Results tagged ‘ Chicago ’
Personally, I gotta be an advocate against domestic abuse of all kinds. Wife. Girlfriend. Kids. Whatevs… don’t be beatin’ people, dear readers! That’s my advice.
Of course, that’s not how it works everywhere. Take the Middle East, for example. Now I am no expert on Islam, but I have seen Law & Order and I know that in some Islamic communities, it’s pretty common practice for a man to beat his wife… to forbid she leave the house… to cover her entire body if she does.
In the west, I know that if you beat your wife and your name is Brett Myers you get to enjoy success as a Major League Baseball player and make at least $5 million a year.
I know that if you beat your wife and you play football, you might be Jim Brown and everyone will still say you were one of the greatest athletes to ever live.
But I also know that if you beat your wife and try to run for Lieutenant Governor in the state of Illinois, you BETTER THINK TWICE BUDDY!
And so it is that Scott Lee Cohen (D-Chicago) was recently forced to withdrawal from the Lt. Governor general election he earned a right to be in… because he allegedly beat an ex-girlfriend. And he probably beat his wife… though we can’t say for sure.
We can say for sure (probably) that, if nothing else, Cohen is a creep. I have no problems jumping on that bruited bandwagon, folks. But here is my question: Isn’t Brett Myers a creep? Isn’t Jim Brown a creep? Sugar Ray Leonard? Dr. Dre? Chris Brown? Darryl Strawberry? Moses Malone? Dwight Gooden?!?!?!?!
Don’t you see what I’m saying?
Why is it okay to beat your wife and be a famous athlete or entertainer but it is definitely NOT okay to beat your wife and run for public office?
Believe me, no one knows nor cares (especially kids) who the Lt. Governor is. Of any state. No one cares. Less than 20% of the population even voted in this election… so I assure you, no one cares.
But lots of people (again, especially kids) care about who is pitching for the Astros… or who the Sporting News considers to be the greatest professional football player of all time… or who made Eminem famous.
Like it or not, those are the people who influence your kids. Those are the ones they look up to. Those are the ones they emulate.
So good luck trying to explain to your kid why Cohen is an @s$ but Jim Brown is a god.
This is why I don’t have kids.
Well, that and I fail in making women happy long-term (short-term, no problem).
Don’t hate me, ‘cuz I”m right.
It’s hard to know where to begin in a year that saw both halves of RSBS turn 30. 30? I was supposed to be a multi-millionaire by now. What happened with that?
But that doesn’t mean it was all bad. Jeff came to visit me in DC and we wound up with high roller seats at a Nationals game. Or should I say Natinals? And I also made it to Chicago to film the immediately iconic video, “Crush,” with Jeff. By the time October rolled around and the Tigers came within a game of making the playoffs, it felt like a pretty full year.
As Dickens said, “It was the best of times, and it was the worst of times.” And it sure was. The blog, just like our personal lives, had its fair share of ups and downs. Being the guy that he is, Jeff especially liked to catch people when they were down and give ’em one more kick, just to help them stay down. Don’t believe me? Ask Milton Bradley, Brad Lidge or the entire Cubs organization.
However, this is the time of year when we spend some time celebrating the ups. And what better way to celebrate than by breaking down my favorite Jeffery Lung authored posts in list format?
2nd Honorable Mention:
Jeff loves the interwebs and this love led to many memorable moments brought to us by Google and Coco Crisp. But if there was one internet interlude that could be defined as the paragon, it had to have been when Jeff was blocked from Barry Zito’s Twitter account by…..Barry Zito!
Although Chicago has never lacked political corruption scandals, Rod Blagojevich may have set a new standard for brazenness. Or maybe you thought he did until this year’s team of All-Star corrupt politicos was unveiled. Sure, he’s brazen. But is he Marion Barry brazen?
2nd Runner Up:
Moving from All-Corrupt to All-Star, RSBS was lucky enough this year to have a presence at the All-Star Game played in St. Louis. Jeff may not have come through on his bet to get a date with Erin Andrews but he more than made up for it in pictures. Especially pictures of his porn-stache.
1st Runner Up:
Some people may question other people’s love of baseball. But after reading this entry, you’ll never question Jeff’s. Even if it does sometimes lead to weird quasi-international incidents, we now know that there’s one thing that can bring a boy and his father or Americans and Canadians together and his name is Joe Carter.
