Hitter, hitting .400, Jack Morris’ deservedness of Hall of Fame entry, the Catch, corpulence among baseball’s elite and much, much more, RSBS has truly become the place to explore the enigmatic themes of the grandest game on earth.
This being said, so far no debate has been more staunch in its lopsidedness, more steadfast in its teeterings toward me, more defended by myriad dear readers than that regarding the absolute hotness of one Erin Andrews — sexiest sportscaster alive. While Mr. Krause’s blind sensibilities regarding what makes a woman indelibly beautiful were paramount to his barrage of misjudgments and errant lack of critical thinking skills, I — and the RSBS public — will still probably never be able to forgive him for his blasphemy nor forget the stain that he put on this otherwise delightfully informative weblog.
So having sated my need to defend Ms. Andrews one more time against the tyranny known as Allen Krause’s opinion, it is with great pleasure that I once again reflect, recognize and deem her the 2008 RSBS All-Star of the first half. My mere attraction to Ms. Andrews is testament to her universal hotness, for she isn’t even my type. She’s tall, she’s blonde, she has a mannish voice and she may very well know more about sports than I do.
And there is absolutely no way around it.
So don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right… especially you, Al.
In what seemed to be just another routine trip of posturing down the runway Sunday evening, Miss USA Crystle Stewart and her subsequent fall (both figurative and literal) at the Miss Universe competition has become more than just a physical mishap. In fact, this unfortunate slip has become the ultimate iconic representation of the current state of our nation and the hardworking US Americans who inhabit it.
In the last 24 hours, we have witnessed seasoned veteran journalist John McLaughlin resort to the ridiculous stereotyping of a pre-civil rights era nation, the strong-arming acquisition of an American staple by an elitist foreign entity that relies on the cowardly tactics of threats and foreboding reminiscent of one A. Hitler and the possibility that we US Americans may be watching Brett Favre throw a football wearing a helmet that doesn’t have “G” on it.
If all this has you down, dear reader, and all you want to do is sit back, relax and watch the Home Run Derby tonight, let me remind you that it is not the Home Run Derby — it is the STATE FARM Home Run Derby and you will be bombarded with a bazillion commercials over two hours urging you to buy insurance for when the big bad Iranians try to blow us up.
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Will the there be a ban on apple pie?
Will Red Sox Nation run out of things to complain about?
Will the Cubs win a World Series?
I would try to go somewhere, take a vacation, forget about it all… but with Chicagoland gas prices hovering around $4.35 a gallon, I can’t afford it.
So I think I’ll just go to sleep. And while I do, I’d appreciate it if you don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Among the most anticipated All-Star break events is the
coveted Home Run Derby (presented by State Farm?). This competition is one of ESPN’s most highly
rated programs of the year, yet they seem to find a way to drag it out and make
it harder and harder to watch. It now lasts
2 hours, which is extremely irritating.
Have the people at ESPN and MLB lost touch with their public and if so,
what should be done to make it more enjoyable?
I love the home run derby. Just like I love the slam dunk contest. And it’s quite obvious that we are not alone in these sentiments. Nothing really highlights a big game like a monster shot to left field or an authoritative dunk. And even when both are taken out of context, they’re still spectacular to see. However, the powers that be are aware of this, too, and as I’ve said many times before, sports today exist for the purpose of entertainment and entertainment is all about making money. In that respect, the slam dunk contest and the home run derby are American capitalism at its finest. And, when you take it into context, it kind of makes sense.
Let’s set the scene. First off, the derby didn’t even come into being until the 1985 All-Star Game. In January of 1985, Ronald Reagan took the oath of office for a second time after destroying Walter Mondale the previous November. It seemed that America had finally regained some of the swagger it lost during the oil shocks of the 70’s and the debacle in Vietnam. And really does anything allow for swagger quite like a home run? The derby was a natural outgrowth of the Reagan 80’s and it’s current form owes much to Reagan and the evolution of capitalism during that decade.
