Results tagged ‘ Phillies ’

Buster Olney? More Like Busted Phony

fire buster olney.jpgBelieve me, dear readers, I didn’t want go here today… I didn’t want to appear like I was lending credence to another crackpot theory by actually addressing said crackpot theory.  But the internets are a buzzin’ and the pressure from RSBS fans to address the situation is too great. 

So, consider this sharp tongue released…

Yesterday, I first learned of ESPN shoe-licking savant Buster Olney’s egregious aspiration to be donned the worldwide leader of make-believe (specifically, a fantasyland where the Cardinals and Phillies swap Albert Pujols for Ryan Howard) by reading the Prince of New York’s take.

He speaks for me.

And he is right.

Why does Buster Olney have a job?

Seriously, this is no joking matter — especially considering the faux affection thrown Olney’s way every time he enters a baseball conversation, whether on t.v., radio or print.

Indeed, Olney’s actions are akin to me walking into an evangelical church yelling “the rapture’s coming, the rapture’s coming, the rapture’s coming!” just because I think it’d be funny to see how people react.  (PS, the rapture is not coming… because it’s ludicrous.)

It is akin to a doctor telling a perfectly healthy pregnant woman that her baby is dead — even though it isn’t — just to get an interesting conversation going… y’know, a good old conversation about what it’d be like if her baby were dead.

It’s blasphemy.  It’s conjecture.  It’s unfounded (even though he says it isn’t).

Not even Carlos Zambrano would say something that stupid. (*I reserve the right to change my mind about this one*)

For me, the desire to continue down this ranting road is strong… but I leave it to my man-crush, Albert the Machine himself, to quash this unfettered anger by saying:

“There’s people, stupid, that like to write something when it’s not the
truth, and that’s all I have to say about that.”

Dagnabbin’ right, A.P.

Buster?  Eat a big Phillie phat one.

And don’t hate me… ‘cuz I’m right.

Peace,

Jeff

(*Link to article with Albert’s quote*)

Anything is Tosh-able

daniel tosh.jpgWe live in a world where the status quo says your government will let you down, where an “extra value” meal will cost more than $5 (while including little to no value), where the Pittsburgh Pirates will be a laughing stock.

Dear readers, it is Friday and all of the above make you feel blue.

Enter Tosh.  Tosh.0

Bringin’ the heat on the tiniest of Phillies fans:

Tosh.0
Web Redemption – Phillies Fan
www.comedycentral.com
http://media.mtvnservices.com/mgid:cms:item:comedycentral.com:267747
Web Redemption 2 Girls, 1 Cup Reaction Demi Moore Picture

No holds barred… that’s the only way to go, especially so close to beer thirty.

Happy Friday!

Peace,

Jeff

RSBS Investigates: Brett Myers

Dear readers, I present to you photographic evidence that new Houston Astros pitcher, Brett Myers (right), does take the occasional break from beating his wife, Kim (left).  The happy couple is seen here, in the Astros’ clubhouse, during the press conference which welcomed the domestic abuser to the team earlier this month.

brett myers and kim myers astros.jpgThere are no obvious or visible lacerations on Kim’s face, so we are fairly certain that the transition from Philadelphia to Houston was a smooth one for the Myers family.

Though a closer look at this picture does cause alarm for the fairer Myers.  For she somehow allowed her husband to wear a black suit with brown shoes, which if discovered by the loud-mouthed hurler, may spell Kim’s certain extinction.

Hopefully, Brett’s inner idiocy will save us all from such a devastating circumstance.

Hate me ‘cuz I color coordinate, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.

Peace,

Jeff

(Image courtesy of Astros’ writer Alyson Footer’s Twitter Page; you can read her blog *here*)

Drinking the Kool-Aid

kool-aid.jpgUntil 1978 Kool-Aid was synonymous with children and summer. No matter what chemically produced flavor it came in, the refreshing blend of water, sugar and artificial colors and flavors was sure to quench any thirst. Then, along came Jonestown and ruined it forever. Now Kool-Aid brings to mind cyanide laced beverages or the willing ingesting of something one knows or perceives to be wrong.

Sounds kind of like baseball.

Baseball used to mean transistor radios in the summer and guys hitting one out of the park for some sick kid. But then came the ’81 strike, the ’94 strike and the steroid scandals. Instead of cheering on their team, fans started to wonder what the players would ask for next, what the owners would do to screw the fans and players over and when the other shoe would drop and you’d find out that you’re favorite player had been getting ahead by using a little something extra.

Maybe that’s all behind us now, though. We seem to have hit a point where the Mitchell Report has played itself out. We know about the transgressions of A-Rod and all the other juicers and the fans seem to have moved on. The fans still get gouged but the stadiums are full. And even if teams like the Yankees, Red Sox and Phillies buy up all the available talent, there are still surprises every other year or so.