And the Winner is……:
Could it really have been anything else? The sheer audacity of suggesting that the messiah/prophet/best-selling author has it in for Chicago’s lovable losers re-cemented Jeff’s status as one of the pre-eminent Cubs haters in the country. And the fact that Jesus showed up for the shoot just proves the thesis.
So, that’s about it for another year here at RSBS. It’s cold now but pitchers and catchers will be reporting soon and we’ll be there to welcome them back.
Yep. This is pretty weird. And I bet you are wondering what exactly is going on.
So are we.
That’s why, once again, we pitted our trusty RSBS interns to the task of discovering why Sammy Sosa is turning white. After toiling for about twenty minutes, here is the shortlist of what they found:
- Ran out of shower gel, bleach does a good job, life is rough in the D.R.
- Wants to be remembered as a member of the White Sox; this is a good way to make that happen
- Saw the ghost of Sammy past (circa 1989)
- Planning a trip to the Northside of Chicago and doesn’t want to be recognized. Why? Urine Trough Diving. That’s why.
- Combine Oxandrolone with Dignotamoxi add a little Methyltestosterone and BAM! You’re WHITE!
- Sun bathing below the equator has a reverse tan affect, much like eating after midnight turns you into a Gremlin
- The white skin came free with the Humphrey Bogart toupee package
- Tired of living in the shadow of Mark McGwire, hopes being brighter will help him stand out while still stuck in the shadow of Mark McGwire
- Took a look at the man in the mirror and decided to make that change
- Sick of seeing Karl Rove have all the fun
Skin rejuvenation? More like how could you make your image more of an abomination!
Hm. Sounds better when I read that last sentence out loud.
Just don’t hate me. ‘Cuz I’m right.
(Image courtesy of Getty Images)
Like the other day when I got mixed up in a drinking contest with two Irishmen and a professional female bodybuilder from Greece when I should’ve been at home paying my bills. I paid for it. Literally and figuratively.
Or like our president, who, under pressure, danced off to Europe championing an Olympic bid that was as busted as Octo Mom’s fallopian tubes (fellow Chicagoans, we know we couldn’t have pulled it off) while he should’ve been here dealing with the health care
debate war. Chicago lost. And we US Americans are nowhere even close to having a functional proposal on the table.
And now, instead of watching a one-game playoff between the equally doomed Detroit Tigers and Minnesota Twins tonight at the Metrodome, we have to wait until Brett Favre makes his highly touted debut against his former team.
Well, okay, so not all interruptions are created equally (y’feel me, Kanye?).
Personally, I welcome this NFL intrusion because, let’s face it: neither the Twins nor the Tigers are going to make much of an impact in the playoffs (believe that!) anyway; and, more importantly, nothing brings me more satisfaction than knowing my misanthropic and oft blasphemous colleague, Mr. Allen Krause, has one more idle day of sweatin’ and shakin’ and spittin’ himself silly knowing that it’s win or go home for his beloved Tigers.
I’m guessing it will be ‘go home’.
Hate me ‘cuz I’m a smarmy callous of a man, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
(*Image courtesy of “anonymous” on the interwebs; I just found it on a message board with no source listed though I’m sure one exists somewhere)
And so it goes that the world’s de facto millionaire man-child, Milton Bradley, sees his season end prematurely — stopped cold by the Chicago Cubs’ general manager Jim Hendry. Or so we are led to think…
After the tumultuous inaugural season Bradley had with the eternally ill-fated Cubbies, isn’t it possible that Milton simply quit on his own and Hendry & Co. were left to cover up what would otherwise be the Major League scandal of the year? At this point, I am willing to believe anything; which is why we put our loyal interns to the test — to uncover the hidden meaning in Hendry’s public statement, to discover what’s really going on, to report the Truth.
Dear readers, here are the results — the top ten reasons why Milton Bradley’s season came to an abrupt and early end:
10. Wanted to give lifetime minor leaguer Bobby Scales a shot at breaking the .250 mark
9. There is only room for ONE colossal fail per team and Alfonso Soriano has a pretty good beat on it
8. Admitted to being an avid reader of the Chicago Sun-Times
7. Suffering from an acute torn mental labrum
6. Decided to dedicate more time to establishing universal health care
5. With the NFL season under way, wanted to pass the “Chicago Public Relations Disaster” moniker on to a more accomplished, more deserving, more disappointing (and prettier?) candidate in Jay Cutler
4. Made secret promise to self that if he succeeded in beating Jacque Jones as the most hated right fielder in the history of the Chicago Cubs he would pack up and go home, satisfied, with $10 million more in his wallet
3. Worried his name might leak as Candidate Number 3 in Rod Blagojevich’s pay-to-play federal investigation
2. Adamant about having the Ricketts Family rename his team: The Chicago Uncle Toms
And the number one reason why Milton Bradley’s season came to an abrupt and early end:
1. He’s just… a whiny… little… bee-otch
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
Your mind is comprised of two
parts dung and one part wretch!