Capitalism demands increasing returns on investment to keep investors sated. And there are no bigger investors in sports today than ESPN and the major broadcast networks who feed our need for 24 hour entertainment. Miss the 11:30 SportsCenter and it’s still waiting for you at 12:30. They live to serve but they also exist to make money. It’s like CNN and politics. As much as they said they wanted the Democratic primary to be decided they also lived for the idea that it might be fought all the way to the convention because then they’d have something to keep people coming back. Well, the derby keeps baseball fans coming back every year and it makes sense that the networks would take advantage of our fascination with these feats of uberhumanity.
If people tune in to watch the event, they’re probably going to stay until the end to see who wins. ESPN knows they have a captive audience. But ESPN makes its money from selling advertising at the highest possible rate and they get the highest possible rate by televising events that draw in key demographics. It’s the perfect storm and they want the storm to last as long as possible. Playing the derby out over rounds and allowing as much advertising as possible means that a fun event becomes interminable for the fans but it means that the network is going to pocket a nice chunk of change from everyone who ponies up tens of thousands of dollars to parade their products across the screen during every little break. We may not like it but this is the two-edged sword that is American capitalism.
So, let me try to answer your question simply. Have ESPN and MLB lost touch with their public? No, not at all. They know exactly how long we’ll stick around and they’re going to make sure that McDonalds, Pepsi, Axe Shower Gel and State Farm get in as many pleas for your business as possible. That’s America and that’s the reality. And even though it sometimes annoys me, I still love it.
Suddenly people in Chicago know who Rich Harden is. Good. It’s about time Cub fans find out they got swindled by Billy Beane because it won’t be long before Harden takes another trip to the DL. In a perfect world, that would’ve happened today. Hoping for such an opportunity, I wanted to see it firsthand. If possible, I wanted to talk to Harden myself and find out how he was going to hurt himself again… how he would do it… would he cry…
That’s why I went to the game.
Don’t worry, dear readers. I am perfectly aware that the simple act of showing my face at Wrigley Field could get me shot, maimed, urinated on and beer bashed. That’s why I wore a mask.
“You mean Red State Blue State?” said the pimply faced kid at the door.
“That’s right.” I replied.
“Man, I write hate mail to that guy every week.”
“Yeah? So you like the blog then?”
“Sure, I like reading it despite all the Cub dissin’ that goes on there. I mean, it is funny. And I hate to say it, but that Jeff Lung guy is a genius.”
“He sure is.”
“Why doesn’t the other guy ever write anything?”
“Oh, Allen? He’s a flake. Confused. Occupied. Look, I need to talk to Rich Harden. Can you get me in to see him?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
The pimply faced kid, totally deceived by my ingenious disguise, led me down to the field level where the Cubs pitching staff was warming up. I posted up along the wall and waited for my opportunity. Harden was nowhere to be seen; just a bunch of relievers lollygaggin’ and doing pilates.
I got impatient. I yelled some not-so-nice things at Neal Cotts and Scott Eyre. They ignored me. To show them just who they were dealing with, I picked up Scott Eyre with my thumb and forefinger — just for fun.
So I ditched the mask.
“Hey, you,” yelled an angry Bob Howry, “you that guy from RSBS?”
“Yeah. That’s me.”
“Yeah? Well, F*** YOU!”
Needless to say, Bob Howry is not a fan. He said some choice things about my mother too, but he obviously didn’t take the time to check his sources because my mother is a very nice lady indeed. In fact, Bob, if you’d like a great recipe for her Oh-So-Good Pie, just holla and I’ll hook you up, D-bag.
Back on the field, Harden was still nowhere to be seen. The sucker was probably warming up away from the press. What a lameball.
But I am not one to disappoint my fellow US Americans hungry for the hard truth. I had to do something. So I didn’t interview Rich Harden. I interviewed a guy who liked Rich Harden. This guy:
Old Grumpy Guy: Who are you?
Me: I’m Jeff Lung from Red State Blue State.
OGG: What do you want?
Me: An answer I suppose… to start with.
