Results tagged ‘ Michael Jackson ’
the Julio Lugo trade has left you despondent. But here’s the question.
If you were cast away on a desert island and could choose only one
Cardinal, past or present, to be with you, who would you choose?
While the human condition often leads us to fantasize about achieving maximum fame — to be known throughout the world as easily as a McFlurry, the Bible or Michael Jackson — the truth is, most of us would be extremely lucky just to get that fifteen minutes everyone talks about. So when posed with a question of such magnitude, of course, my initial list of suitors would already seem to be set in stone. My grandfather’s generation would say Stan Musial. My father’s would say Bob Gibson. Mine, Ozzie Smith and today’s would most assuredly go with Albert.
But here’s the thing: with any one of those St. Louis Cardinal icons, there is no question that I would cower from awe, go silent from my insecurities, shy away with humbling woes of unworthiness. In other words, I would hardly be good company, especially for someone on a deserted island.
Which would lead me to choose that St. Louis Cardinal who isn’t quite the paragon of baseball supremacy — the one who I feel like I could carry on a legitimate conversation with sans all the slobber, the one who all Cardinal fans know, but aren’t likely to jump at spending any hang-time with. And that man’s name, dear readers, is Fernando Tatis.
Despite playing in just 300 games for the Cardinals between 1998 and 2000, Tatis is as recognizable a name in St. Louis as Hornsby, Brock and Herzog; and his name is known for one thing and one thing only: making history on April 23, 1999 by becoming the only Major Leaguer to ever hit two grand-slams in the same inning!
Clearly, this accomplishment is almost as intriguing and noteworthy as creating a number one hit single called “Jesus Hates the Cubs”, so I am satisfied that Fernando and I would get along just swell on our little deserted island with plenty of ways to relate.
And considering Fernando’s consistent injury issues, I feel like my role in keeping us alive would be much greater than if I were stranded with King Albert, who might just eat me to make things easier. Plus, I’m pretty sure I could get my slider by Fernando which would go a long way in keeping my spirits high.
So go ahead and hate me ‘cuz I’m so unpredictable, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.
***SEND US YOUR FILIBUSTERS****
Something on your mind? Want to see Jeff and Al sweat (separately, not together, eww)? Think you got a real stumper? Send us your Filibuster question(s) by commenting or emailing them to us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
***Pictures of a skinny Bartolo Colon also welcome but we don’t think such a thing exists.
We almost lost another one on Wednesday night. While people were busy mourning the death of Michael, Erin almost slipped away. But more importantly, with her would have slipped away Jeff’s chances of ever getting his date with Erin Andrews. See, this is the weekend when it all happens. This is the weekend when Jeff, if he manages to stay sober and focused, will finally make good on a quest he was given by god. Well, a god of the MLBlogosphere, at least.
And that chance was almost taken away. I just hope that this event serves as a reminder to my friend that he must take nothing for granted while….questing. Times change and if we don’t adjust, we lose out. For instance, my friend likes to remind me of how the final out of the 2006 World Series involved Brandon Inge swinging wildly outside of the strike zone. But now that same man is representing the American League and Detroit in his first All-Star appearance.
Perhaps we will see a similar change in Jeff this weekend as he stop swinging wildly and finally embraces the porn-stache over which he waxed so eloquently the other day. Perhaps this testosterone fueled accoutrement could provide the same luck for him that it showered on Keith Hernandez.
Or perhaps this weekend will be just one more of those odd “what just happened” events where we try to forget all about it and hope to god that no one ever brings it up over dinner.
The choice rests in one man’s hands. So tell us Mr. Lung, what will it be? Are you Keith Hernandez or are you the woman with a squirrel between her breasts? The world needs to know.
The events of the past couple weeks have obviously left me thinking quite a bit about the idea of mortality. Not my own, of course, as I don’t ever plan on dying. But rather the idea of mortality in a philosophical sense. There are so many different ways that one can shuffle off this mortal coil and it’s a topic we’re so obsessed with but, at the same time, we know next to nothing about it.
Some people make a grand exit, whether it be Reagan’s processional farewell, Michael’s tear-strewn send-off or Ted Williams’ bizarre, cryogenically frozen head. And some people just sneak away. Maybe there’s a small obituary, maybe even a large one if they were well-known, but the exit itself is quiet and unassuming.
However, sometimes the end is simultaneously quick and disturbingly bizarre. A case in point is Vincent Smith, Jr. and his recent cocoa related misadventures. I mean, we expect strange things out of New Jersey but dying in a vat of chocolate?