How dare you, sir, intercept
mail not intended for your ham-glazed grub-grubbing barnacle-encrusted
excuses for hands, and then proceed to not only consume said parcel,
but also reveal yourself as a virtuoso practitioner of the common club-footed
idiot’s box traced word waltz!
To start: The fruit your
colon passed with patriotic pleasantry is not called the ‘bananella.’
I haven’t the faintest idea what a ‘bananella’ is. I have
consulted several of the most amenable meta-linguisticists and word-alchemists
in my stable of resources, and, without fail, all have concluded that
the word ‘bananella’ does not exist. Therefore, it is either
an attempted nonsensical addition to the contemporary word canon (which
is already quite full, I can assure you), or it is just your latest
exercise in rump-rousting dipsh*ttery. My vote is for the latter.
QUIGLEY! THE FRUIT IN
QUESTION IS CALLED A ‘BANANALLA’ NOT A ‘BANANELLA’! PLEASE
SHOW SOME RESPECT TO TAFT AND HIS GLORIOUS ACQUISITION, THE PHILIPPINES!!!
THAT LAND WILL BE A FEATHER IN YANKEE DOODLE’S CAMP AD INFINITUM!!!
And please refrain from your
mail malarkey! That flagon (as a bunching of bananallas is known)
was not intended for you, but rather for your delightful wife, Hermilina.
Haven’t you hoodwinked her enough in this lifetime, you stagnant pond
of a man? You’ve already relieved her of her freedom to live,
love and ride her beloved bare-backs… why must you also stand between
her and fruit? Let the lass have some God-forsaken fruit, man!
But enough of all things personal!
Your ignorance took a break
from his paternity leave and certainly made a valid statement of fact — namely, that Cobb and his Bengalese brethren have taken a commanding
hold of league American, and they are most certainly out-performing
the goodfellow Lajoie and his Ohioans. For the record, we are in partial agreement: The Canuck
Lajoie is not of this country, and despite his good nature,
nevertheless should be kept at arm’s length. The land of Canada is
vast and mysterious, and my podiatric pedestals would rather take their
tickels from a Kaiser or Pharaoh, from this Moon’s day right up until
the Sun’s next! Many a seemingly kind and girthy red, northern face
has smiled at me claiming neighborly well-wishes, when the whole time I
was looking at the chompers of a scurvy-eyed gift horse!
That said, 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.
To gaze upon America’s team
is to gaze upon a manifest destiny so bright in outlook, even blind
men have been seen turning away from the glare! The reigning World
Champions, while locked in a heated race with the swashbucklers of Penn’s
Woods’ Pitt-City, boast a far-superior club, and once they get their
ducks in order… head for the hills, dear opponent! Between
Mordecai Brown’s three fingered witchery, and Ed Ruelbach’s quiet
dominance, this club is poised to win championship after championship
for years to come. Cobb certainly will wish he was returned to
the stalk after facing one of the aforementioned mound dwellers —
same as last October.
The Chicago Cubs will win it
all once again!
What say you, Dingbat?
PS. How insightful was Frank
Chance’s sale of the quack Doc Marshall to the Superbas of Manhattan’s
armpit? Leave it up to Chance, say I! Leave it up to Chance!
PPS. Steal any more fruit bound
for the unappreciated beauty you call wife, and I will cut you nice
– – –
‘Alabaster’ Eastman Thune
Former editor of the “Follies and Whatnots” section of the Chicago Inter-Ocean.
“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
For more on the nature of Ninemen’s Morris, please click *HERE*
Sometimes as I sit here pondering the Tigers’ three game sweep at the hands of the lowly Royals I wonder why, even here in the land of the internet, it has to be like this with the venom and the animosity. I ask myself, is it wrong to detest a team and yet admire a player on that same team? And then I realize that I can’t get angry with my friend. No, I know where it all comes from: Demon Rum.
But I hold none of this against my collaborator and conspirator, Mr. Lung. He finds himself flush in the prime of his life with everything going for him: the Cardinals are winning, he has a beautiful woman on his arm and Chicago is always sunny and 85. And even if only one out of those three is true, it’s still nothing to scoff at. In fact, I’m pretty sure neither one of us even hit .333 in Little League.
