Results tagged ‘ Nap Lajoie ’

Ninemen’s Morris: No Sweeter Sibilance

Silas red quigley Prattling ninny!
 

Eastman Thune proved a Little Lord Fauntleroy!

I can’t think of a greater malfeasance than the continuation
of your poppycock and piddley-poo!  While
casting a vote for the windy-city murderers to appear in the La Belle Serie
Mondiale is a safe (some would say namby-pamby?) bet, the notion that
Detroiters would be denied another time is tantamount to an Irishman demurring
at an unwatched distillery.  A foppish
fantasy!  Nonsense on stilts!

Ty Cobb dominated, ripped up the basepaths and the shins of
his opponents throughout the last saison, and this correspondent sees no reason
why this status should not remain quo. 
And while a Killer Cubs World Series is plausible, there is no reason to
suggest they would easily win.  They do
indeed feature a murderous pitching rotation, led by Three-Finger Mordecai
Brown (27 wins to 9 losses) and his bewitching colleague Orvall Overall
(20-11), and lead all the leagues in Chadwick’s newly devised Earned Run
Average (a tetchy 1.74).

Tinkers evers and chance But curse you Thune, calling for their dominance for the
duration of the cententary and beyond is nothing short of swinging a dead cat
in a Chinese opium den and feigning surprise when striking a harlot.  It’s a virtual certainty, man!  They have the most devilish fireballers, the
dandiest batsmen, and a crackerjack defensive infield of Tinker, Evers, Chance,
and Steinfeldt.  Sweeter sibilance
couldn’t be dreamed up for any newsman’s reel.

Be that as it may, your tone of conciliation leaves me no
choice but to lob up a softball prognostication for you to masticate upon,
Alabaster, and I will not equivocate. 
Look you to this come springtide: this season will show an unlooked-for
boost from the man of your last column. 
I predict a mighty effort by those Cuyahoga Clippers, the Cleveland
Naps.  Arrogant namesake though he may
be, I predict Napolean Lajoie will lead his upstart brigade nearly into the
pennant, only to have his efforts dashed by Cobb’s wizardry. 

Confound you Old Man Winter, when will you forsake your
slumber for the gilded lilly of Lady Spring? 
Men and boys alike trudge through the mush and brave the howling gales
for your respite.  Come soon.  Please? 
We need your sweet breath, and the following crack of the bat.

- – -

Written by

Silas ‘Red’ Quigley
Editorial correspondent for the Boston Wax-Intelligencer.  Editor/Publisher of various workers rights
publications, sporting weeklies, and Ladies Garment Journals.  As a youth he was attache to Henry Chadwick (claims to be the
uncredited co-creator of the box score).

For more on the nature of Ninemen’s Morris, please click *HERE*


Sharing with Shapiro

cleveland indians logo.jpgNevermind all that pre-NLCS/ALCS buzz dancing around the internets and such as, the Iraq!  Soon we will all have more than our wanted fill of Joe Buck self-righteous proclamations and ear-numbing Chip Carary-isms.  For now, let us focus on the larger, more looming and lurid task of finding the Cleveland Indians a new manager.  Shall we?

Yep.  John Farrell is no longer in the mix.  They can’t afford Bobby Valentine.  And unfortunately, dear readers, Lou Brown has gone back to selling tires… forever.

That’s why I, along with the fastidious help of our always reliable RSBS interns, have prepared a list of potential managerial candidates for Indians GM Mark Shapiro, whom we all know is too busy lamenting the contract of one Travis “I Ain’t Got It No More” Hafner and the cruel reality of a midge-less postseason.

Mark, here is the shortlist of suggested targets:

Bill Parcells
Sure, the Big Tuna ain’t no baseball guy; we know that.  But he was born to win (and eat… a lot).  Besides, just think of what hiring this former Cowboy coach could do for the long neglected and oft polarized relationship between Cowboys and Indians.  Mark, it is time to heal these wounds.

Chief Illiniwek
Since being shunned and axed by his University of Illinois home (where he was a staple presence for 81 years), the Great Chief doesn’t really have much to do but stay in and get drunk all day.  Hey, you can get drunk at the ballpark too, Chief!  Plus, having such a standard bearer of Native American tradition might help the Indians solve that whole racist image thing they’ve had goin’ on for… y’know… ever.

