Mr. Krause Poses as Colby Rasmus-lovin’ Teenage Girl in What Will Certainly Be the LONGEST Four Minutes of Your Entire Life
I don’t know how my feeble and oft fallacious colleague, Mr. Allen
Krause, managed to pull this one off but the following video proves
that a) he did indeed pull it off, b) amazing things can be done with
makeup and special effects these days and c) that his Detroit
Tiger-lovin’ front has finally been debunked.
The truth comes out as Al puts on the ritz:
If you just survived that then you will definitely agree that it was the longest four minutes of your entire life (not to mention the most ill-spent).
Hate me ‘cuz my investigative work is unparalleled. Hate me ‘cuz I
exposed Mr. Krause’s crossdressing scheme. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m
P.S. Could someone pleeeaaase tell me why the above abomination has more views than the epic gansta rap “Jesus Hates the Cubs”?
If you were kidnapped and held at gunpoint and the kidnapper said, “You must root for the Yankees or we’ll keep you in this cave forever without food or water or women,” what would you do?
Confessions of a She-Fan
Santa Barbara, CA
Interesting question, Jane. On an existential level, of course I’d rather die quickly in said cave. I detest the Yankees and everything they stand for and to cheer for them would be a repudiation of myself. However, on a pragmatic level, if simply rooting for the Yankees were to allow me to continue living, I’d probably do it. If you’re willing to die for an ideal, it had better be a pretty amazing ideal.
I understand fanaticism. But, there is a reason we call a team’s supporters “fans” instead of “fanatics.” Fanatic has a negative connotation to it. A fanatic is a guy who records Erin Andrews as she’s undressing in the privacy of her hotel room. A fanatic is willing to blow his or herself up for the glory of god, brahma, allah, yaweh or whoever else. A fan, while often just as insane in the sporting arena, usually tries to find a way to moderate those demons in other areas of their life.
And for me, although it would really suck to ever turn my back on the Tigers, if someone had a gun to my head and said “either you cheer for the Yankees or you’re a dead man,” living means more to me than fandom. In this case, it’s pretty clear which of us is the fan and which the fanatic.
Here’s the thing, I know Jeff is going to call me out on saying all of this but when it comes down to it, it’s the same for him. If his choices are rooting for the Cubs and being able to live or refusing and dying for that ideal, he’s going to say the same thing. Maybe not in this forum but in the real life situation, that’s the choice he would make. Because he hates the Cubs but he loves living more.
Ultimately, the difference between a fan and a fanatic is that a fan can still make rational decisions. Giving up rationality and being willing to sacrifice one’s life for the sake of one’s fandom is not noble. It’s stupid.
There are ideals worth dying for. That’s the reason that we have such strong and committed Armed Forces and why Parick Henry could unironically exclaim “Give me liberty or give me death.” Baseball, though? It’s a wonderful game but at the end of the day it’s just that. A game.
The Truth is: the view from Pujols-ville is more than satisfying these days. Despite my colleague’s dastardly attempts to poke holes in the euphoric reality of the game’s best player hitting walk-off homeruns to champion the St. Louis Cardinals to its current nine game lead in the NL Central over the Chicago sCrUBS, I continue to attest to the wondrous ecstasy that is having a bonafide man-crush on Number 5.
Say what you want, Mr. Krause, Pujols-ville is full of winners.
The same cannot be said for the barely above mediocre Detroit Tigers.
And when times are tough, Mr. Krause — when the .500 Minnesota Twins and sub .500 Chicago White Sox have legitimate shots at besting your patchwork club — I understand that human nature may force you to criticize, to chide, to castigate. Indeed, your rural upper middle class gun-totin’ religion-clingin’ Republican roots have crept their way into the conversation with your most recent closing statement:
“Don’t hate me because of my inability to fantasize about Albert Pujols
in a kiddie pool full of tapioca pudding. Hate me ‘cuz I’m right.”
Jealously does often cause one to slander.
But the above statement is more than just blasphemy. It’s code.
