Results tagged ‘ Lenny Dykstra ’
“Some places are like people: some shine and some don’t.”
Those who know me know I like to do odd things, like throw myself off bridges, eat cuttlefish or play H.O.R.S.E. … with myself. But that’s not why I called.
In the spirit of odd things, I thought I’d use the funniest movie of all time to deal with all the MLB Hall of Fame talk.
Congrats! You made it out alive, Barry!!!
As we celebrate Barry Larkin’s entry to the hallowed Hall (even though it took three stupid years) I thought we should take a look at those who didn’t quite make it out of Overlook Hotel, the ones who will probably be there a while.
Jack Torrance: Do you have the slightest idea what a moral and ethical principle is? Do you?
I can’t out think a potato, but I know this: Piazza, Kent, Bagwell and Big Mac aren’t getting in. EVER. And I don’t think I have to explain why. But I digress…
Little pigs, little pigs, let me come in. Not by the hair of your chiny-chin-chin? Well then I’ll huff and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your house in. [Axes the door]
Wendy, you’ve got a big surprise coming to you. You’re not going anywhere.
From one Jack to another… of course, Allen’s Jack Morris slipped through the cracks again. I feel for the kid (Allen), but I personally believe Jack will be dead before he leaves the snowy mountaintop of baseball’s purgatory labyrinth.
God, I’d give anything for a drink. I’d give my god-damned soul for just a glass of beer.
Good Luck, Lenny Dykstra… maybe next year… yeesh. And maybe stop talking for a while.
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With all the serious things happening in the world right now, I want to write a serious post. President Obama’s jobs speech, the first Republican debate with Rick Perry, the continuing hunt for Gaddafi in Libya. Somebody turned the world up to 11 and I want to talk about it.
Then this happened:
As I sat down to write this Serious Post, I saw the following headline from SI.com: Dykstra pleads not guilty to indecent exposure. Seriously, how am I supposed to write something meaningful after reading a headline like that? This is the guy who seemingly developed some sort of idiot-savant investment system which unsurprisingly turned out to be less savant and more idiot. He somehow managed to follow that up with stealing a car, holding illegal substances and now indecent exposure.
I want you to think about this for a second, though. Over the course of two years, Lenny Dykstra placed multiple ads on CraigsList for domestic help and when these women responded and came by for an interview, he introduced them to Lenny Jr. instead. Lenny Dykstra. Sure, he’s a wild and crazy guy but I figured that meant he got really drunk at clubs and then brought home some girl half his age. This pants-dropping business sounds more like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s most recent blockbuster, Revenge of the Wildebeest.
I still have one other question. How do you plead not guilty to multiple instances of indecent exposure? It’s not like this is a one time, he said/she said sort of thing. You brought multiple women to your home under false pretenses and then dropped trou. That’s staggering. I don’t think a jury is going to buy your excuses.
I’m sorry. This really was supposed to be a serious post. But you ruined that for me Lenny Dykstra. You ruined that.
The good thing about the offseason is that baseball players have nothing to do but work out and prepare themselves for the next 162-game slog to the playoffs that we call the regular season. Unfortunately, this also means they have plenty of time to call attention to all the reasons why they are baseball players and not university professors.
A prime example of this tomfoolery is Baltimore outfielder Luke Scott. In a recent interview Scott talked about his valid belief in a limited government before going all Glenn Beck while explaining his very invalid belief that our President is not American. It’s like Lenny Dykstra dispensing financial advice or Jim Bunning attaining a seat in the US Senate. Baseball prepares you for lots of things but this doesn’t include politics or finance.
Luckily there are other baseball players who tell us what we really want to know. Like Pete Rose who a few days ago shared with Philly radio listeners all they could ever hope to know about Joe DiMaggio. It’s worth listening to the entire story if for no other reason than to hear Pete Rose say “…the best way to describe Joe DiMaggio, he was a peni$ with a man hanging from it.”
Thank you Pete. This is how baseball players should be spending their downtime.
The symbols of relevance, the things that transform a simple it into that proverbial “it” are generally born all in the timing, and since the Birds on the Bat are stuck in a Philadelphia this week, so too am I.
And I don’t like it.
No, this has nothing to do with Philadelphia being a backwards place (it is). It doesn’t have anything to do with the type of fans who cheer when the other teams’ star gets hurt (they do). And of course, this does not have anything to do with that ^sswipe Jim Bunning (he really is an ^sswipe, folks).
