For the record, Dear Readers, I am only one and three quarters of an inch shorter than my self-aggrandizing friend and normally trustworthy colleague, Mr. Allen Krause — not “a lot shorter” as he so vainly suggested in his most recent post. Inches, mere inches, I really am not one to be fraught over inches. In so being, I would like to extend the arm of peace to my friend by quoting Rebecca West when I say Mr. Krause “is every other inch a gentleman.”
And with that bit of business out of the way, I would now like to take this opportunity to ignore the Cardinals’ recent acquisition of Khalil Greene. Why? Why would I disregard such a move that even I admit looks to be beneficial for the 2009 squad? Because of Trever Miller, that’s why. The addition of Miller to the bullpen is supposed to make me feel better, Mr. Mozeliak? Hardly. Give me Brian Fuentes. Give me J.J. Putz. Give me a real closer. Give me something!
Let’s look at something more interesting… like the freakazoids who inhabit this planet. Not satisfied with your everyday sports memorabilia? How about you get on eBay and buy some game-worn underwear soiled by your favorite superstars Alex Rodriguez, Josh Beckett and Kevin Youkilis?
No? Perhaps you’d like to make a deal with the devil herself and get behind the liberal head-hunting train, because, in her opinion, it’s your duty as an US American to hope your new administration fails. Duh. Of course, Ms. Coulter’s got it right: nothing’s more American than hoping your American brethren suffer beyond measure.
But folks, this is just a small sampling of the oddities gnawing at my corrigible conscious. The recently acquired RSBS staff (graciously borrowed from Russell at Arizona via Slough who seems to have gone on an extended vacation) has gone through the StatCounter files and found quite the eclectic collection of keyword searches leading the masses to the hallowed pages of RSBS. There are a slew of nutball examples, but I’ve pulled my five favorites for your viewing pleasure:
“Allison Stokke Drunk”
Okay, okay. I get it. She’s hot. Unattainable even. So you think you gotta get her drunk first to have a shot. Well, she could be lying dead in the middle of a desert and you still don’t have a shot, Sicko!
“Wemen Hitting Mens Balls”
Hmm. Alright, let’s pretend that the spelling error doesn’t exist — that this is just a case of a concerned individual who wants to know how women should go about hitting men’s balls. Hmm. Nah, still doesn’t make any sense.
“Kwame Kilpatrick In Cuffs Picture”
Right on, brother. Right on. Detroit has never been more proud.
Yep. I feel ya. I voted for him just because he’s from my neighborhood too. Well, that and it was the right thing to do.
“Attractive Chinese Wemen”
Whoa! How did you know? Oh, and also, a word of advice: you might want to learn how to spell “women” before you start looking for them on the internet.
I know this — from experience.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
One of the wonderful things about the interwebs is how they allow us to time travel. Well, into the past at least. Which really isn’t time travel at all. Anyway, what I’m really trying to say is that I want to go back to a post that my friend Mr. Lung put up last week. Now, I can rally behind the Thanksgiving and giving thanks sentiments included in the entry but I have to take issue with the picture he included. It’s not that I dislike the picture. In fact, I think it’s adorable. Rather, the problem is that it is a complete misrepresentation of the two of us.
Check that. It’s not so much a misrepresentation as it is a mislabeling. See, on the most basic, phenomenal (in the Kantian sense) level, Jeff is shorter than I am. A lot shorter. I don’t mean any disrespect by this but it’s true. I am several inches taller than my friend and any graphic representation of the two of us should reflect this fact. Also, I don’t wear lipstick but Jeff has been known to sell Mary Kay products to supplement his income. So, there’s that.
However, there is one thing out there that is not misrepresentational and that is the new latest leaders up on the MLBlogs website. I have to tell you, it’s pretty amazing that you all have managed to keep us in the top five for months on end, especially considering how much we’ve been slacking as of late. But, it just goes to show that there ain’t no party like an RSBS party because an RSBS party don’t quit. Except for on major holidays. Thank you for indulging us and we hope to see you back here soon.
Achtung! For my esteemed yet often misguided colleague, Mr. Allen Krause has finally done what no one ever thought possible: he emptied his soul of memories sweet and dear to his heart, thus proving that indeed, he does obtain some semblance of emotion, a hint — albeit faint — of feeling.
But just who knew his heart was set on Alan Trammell?
Well, actually, I did… but that’s only because I’ve been listening to Mr. Krause’s Ode-to-Trammell for over eleven years now. Trammell this and Trammell that… Trammell and Whitaker and Lemon and Gibson and Parrish and Trammell and Trammell and TRAMMELL!
Alright. I get it. We get it. Mr. Krause is in love with Alan Trammell.
Fine. There’s nothing wrong with that, Al. And I especially applaud you for realizing that despite your ongoing man-crush and ever-growing infatuation with all things #3, that you are still able to logically conclude that Trammell has no business in the Hall of Fame. Because he doesn’t. If you really want to argue the HOF case of a deserving ex-Detroit Tiger, come to your senses and rally behind the Jack Morris train. (*for more information on the blasphemous errors of Mr. Krause’s ways regarding HOF worthy Tigers, click *here*)
What I (and most probably all RSBS readers) can’t seem to understand is why, if Alan Trammell and Lou Whitaker remain so dear to thy heart, Mr. Krause, could you not find a better picture of this treasured double-play combo than this:
It’s 2008, Al, and with the advent of the interweb, CNN’s ability to “beam” people “up” on live television and the fact that a black man will be the president of US America, one would think you’d be able to find at least one decent picture of your childhood sweethearts.