You see, dear readers, Mr. Krause and I both fancy ourselves as learned linguists. With two foreign languages under each of our respective belts (that’s four total, not counting the mother tongue), it’s easy for us to slip hidden messages here and there. In this case, the curious Albert/kiddie-pool/tapioca-pudding reference has deeper meaning…
Ne me détestez pas en raison de mon incapacité de fantasmer au sujet d’Albert Pujols dans un regroupement de kiddie complètement de pudding de tapioca. Détestez-moi ‘cuz que j’ai raison.
No odio, porque no puedo Albert Pujols un grupo de fantasía para niños que pudín plenamente tapioca. Odio porque yo tenía razón.
لا اكره لأنني لا أستطيع ألبرت Pujols مجموعة من الخيال للأطفال بشكل كامل التابيوكا الحلوى. أنا أكره لأنني كنت على حق.
And finally, back to English:
“Did not force! For that I, Albert, did not can Pujols’ group from the horseman for the children, thoroughly Al-Hulwah! I forced for that. I was justified.”
Yep. Mystery solved. Mr. Krause wishes he were Albert. He fears those pesky horsemen, the children and most importantly, those more than creepy Al-Hulwahs.
Hard for me to hate Mr. Krause for that. Sometimes the Al-Hulwahs even keep me up at night.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Although I am now well aware that Jeff has misplaced himself under a bus somewhere, I also realize that part of the reason for him being under that bus was my absence over the past couple weeks. What can I say? Sometimes a man needs a little vacation and sometimes that vacation comes sans wi-fi. However, having acknowledged that, I think I’ll use this opportunity to pile on a little more.
So, without further ado, come along with me on a frightening and bizarre voyage to the fantasy lands that exist only in the mind of one Jeffery Lung.
Only in the dark recesses of the mind of my good friend and colleague could this:
Apples and oranges, my friend. Seriously, man, what are you thinking? Sure Albert is a great player, possibly the best in the game today. I’m not arguing with that. And I also understand that there are some good looking men out there and more and more often, other men are admitting that they are attracted to them. But this guy? Nope, I just don’t see it.
“The Cardinals Still Would Have Won the 2006 Series Without Tigers’ Pitchers’ Errors”-stan:
I respect the Cardinals. I really do. As I’ve stated before, they have a great tradition and some of the best players to have ever played the game came out of there. And there have been a couple times where they straight up beat the pants off of the Tigers and I don’t begrudge them that.
But the fact of the matter is that those errors by the Tigers’ pitchers set a tone for the entire Series and the Cardinals were able to turn these miscues into runs that ultimately won them the championship. That’s the long and the short of it.
To steal one of your favorite lines, Mr. Lung:
Don’t hate me because of my inability to fantasize about Albert Pujols in a kiddie pool full of tapioca pudding. Hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
“I regret that there are idiots in the world, that’s what I regret.”
–Milton Bradley on his experience with Cubs fans in 2009
Me too, Milton. Me too.
And let’s face it. Cubs fans can be brutal — check that — are brutal.
In fact, I used to think that Cubs fans couldn’t hate anyone more than they hate(d) Jacque Jones.
Then along came Milton.
Bradley that is, with his $30 million contract, unfettered crybaby
angst and a mind-blowing 35 RBIs through more than two thirds of the
season. Wooing boos by not knowing how many outs there are in a
particular inning, by striking out looking with the game on the line
and by just plain lollygaggin’, Milton certainly does it all. Now that’s a fella who is truly hated at the Friendly Confines.
at least he seems to have a sense of humor about it, albeit an
insensitive, mildly inappropriate one. After the lowly Washington
Nationals lit up the Cubs on Tuesday night, Bradley told ESPN Chicago:
“We got a Rodney King beatdown tonight.”
Okay, Milton. Sure, that was an ugly game and you are having
an ugly season, but already being the king of Chicago controversy,
couldn’t you have used a less compromising analogy? To illustrate, we
at RSBS put our best intern to work and he came up with the following alternatives:
“We got a Barack Obama-on-John McCain beatdown tonight.”
Well, coming from Sen. Reid, this biased (albeit true) analogy is a bit expected.