Indeed, my suddenly emphatic aggravation with Philadelphia is rooted in one fella and one fella only. His name is Ruben. Ruben Effing Amaro (that middle name is still surreptitiously unofficial).
Why? Why such distaste for one man?
Because he gave a mighty slugger who is notoriously awful against left-handed pitching the contract extension of all contract extensions — a mesmerizing $25 million a year… for 2012 to 2016 — causing massive migraine headaches for we Cardinals fans already obsessively worrying about Albert Pujols’ future with the team.
Yeah. Ryan Howard is good. But $25 million a year? He ain’t that good.
And anyone who has ever seen the game of baseball can tell you that Albert Pujols is LIGHT YEARS better than Ryan Howard, in all aspects of the game. All… of… them.
So if Howard is worth $25 million a year, then Albert is worth $30-$32 million a year, which means that if I want A.P. to remain a Cardinal for life, I and the rest of Cardinals Nation better be ready to pay $100 for a bleacher ticket, or imagine a world where Albert isn’t our savior.
(That would kill me by the way)
So thanks a lot, Ruben. Just a week ago, deep down inside, I would have admitted to having a strange yet pleasurable affinity for the Phillies. Dick Allen. Mike Schmidt. Steve Carlton. Pete Rose. Lenny Dykstra. Darren Daulton. Just the thought of those guys grindin’ it out with the “P” on their caps kinda got me excited… and I have no idea why.
They’re dead to me.
And so are you.*
Hate me ‘cuz I give it to ya straight, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
*You’re not really dead. This is what fancy writers like Al and I call “figure of speech”. It can be AWEsome. Like it is here.
Sometimes the world turns inside out. Normally, we expect our sports stars to hit the strip clubs and get rowdy while our politicos throw good money after bad. If you’ve been paying attention the last month or so, though, you saw that all go upside down.
On the one side we have a bunch of schmoes taking financial advice from a guy like Lenny Dykstra and we know how that turned out. Meanwhile, the Republican National Committee apparently paid for some of its operators to hit a club in LA called, I sh!t you not, Voyeur West Hollywood.
Come on guys! How are we supposed to keep this straight? Democrats do stuff like this because they’re the party of Kennedy and Hart. But, with the exception of our dearly departed Charlie Wilson, the GOP staked its reputation as the party of “family values.” How can we make informed decisions if we can’t rely on stereotypes and generalities?
Now maybe these stories are just outliers and the exception that proves the rule. But in a week that ends with the Nationals playing .500 ball, you can understand my consternation. Where’s Eliot Spitzer when you really need him?
Have any financial advice for Lenny Dykstra? LOL.
Ft. Wayne, IN
You know Mick, that’s a really good question. And to tell you the truth, yeah, I do have some advice for Lenny. But before we get to that, let me point something out. You would have to be crazy to take any kind of financial advice from us so who in their right mind gets it from a guy like Lenny Dykstra? That’s like taking diet advice from John Kruk.
But, despite the sad truth in that statement, Lenny thought he heard a voice crying out for advice a couple years ago and answered by launching a magazine. Not just any magazine, either. Seemingly inspired by Ice Cube’s 1998 film classic, Dykstra decided to call his rag “The Player’s Club,” an interesting name for a magazine purporting to dispense financial advice to professional athletes.
So, how did that work out? Let’s turn to AdWeek for an initial assessment: “Heading into a recession, with print advertising nearly universally in the toilet, it’s an interesting time to start a magazine.” Hm, that doesn’t sound promising.
But hey, who knows. Maybe it got off to a fast start and then picked up steam. What do you think, Forbes? “By the time the first issue hit clubhouses and locker rooms, Dykstra was already in litigation with Doubledown, suing for breach of contract after the company withheld the second issue for lack of payments.” Oh boy. That doesn’t sound good.
It’s still possible that it got better after a rocky start, right? Take it away, Deadspin: “Dykstra recently used his mother’s credit card to charge $23,000 to order to charter a plane ride back to his home in California from Cleveland. She has not been paid back.” Ouch, Lenny. Your own mother?
But even this isn’t enough for Mr. Dykstra. There’s no way that this is his fault. Not the magazine, not his repossessed private jet. And definitely not his default on a 17.4 million dollar loan used to purchase Wayne Gretzky’s house.
How about if we let Jon Stewart explain the situation a little further:
|The Daily Show With Jon Stewart||Mon – Thurs 11p / 10c|
|Lenny Dykstra’s Financial Career|
I think that pretty much sums it up. So, here’s my advice to Lenny. Stop. Just stop. And for the love of god, man, pay your freakin’ mother back.
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