Nap LaJoie
Oh, wait.  He’s dead.  Never mind.

Earl Averill
He’s dead too?  Sorry.

Lou Boudreau

Whoops.  My bad.  Okay.  No more dead guys of French descent.

Ahem.

Well, then that leaves me with just one more super managerial candidate for Mr. Shapiro and that person is:

sarah_palin.jpgSarah Palin
Look, if you’re gonna build a bridge to nowhere, ya might as well build it on the Cuyahoga River.

Hate me ‘cuz I’m on point, all the time, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.

Peace,

Jeff

Ninemen’s Morris: QUIGLEY!

Alabaster eastman thune Quigley! 

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!

Touche. 

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.
 

1908 Cubs 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
and good.

- – -

Written by

‘Alabaster’ Eastman Thune
Former editor of the “Follies and Whatnots” section of the Chicago Inter-Ocean. 



Currently unemployed.

“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
week.”

For more on the nature of Ninemen’s Morris, please click *HERE*

Ninemen’s Morris: Napoleon Lajoie is a French Ninny!

Upstart to Cobb Little More Than A Baltimore Chopper

Team Named After Hubristic Canuck

Passerby: “Lajoie’s Kin Helped the Limeys Torch the Library of Congress!”

- – -

Silas red quigley Dear Rumpus-Rouser:

LAJOIE! You seek a
moral standard bearer, and you choose LAJOIE!?

Across the gentle
waves of the republic, there are two creeds that rankle the populous more than
any other, two regimes that chafe the ankles of freedom like Monte- Cristo’s
manacles.  They are, of course, none
other than the French Empire (Marquis de Lafayette excepted!) and the
British Commonwealth (royalist buggery!).  The French Canadian Lajoie manages to
encompass both!

Lajoie, having
illegally jumped leagues in 1901, and then sold by Connie Mack to the Cleveland
Nine, proceeds to win a newsmans raffle and the club winds up nomened with his
prenom!  This crafty Francophile’s
arrogance is matched only by the girth of the president of the republic.  His league-jumping garnered this
double-crosser unable to cross the
Pennsylvania state lines, and veritably forfeiting the
‘Naps’ games to the A’s!

“But hark,” you say,
tremulously caterwauling, “is he not a batsman beyond compare?  Did he not compile a batters-average that
same year of .427?!  And much of that
against the finest orb-slingers of the day, besting even the mighty Three
Finger Mordecai Brown!”

Still your knocking
knees!  His average this year?  Scarcely kissing .325, and his Cleveland Naps
langour at the bottom of the standings, skulking about the sous-sol like the
ghost of Washington Irving.

I brush your charges
aside as a horsefly from a mule’s fetlock. Ty Cobb’s Tigers pistol-whipped
Connie Mack’s White Elephants in four games at the close of August, and now the
American League is chasing their tail.  
The pennant may not yet be stabled, but those boys firmly grip the
reins.

Ty-cobb September sees those
mighty
Michigan maulers sitting prettily atop the table,
with Cobb clubbing .380.  And seek you
long the long ball!?  Cobb leads the
league, walloping more “all-baggers’ than anyone else in the game.  He may hit ten of them!  What be that French Canadian’s count to
date?  Nil!

But the Naps have
produced one a great wonderment this year – the first unassisted triple play,
by Neal Ball, on July 19.  Never seen
before, Ball’s Triumph saw him gather in a liner, step on the second bag, and
apply a tag to the fleet-footed fool from first.  This feat of derring-do will most assuredly
never be replicated, even in a hundred years’ time.

On a sidenote, I wish to thank you, Mr. Thune, for the olive-branch
gifting of the crate of yellow bananellas. 
As you say, they are a delightful taste and texture, evoking an erotic
south seas sustenance.   Perhaps in this
move to purchase the Filipinos our ebullient executive has given an
uncharacteristic boon.


- – -

Written by
Silas ‘Red’ Quigley
Editorial correspondent for the Boston Wax-Intelligencer.  Editor/Publisher of various workers rights
publications, sporting weeklies, and Ladies Garment Journals.  As a youth he was attache to Henry Chadwick (claims to be the
uncredited co-creator of the box score).

For more on the nature of Ninemen’s Morris, please click *HERE*

Ninemen’s Morris: A ‘Nap’-Man rises to defend his Chief! Joy in Lajoie, and all-aboard Taft’s Raft!

alabaster eastman thune.jpg

Nitwittery! 