No, it turns out that the loose lips that my colleague flaps about so wantonly are a symptom of something much more disturbing than even distilled spirits. In reality, Jeff is slowly losing ground to the dreaded scourge of senility.
It’s not all bad. Sometimes it’s quite hilarious. I just hope that the next time this dementia slips my good friend’s tenuous grasp on reality it will come out in a more constructive manner. Perhaps a bawdy limerick or an ode to Mr. Pujols. We can always hope afterall.
Besides Chinatown flea markets and the out-of-this-world chili at Ramova Grill, the best part about living on the Southside of Chicago is having the White Sox play in my own backyard.
Because as a Cardinals fan far removed from my old Busch Stadium stomping grounds, I know I can always find good, learned, baseball-lovin’ folk at New Comiskey (only newbies and yuppies call it The Cell — so I’m told).
And on Monday night, Southsiders came out to the park in droves. It was hot. It was humid. The rain was coming down hard. But Mark Buehrle was on the mound and it’s no secret that White Sox fans love them some Mark Buehrle. Over 36,000 people came out to see him duel the Royals’ Brian Bannister… yes, 36,000! On a Monday night. With an hour long rain delayed start. Against the Royals.
Now that, dear readers, is some serious dedication.
Perhaps the influx of fans was due to the high hopes of a pitcher’s duel.
Well, we didn’t get it.
‘Cuz when Yuniesky Betancourt goes yard, you know the pitching ain’t so great.
Indeed, it was a back and forth battle throughout, until the Sox broke it open in the 7th inning and appeared to have the game in hand.
But Scott Linebrink seemed focused on tempting the Royals’ scouts, who seem to go after the poorest of performers. Yes, Linebrink’s Kyle Farnsworth impression was brilliantly played by blowing a 3 run lead in the 8th on a Mike Jacobs rocket launch over the right field wall.
Fade to black?
Not so fast. Alex Rios walked to start the bottom of the 8th. Scott Podsednik continued his 2005 renaissance with a go-ahead run-scoring double… and then later Ozzie Guillen brought in the Fat Man to seal the deal.
Sure, it was a great game and all… but the whole time I couldn’t take my eyes off the guy sitting in front of me:
Don’t hate ’em ‘cuz they’re right.
Don’t believe me? Just ask Kevin Gregg.
“I don’t know nothin’ about nothin’, and I can prove it.”
— Ed “Butch” Panczko, ruthless Chicago gangster
It is the year 2009, dear readers, and I would think that by now, every single one of us has seen enough cop dramas on television to know that you never, ever, ever tell on yourself. You just don’t do it. Big Papi knows this. So does Roger Clemens. Why is it then that the Chicago White Sox — who reside not far from the famed warehouse district were body after lifeless body went to disappear forever — do not understand this golden rule of foul play?
First we watched as Bobby Jenks told the whole world that he purposely threw at Ian Kinsler — which netted him a $750 fine and a watchful eye from MLB brass — and now we have Ozzie Guillen himself blabbing to anyone who will listen that he’s out to bean anyone whom he suspects of throwing at his guys. What next? Kenny Williams owns up to jaywalking? Check.
Look, it’s one thing to protect your team and head-hunt in retaliation. Hell, in this game, it’s expected! But to openly admit that you are going to throw at people, to announce to everyone that you intend on hurting someone, to alert the league that you’re going to send a message… well, that is just plain irresponsible. And dumb.
Yep. Tell a story. Do the opposite. Leave ’em guessin’.
That, my friends, is the Chicago way.
Even political nimrod figurehead Rod Blagojevich knows this.
And he’s a Cubs fan.
What’s your excuse, White Sox?
Hate me ‘cuz I put it out there, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
(*Ozzie Guillen’s grill image courtesy of Da Bronx Bombers)
The world premier… of an RSBS original…
Produced, shot and edited by Theo Roll.
Directed by Jeffery Lung.
Starring James Tierney as Jesus.
Performed by Mauf Tauk.
Mauf Tauk is Jeff and Theo.
**Pass it on, folks. Let’s get the word out. Please send this link to everyone you know. We make this thing go viral and more RSBS baseball-related hilarity will certainly flourish.**
*Note: Kirk Gibson won the MVP in ’88, but it doesn’t rhyme and we’re cool like dat so get over it.