The one you provided looks awfully similar to this anomaly of reality:
And you’re right, Al, the possibility of Trammell ever donning his face on a Cooperstown plaque is about as possible as Bigfoot piloting a UFO over Detroit during a World Series championship parade.
It just ain’t gonna happen.
So go ahead. Do what you do. Hate me. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
You know, I could sit here and cry about how my favorite player from my childhood is on the Hall of Fame ballot but won’t make it in just like my friend Mr. Lung. And the thing is, I really could. I mean, not only did Alan Trammell play for one of the best Tigers’ teams ever back in ’84, he also has the same first name as me(!), even if he does spell it incorrectly. But, it’s just not in me.
It really all comes down to what Mark at MLBlogs had to say, “These plaques go next to those of
Babe Ruth, Willie Mays, Walter Johnson, Hank Aaron, Stan Musial.” As much as I loved watching Trammell at shortstop, turning those sweet double plays with Lou Whitaker and as great as his ’83 and ’84 seasons were, I can’t really say that he belongs next to those names.
Now, I’ll admit that it’s a little more difficult to say the same thing about McGwire. Even if he is a juiced up steroid junkie who probably can’t touch his hands together over his head, he was exciting to watch. More than that, McGwire rewrote the record books until Barry Bonds came along and really started flexing his PED-built muscles. And like Mr. Lung says, there are definitely some incorrigible characters in the Hall.
However, the one thing you don’t see in the Hall are cheaters. Shoeless Joe Jackson has the third highest career batting average in the majors but you won’t see his name in Cooperstown. Same goes for Pete Rose even if it is the result of something that didn’t happen on the field. If you’re going to bar these guys and their amazing records, I don’t have a problem with keeping Mr. McGwire out, too.
This whole debate is ridiculous, though. We all know that Rose should be in the Hall and, even if he was a cheat, there’s no dismissing McGwire’s ability and contribution to the game of baseball. In the end, it’s just sad that a no-talent ^ss-clown like Michael Bolton, uh, I mean Bud Selig should be able to keep people from even coming up for a vote. Let Rose on the list and then let the sportswriters decide if he merits entry. Same goes for Bonds when he becomes eligible. The Hall of Fame does not exist to serve the whims of the Commissioner. It’s there so that fans can celebrate the greatest players to ever step on a baseball diamond. That means you, Rose. You too, McGwire. And what the hell, get on in there, Bonds.
I’m sorry, but did the National Bureau of Economic Research just inform me and myriad dear readers, that indeed the United States of America’s economy is in a (daresay) recession?
I beg your pardon, but did our Dear Leader, in an interview with ABC’s Charlie Gibson, admit his own incompetency by saying “I think I was unprepared for war”?
As if the mass exodus of once-successful business owners to the overcrowded unemployment line in my Southside Chicago neighborhood wasn’t reason enough to believe. As if the tense gazes of disgust from world leaders and record low approval rating during Bush II wasn’t enough reason to believe. Well, folks, believe it; and believe that the spindoctors are just going to keep getting more and more convoluted as they assume we US Americans are as dumb as they are obvious.
Because apparently, the new status quo put forth by those in power has regressed to that of an unnecessary complication of issues that should otherwise be clear as day.
This has never been more true as we go into the third year of Mark McGwire Hall of Fame eligibility, where once again, I predict the baseball writers will find it in themselves to be a group of holier-than-thou judgmental jack^sses who consistently confuse clarity with integrity.
Did McGwire use performance enhancing drugs? Maybe. Probably. We don’t know for sure and we never will.
Did McGwire’s awkward Capitol Hill exchange further damage his image and cause us to question his character? Yes. Definitely.
Should it matter when considering him for the Hall of Fame?
Hands down, Mark McGwire should have been a first-time ballot Hall of Famer. His numbers, his performance, his legacy and the positive impact he had on the game alone should have put him in on the first try.
While I dare not minimize the damaging stain PEDs have left on the game of baseball as well as the youth of our nation, I still believe in the democratic principle of one being “innocent until proven guilty” and until someone proves that McGwire broke the rules, he deserves to be remembered as a Hall of Famer.
Jim Rice, Bert Blyleven, Andre Dawson… sure, waffle on those guys. They deserve to be waffled on a bit because they’re not stand-out no-brainer players. But McGwire? Give me a break. Give him a break.
And beware, for Barry Bonds will soon be in line for the same retrospection. Look, as much as I dislike the man as a human being, I cannot conceive a Hall of Fame without Barry Bonds’ plaque. Baseball writers, your job is not to teach lessons to suspected bad boys. Your job is to reward players for having Hall of Fame careers despite their antics — whatever and as displeasing as they may be. Remember, Ty Cobb, arguably one of the most disgustingly erratic, singly detrimental members of the entire human race, is rightfully in the Hall of Fame.
Get over yourselves, writers. You’re not judges. You’re not the police. You’re not God(s).
Do the right thing and put Mark McGwire in the Hall of Fame. And while you’re doing that, prepare for the barrage of suspect PED users, headlined by one Barry Bonds, who will soon be eligible for HOF consideration.
The world will be watching and I will be quick to slander.
So yeah, go ahead and hate me; I only ask that you don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.