You,
sir, have undone your intellectual suspenders and dropped your common
sense trow to reveal a posterior so pock-marked with mind-munge, it
almost goes so far as to not even warrant a rebuttal, but rather a
pity-whistle played on Lazarus’ last gummed-up flute!!!

 

How dare you, sir, speak so ill of the President?  And
how dare you, sir, compound your heresy with a trumpeting of some
apparent virtue found in the Christ-abandoned dung-ball indulged by one
Ty Cobb?

 

First — to speak to your treason ‘gainst this fair nation, this journalist
need only offer his own recently penned exercise in pith:

 

“Clean plate, cleaner conscience! Surplus of pounds, Surplus of President!”

 

You harangue our dear leader because of his weight, calling him similarly soft on foreign policy.  While
there is no denying that the aforementioned Taft’s Raft better be
well-built, such ballyhoo and whatnot attacking the man’s actions in
relation to lands beyond the hallowed borders of this nation resolve to
cockamamie in the ears of the simplest of troglodytes!  Here is one very simple counterexample to your nonsense:

 

The man bought the Philippines.

 

philippines.jpg

For
those dear readers who aren’t familiar with this delightful land, the
Philippines are a mystical chain of islands situated abroad, in the
giving waters of the South Pacific Sea.  These islands are known for their cash crops and their sanctimony.  Holiness runs rampant, as evidenced by their previous owners, the Roman Catholic Church.  I have heard nothing but pleasurable reviews of a local vegetable, the “bananalla,” which I have yet to enjoy for myself.

 

Taft
negotiated the purchase of this land from Pope Leo XIII (please hush
the nonagenarian barbs… obviously old age contributed to his lopsided
dealings), and served as governor of the land for a year by three.  How
serves you that for foreign policy!!! This new acquisition serves to
establish our nation as a stern presence in Asia’s left underarm,
virtually guaranteeing that no surprise threat is ever imposed upon us
by any nearby nation (a bite of the thumb to you, Japan!).

 

(It should be noted that the bananalla is a fattening food.  Perhaps that explains our captain’s rounded countenance?)

 

Point being made, on to our beloved game…

 

Cobb?

 

Has the liquor done its wilting?

 

You speak poison with forked tongue!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

Using
Cobb as any sort of exemplary model for any sort of proverbial
‘job-well-done’ speaks to not only a general misunderstanding of
competence, but also a general disregard for the plight of man!!!

 

Cobb is a beast.  A walking ape who lost his fur, a salamander grown too big for his swamp.  He
struts about puffing his chest, intimidating all those who crossed his
crooked path with the threat of a spike or, worse yet, a studded
knuckle to temple.  But ultimately… what is the threat?  The Tigers have failed to capitalize on his gaudy numbers, and in the end… what are we really playing for here?  To trumpet Cobb is to trumpet ungracious loss.

 

The ‘Georgia Peach’ say you?  I
prefer to call him the ‘Georgia Thief,’ for the taking of unwarranted
bases is, in this journalist’s opinion, ball-play that isn’t becoming
of even the most common of gentlemen.

 

And so, dear reader, let me turn your attention elsewhere.  Perhaps to an old standby?  Perhaps to a man who plays the shared agreement between two opposing groups of like-minds with a modicum of class?

 

nap lajoie.jpg

Napoleon ‘Nap’ Lajoie. 

 

Connie
Mack’s pride has displayed numbers that make dear Cobb’s corn hop back
onto the stalk, and his demeanor has been that of a dandy sans
foppishness.  His swing reminds me of my first-born’s
first words — a pleasure to watch and even better to hear, and his play
about the infield is the equivalent of your Cobb.  Throw
in a lollipop for the gilded statesman’s son down in box two, and we
have ourselves the wood-wielder of, by and for the people.

 

Dare I suggest that a gamesman’s rivalry is afoot?

 

The ball is in your general vicinity, ne’er-do-well.

 

PS.  Wagner?  We are in agreement.  The man is weak about the knees, and he looks about with the shiftiest of eyes.

- – -

Written by

‘Alabaster’ Eastman Thune
Former editor of the “Follies and Whatnots” section of the Chicago Inter-Ocean. 



Currently unemployed.

“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
week.”

For more on the nature of Ninemen’s Morris, please click *HERE*


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