“We got a Jesus Christ beatdown tonight.”
Er, yeah… okay. No argument here. I mean, I did see The Passion of the Christ. That was uber-ugly.
“We got a Clint Malarchuk beatdown tonight.”
Now that was more of a slashing than a beatdown; still, it will make you puke.
“We got a Mr. Lung beatdown tonight.”
Ah, yes. Now we’re talking. ‘Cuz if you are even halfway familiar with the bitter goings on of RSBS, you know that I, Mr. Lung, destroy Mr. Krause in every and all debate because, quite frankly, I am always right and he is always off gallivanting in his own little fantasy world where people actually care about what he might have to say.
course, these are all sufficient alternatives for our dear friend
Milton to use the next time he needs to highlight his ineffectiveness
with colorful language; but I believe the best, most succinct way of
getting his point across — the point that the Cubs just aren’t any
good — would be to quite simply say:
“We got a Milton Bradley beatdown tonight.”
no other statement carries as much ‘beatdown’ weight as the above.
Beaten down like Bradley has been by Wrigley Field bleacher bums.
Beaten down like Bradley has been by fed-up umpires. Beaten down like
Bradley’s abysmal stats and his overall reputation (did he ever have a
good one to begin with?).
The only Milton Bradley thing that
looks good these days is his bank account. And if you listen closely,
you can probably still hear him laughing.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
There isn’t a whole lot to like about Massachusetts. The Patriots are cheaters and cocky loudmouths. The Red Sox and their fans have gone from being objects of pity to objects of disdain in the space of five years with their whiny crybaby antics. Even their success has now been called into the question with the slow leak of the Mitchell Report.
But if there’s one thing that Massachusetts does well, it’s politics. Deval Patrick’s gubernatorial candidacy in some ways presaged Barack Obama. And no less a conservative than Mitt Romney once led the People’s Republic of Massachusetts. However, there’s one name that stands above all the rest, even if destined to live on now only in myth.
During the night, the last great flame of the Kennedy family flickered out. Tiny cinders like Patrick Kennedy still dot the political landscape but they fade in comparison to what used to be a towering inferno of political ambition. At least Ted got to go more or less on his own terms, without suffering the same fate as his brothers. But his death is no less devastating, especially since Kennedy had long championed the health care reform that is slowly inching its way through the Congress.
Today people from both sides of the aisle, those who watch FOX news and those who rely on MSNBC, will pay their respects to “The Lion of the Senate” before returning to the partisan war of attrition that defines politics today. And despite all the excitement of divisional races and the upcoming publication of A Magical Mystery Tour (Part II) which will take us deep into the frightening recesses of Jeff’s brain, we here at RSBS also take a step back today to pay homage to Senator Edward Kennedy.
The next time you begin to entertain the idea that steroids may not make a better baseball player, please remember the curious case of Jason Giambi:
Yeah. That is the same guy. Trust me.
And if you analyze his stats, you will notice a surge in the power department during the years Mr. Giambi was admittedly jivin’ on the juice. Sure, there was some inherent talent there; that’s the only way it works. Put me on some ‘roids and you will just end up with a big, nerdy ogre-man who still can’t hit a slider.
But Jason Giambi? Dear readers, the man has declined.
Despite a serviceable 2008 where a mysteriously magic mustache allowed him to overcome his initial ‘roid-wreck, the 2009 feel-good reunion with the Oakland A’s brought nothing but disappointment — so much so that Billy Beane couldn’t find any use for him at all.
“Uh. Yeah. Uh. If you love something let it go. If it comes back to you it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was. Hold me down baby.”
–DMX, Let it Fly
Well, even with all his faults (that vomit inducing .193 batting average in particular) I suppose baseball must love Jason Giambi because the Colorado Rockies just signed him to a minor league deal.
I watched MLB related news and programming all night long and no one even mentioned this.
Because no one cares.
And if no one cares that the Rockies signed Jason Giambi, then absolutely no one will care that the Rockies also signed Russ Ortiz.