OGG: Oh yeah? Well start with this: eat s**t and die, pal. I’ve read your site and you can su<k it!
Suddenly surrounded by a mob of angry Cub fans and their century-long unfulfilled hopes and dreams, I decided the best thing to do was go find my seat.
Once there, finally, I found someone who was happy to see me:
It doesn’t matter what sport, what stadium, what team, friend, foe or fantasy, the beer guy is always glad to see me. I needed the beer too. I was seeing strange things:
And the more Old Style I drank, the less bothered I was by Wrigley’s trademark steel beams that seem to always find a way to get directly in front of me, no matter where I am in that ballpark:
The more Old Style I drank, the more numb I felt as Rich Harden pitched lights out baseball, striking out ten, making me look like a fool. The more Old Style I drank, the less bothered I was that Jim Edmonds — who still don’t look right — had four RBIs and got the crowd to turn into wildly electric banshees.
Sure, I wanted to get up and boo, to remind those Cub fans about their lovable-loser status, to point out the infinite woes of the franchise and all those associated with it — players and fans. But I couldn’t. I was schnockered:
I woke up somewhere around the 9th inning, when Carlos Marmol tried his hardest to lose the game by throwing up underhand soft tosses wherever the opposing hitters requested them. Unfortunately, he only allowed the lowly Giants to tie it by putting up a five-spot, which sent the game into extra innings.
Finally, in the 11th, the Cubs came back to win on a Reed Johnson RBI single. It was a close call at home plate, but the Cubs walked off the winners.
Rich Harden, however, did not get the win. As far as I know, his arm is still connected to the rest of his body, but how long that will actually last is uncertain. I estimate that shortly after the All-Star break he’ll find his way back on the disabled list, and when he does, I’ll be telling all you sCrUB fans that I told you so.
I will also be telling the Tribune Company that they should remove those steel beams from the stadium and hope for the best.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
I was happy to see Corey Hart selected, by the fans, as the final addition to the 2008 National League All-Star team. With a line like his, he definitely deserved it. And yes, I believe it certainly called for a celebration, even if it required some adult beverages.
However, with his baby girl sitting quietly on his lap — behaving like the quintessential angel child all parents dream about — I’m not so sure the sophomoric antics of a surprise beer bath for Hart and child, acted out by his fellow teammates, was in any way necessary. The majority of news reports aired this morning in regards to the incident found the whole ordeal of drenching an innocent child in beer to be quite hilarious.
It kind of was.
But let me just remind everyone that if that child had been a poodle, PETA and several other special interest groups would have been all over the Brewers organization, players and staff. Thank the gods Corey doesn’t have a poodle and thank the gods there is no organization who finds pouring beer on kids unacceptable.
I guess there’s a reason why they’re called the Brewers. I’m just thankful they’re not called the Milwaukee Methamphetamine Manufacturers.
That would be bad.
And you know it, so don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Dear readers, these are the things that keep me up at night:
- The St. Louis Cardinals
- Erin Andrews (click *here* to see why — Yum!)
- The destruction of our environment (click *here* to join me in my mission)
- Wal-Marts, Super Wal-Marts, and Super Wal-Marts Beijing Style
- Erin Andrews in a sexy bathing suit
- Flashbacks of the Malarchuk injury
- Jesse Jackson getting his n***s cut off — ooh, did I say that? Whoops. Hot mic! Hot mic!
- Bill O’Reilly
- Erin Andrews in a sexy bathing suit making out with Lucy Liu who just so happens to be wearing a leather body suit while wielding a whip
- White people
With all of these sensitive and sensitive subjects on my mind, I was grateful that my memory recounted a comment that was posted here at RSBS several months ago:
“When I need a nap, I usually tune in to a Sox broadcast. Hawk and DJ
work better than a handful of ambien and a bottle of Jack. Their actual
commentary goes beyond irritating, yet their vocal tones could induce a
Now it’s no secret that I follow the Sox very closely. And I have admitted here before that at times, even I, Fulbright Scholar that I am, find Ken “the Hawk” Harrelson and Darrin “DJ” Jackson’s over-the-top homerisms amusing; but if I really want to enjoy the game from start to finish, I turn on the radio and let Ed Farmer and Steve Stone call a sound game.