So, as we head into the All-Star break and you start to realize that your team is either on life support or has already been declared DOA (I’m looking at you, Nats’ fans), remember that it could be worse. At least they didn’t die in a huge vat of chocolate.
In fact, my 1979-1988 inner-child is sobbing uncontrollably at the loss of his hero — the late, great pop sensation, Michael Jackson.
Still, I never lost my appreciation for the musical genius of the original M.J. and always hoped that one day he’d eschew complete facial and epidermal reconstruction in favor of good old US American past times like baseball, apple pie and rich white men screwing their secretaries.
Turns out Michael did give baseball a shot…
But it didn’t turn out so well.
Some people are born with a bat in their hands, some are born with a microphone. Only one was born to be the King of Pop.
Rest in peace, Mike.
Rest in peace,
Texans have long brought the drama. Whether we are talking about Nolan Ryan throwing seven career no-hitters, Ross Perot anteing up his own funds to eradicate the national debt or Roger Clemens going out with a bang, the good people of Texas are rarely light on theatrics.
With this in mind, it should be no surprise that Texans are looking to the skies and hypothesizing that what they see may very well be the beginning of the end of life as we know it. Humans are hardly rational beings, and as the world economy plummets, the earth itself rots and our heroes fall, it is no wonder why people actually believe UFOs are coming to invade us, kill us and eat our brains.
Alas, dear readers! While the recent UFO/meteor sightings in Texas appear to be mysteriously detrimental to our society, I have done ample research and settled on the following alternative explanations for this fierce phenomenon:
- That’s no UFO; it’s the ball Albert Pujols hit off Brad Lidge in the 2005 NLCS finally falling back to Earth
- That’s no UFO; it’s the wrath of God shooting down the twisted ideology of the devil herself
- That’s no UFO; it’s the collective failures of one Kyle Farnsworth crashing and burning (was supposed to land in Kansas City but due to a sincere lack of notoriety, Kansas City’s exact location could not be determined)
- That’s no UFO; it’s Roland Burris doing his best Michael Jackson Pepsi commercial impression to make us forget that his story doesn’t quite add up
- That’s no UFO; it’s Manny being Manny exercising his final, most breathtaking stunt to get a multi-year deal making A-Rod money (sans the special sauce one can only hope)
Here’s an idea for the “worldwide leader” in sports: don’t ever, ever, EVER book Justin Timberlake to host your ESPY Awards show again. Do it, and you’re doomed to be the laughingstock of cable, get verbally blasted by nerdy bloggers like myself, and possibly lose your entire viewing audience all together.
Because what’s worse than having a whiny R&B singin’ teeny boppin’ tenor host a major sports awards show? How about having a whiny R&B singin’ teeny boppin’ tenor host a major sports awards show while trying way too hard.
Look, personally, I have nothing against Justin Timberlake. I like some of his music. Love the Madonna duet. Laughed my tail off with the D**k in a Box song. All was well in Timberlake Town… until he took this gig hosting the ESPY Awards and broke new ground on being unbearably weird.
Forcing lines, being noticeably uncomfortable, reading scripted jokes without any knack of timing, being extremely awkward… and this was just in the first five minutes. I hung in there hoping, praying that he would reconcile his obvious out-of-touchness with sports in general by being genuinely charming or, god forbid, humble in his deliveries.
But no. Instead, he sang an 8 minute over-the-top song (that su<ked by the way) entitled “I Love Sports” which was supposed to show us everyday sport-lovin’ joes that indeed, Mr. Timberlake does love sports.
He really does. He sang a song about it! Did you see that? Justin Timberlake loves sports! And just like they kept saying during the show, Justin’s from Memphis… whoo hoo! Memphis! And… uh… yeah, they love sports in Memphis.
Poor, poor Memphis. Memphis was wronged.
And so were we US Americans who ordinarily enjoy watching this made-for-TV sports award show. Timberlake’s lack of subtlety and obvious blanket ignorance of the sporting world destroyed his on-air — ahem — performance. And why was there an R&B singer hosting this show in the first place? Was there a comedian shortage in Los Angeles? Give me Jimmy Kimmel. Bring back Jamie Foxx. Mathew Perry? Where was Lance Armstrong? At least he’s an athlete!
What will be next? Will Michael Jackson host the Heisman Trophy Award ceremony? Honestly, it couldn’t be much worse than what Timberlake did. At least we all know and expect Michael Jackson to be weird.
So all you Timberlake lovers out there, go back, watch the tape, and you’ll know why you shouldn’t hate me: ‘cuz I’m right.