Sure, the Rockies may be in the thick of the playoff hunt, but neither one of these acquisitions will factor into any type of potential success. They are both large and looming disappointments — let-downs determined to strike out with the bases loaded, to give up a grand slam, to muff into oblivion.
If I were Giambi, if I were Ortiz, I’d rather spend my time signing some hot chick’s breasts. Duh. At least by doing that you don’t risk humiliating yourself over and over again. (Again, trust me)
Hate me ‘cuz I hate on the dynamically duddy duo of Giambi/Ortiz, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Does this mean, Al, that you would have taken Steve Howe back 6 times like Steinbrenner did? He picked up Strawberry and Gooden too. He loved reclamation projects.
Now, first of all, I have to say that it’s a pretty low blow to compare me to satan incarnate. Am I older than god and incontinent? No. But the question itself is interesting. Baseball, like life, seems to be all about reclaiming, recycling and otherwise reusing. Honestly, is there any other reason that Kyle Farnsworth still has a job?
The first part of the question is easy. The only Howe that I would take multiple times is Gordie and any true Michigander would be right there with me. But if you look at baseball right now, how many players are in their newest incarnation as the result of some sort of experiment, some sort of reclamation? Rick Ankiel. Josh Hamilton. The existence of the designated hitter shows the natural (or unnatural, depending on who you ask) evolution of this philosophy.
But I guess here’s what I’ll say. If you can pick up a guy who’s iffy and he’s not going to be a cancer in the clubhouse, why not give it a try? And if you’ve tried it before and it didn’t work but you have a new approach this time, I say go for it. In the end, that’s what sets your run of the mill GM or owner apart from the greats. The great ones recognize who can still contribute and in what way while the other guys just fish around and hope for the best.
Here’s a good rule of thumb, though. Kyle Farnsworth is beyond reclamation. Can we just agree on this once and for all?
A sober Sidney Ponson can only mean one thing.. The guy must’ve
discovered another substance to abuse, evidently one that gives the
public the illusion he’s a moderate man while not enhancing his
performance [not just because it’s illegal but because, after all,
failure is the one thing he can accomplish at any level of
intoxication]. Is RSBS aware of his alternative to the booze? If so,
did he receive it from a certain former Texas teammate that sure as
hell had me fooled into thinking he sobered up [until the photographic
Flair for the Dramatic
New York City
In general, I try not to take anything too seriously. That’s just not how I am. Like the eponymous character from “The Big Lebowski,” I abide. But there are some things I take seriously. And addiction is definitely one of them.
Now, I’m a lucky guy. I don’t have an addictive personality. I’ve done my fair share of things I shouldn’t have done but I gave them up in a second with no cravings or anything. I guess I’m just blessed like that. However, that’s not how it usually happens. Addiction isn’t a one-time battle that you just suddenly win. It’s a daily struggle and what we’ve seen happen with Josh Hamilton is proof enough of that.
Imagine for a second being in a job like a professional baseball player. Yeah, you may love the game and you may be completely devoted to watching your team everyday but imagine going out on the field, day in and day out, warming up and knowing that every little thing you do during the game, every little mistake will be analyzed by thousands and possibly millions of people. And if you don’t perform to the tune of the big bucks you’re making, your team has no problem dumping you on the landfill of history.
I have rough days at work, days when I’m sick and tired of it but it’s nothing compared to the stress these guys are feeling. Why else do they try to find the latest edge, legal or not, and do whatever they can to keep it their own? And when that edge starts to wear, when it’s no longer enough, something has to be done to dull the anxiety, keep away the fear. It’s no surprise to me that athletes turn to a little booze or some pot and it’s definitely no surprise that, like brother Axl told us, “The little got more and more.”
I guess what I’m trying to say is that it’s easy to laugh at the antics of a Ryan Leaf or Sidney Ponson or tsk-tsk when it’s a story like Josh Hamilton and his backsliding. But I’m thinking that although I have no room to pull any sort of holier-than-thou card out of the deck, maybe it’s time we applaud Sidney for getting his act together and focus on what Hamilton has accomplished despite the inevitable setbacks he is going to experience. One day at a time.
No arguments. There are none.
Deal with it.
Jeff & Allen