But it has been a long week, folks. Still recovering from myriad things I can’t remember from the 4th of July weekend and endlessly troubled by the aforementioned list of sleep-stoppers, I decided to take waltcproductions’ advice and turned the sound up on the television.
The Sox were in Kansas City to face the Royals. Buehrle v. Greinke. Potential for a pitcher’s duel. It was… though I wouldn’t have known it.
I nestled into my couch without a beer in my hand — shockingly, for the first time this month — and made sure I was comfortable enough to accept sleep if it so decided to fall upon my eyes. It did. I remember my lids getting heavy around the bottom of the second; Hawk and DJ were — surprise! — rehashing the ‘old days’ by talking about their .239 and .257 career batting averages, respectively. I remember thinking, ‘Gee, I’ve heard them say that before… about a thousand times…’
…but I was already long lost in a blissful land of somniferous slumber.
I woke up in the bottom half of the 8th to the roaring crowd of 29 people at Kauffman Stadium cheering on their Royals who had suddenly taken a lead, which inspired Hawk to grunt one of his trademark utterances: “Doggone it!”
Immediately, I hit ‘mute’, turned on the radio and listened to Stoney explain how a Konerko error combined with a less than Dotel outing for Octavio Dotel turned a brilliant Buehrle performance into a loss for the Sox.
At least I got some sleep.
You can hate Hawk and DJ, but don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Yes, dear readers, the pitcher formerly known as C.C. Sabathia is now to be known only as CC Sabathia, which is really just the same name sans those pesky little periods — the same things my sisters have been whining and complaining about for years.
Look, C.C. — er, I mean, CC, I get it… all those punctuating periods, dots, bumps in the road… they get in the way. They put a damper on things. I feel your pain. But if you’re going to all of the sudden change the way your name is presented in print worldwide couldn’t you be a little more emphatic about it than simply saying:
“I guess I’d go no periods.”
That doesn’t sound like you mean it, C.C. And because you don’t sound like you mean it, I’m not changing a damn thing. You will forever be C.C. to me — with periods. Consider me cramping your style, Mr. Sabathia. (That was a big friggin’ cheesy pun and I take complete ownership of that).
*Note to the uneducated: periods are necessary to indicate stopping points.
When I look at CC, what do I see? Two consonants begging for a vowel. Take heej and beej for example. Without a period between HJ and BJ, you get a couple of awfully funny sounding euphemisms for things I don’t want my mother to know about. Do you see, C.C.? Do you see what you’re doing?
What would E.E. Cummings be without periods? Eeeeeeeeeeeeee. Gross.
When the news first broke a couple of days ago, I chuckled away the thought that people would actually pay attention to this minor detail of an otherwise blockbuster of a story (the trade between the Indians and the Brewers). Why did it matter? Why did Sabathia wait until leaving Cleveland to make this monumental name change? Honestly, I thought this would just disappear into a series of tubes…
Alas, no! Dear reader, we live in tumultuously technocratic times and I’m here to tell you that an hour after the story broke, even the mighty Wikipedia had fallen under C.C.’s spell.
But I am no dummy. The older I get, the wiser I become. Today I am able to admit my shortcomings and tell of a time when my cavalier spirit got the best of me: having fallen a slave to the many conjurations of my own aura, I legally changed my name from “Jeff” to “Jefff” fanatically crying out to the world that the last “F” was indeed silent.
No one got it.
And in what I thought was an enchantingly austere state of dignity and self-worth brought on by my my bold name change alone, I ran myself directly into the ground until one day I woke up under a Las Vegas overpass with no shirt on, covered in unidentifiable cuts and bruises, reeking of Tanqueray, vomit and Marlboro Lights, my possessions consisting of two dimes, a nickel and three pennies.
So, take it from me, stick with C.C., C.C.
And don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.