Yep, maybe baseball really has turned the corner. Or maybe I just drank the Kool-Aid.

-A

Image from Skull Swap

Hangin’ with Mr. Met

mr. met upside down.jpgDear readers, let me tell ya: Phillies fans definitely know how to party.

I had the good fortune of spending this past weekend in South Jersey with some of the hardest of hard core Phillies fans one will ever meet; and I have a barrage of UDIs* to prove it.  My host, Bill, CEO of MyTeamRivals.com and co-author of the Phightin’ Phils Phorum has one of the coolest baseball man-caves I have ever seen, touting a full bar alongside every Phillie autograph you could imagine plus stunning memorabilia including a Mickey Mantle signed bat hanging proudly on the wall. 

Like Chico Escuela, “Beisol been a bery, bery good to me.”

No doubt.

Without the interwebs and blogging baseball for the last two years, I would have never met Bill.  In fact, through writing about my obsession, I have become good friends with so many cool, interesting, like-minded baseball fans that sometimes I just have to pinch myself at how neat it all is — that I could become good friends with people I have never met who live all over the world, from Tokyo to London to New York to L.A. to Denver to Houston to Boston to Philadelphia and everywhere in between.

And on Saturday night, while the Phillie faction was deep into a heated discussion about Ruben Amaro’s sanity, I was drawn to the poor Mr. Met effigy hanging upside down at the end of the bar, and more importantly to the fella sitting in front of it.  His name was (still is) Mike.  Mike, the lone Mets fan.  We got to talking about baseball (what else?) and before long it was revealed that Mike was at Game 6 of the 1986 World Series — perhaps the greatest World Series game ever played.

EVER.

I explained to Mike how that game (and that World Series) was the key component to my baseball fanaticism going from casual to die-hard at the speed of a first base-side groundball through the wickets.  And the St. Louis Cardinals weren’t even involved.

Of course, I was only 7 years old, but I remember the hype, the hoopla, the buzz about the Red Sox finally one game away from a title and the unruly and wildly charming bad boyz from Queens standing in their way.  I sat alongside my father and my grandmother, watching every pitch.  And as the game approached the bottom of the 9th, I clearly remember thinking that this was finally going to be the Red Sox’ moment, that they would finally reach the top after years of disappointment.

In those days, if the Cardinals weren’t in the World Series, I took my dad’s side in rooting for the National League team, no matter who it was, for according to him, the National League’s was the better game — the way it was supposed to be played. 

And I remember, as the Mets’ magic unfolded and Ray Knight crossed home plate to the tune of Vin Scully’s “And the Mets wiiiiiiin it!”, that I, too, went nuts with excitement.  I jumped up and down and ran around the house with the type of joy that is best defined by youth — a little boy’s bliss brought on by the simple idea that you can do anything if you work hard and never give up.

At that exact moment I decided that that was what baseball was all about — and that life was a game of baseball: full of drama, full of hope, full of solace, full of emotion.

Mike was there.

He knew what I was talkin’ about.

Anyone who has ever called him or herself a baseball fan knows exactly what we’re talkin’ about.

And that, to me, is power.

So, y’know, don’t hate me.  ‘Cuz I’m right.

Peace,

Jeff

*UDI = Unidentified Drunken Injury

holiday party 2009.jpg(From left to right: Bill, Me, Mr. Met, Mike and Christine — a Tigers fan no less! — in Bill’s epic baseball man-cave; more specifically, at the bar in Bill’s epic baseball man-cave)

Pla-Po Leaves MoTown

placido polanco.jpgWell, if the “news media” and its “official reports” are to be believed, it appears that Placido Polanco will be leaving the Motor City for the City of Brotherly Love. Pla-Po (a name I gave him that just doesn’t seem to be catching on) will take his Gold Glove and join the not quite World Champion Phillies, leaving Detroit slightly more sucky. If that’s possible.

Now, as bad as this news is, it was made worse because I found out about it in the same way I inevitably hear about most bad news involving the Tigers, a gloating email from Jeff:

I’m sorry for your loss of of Polanco back to the Phils. 

Tigers suck.

J

You know what else sucks? You suck. You……sucker.

There, now that I’ve finally added a certain level of maturity to the discussion maybe I can move back to the important question which is, what do we do now? My lucky wood carving of Simon Bolivar practically screams out to address the problem by acquiring more Venezuelans. But I think the number of Chavistas on the team right now already leaves the Tigers in danger of imminent nationalization at the hands of El Jefe. Not that this would present a problem for Detroit considering what has happened to its other industries.

No, the solution lies elsewhere. And since I’ve always believed that uncertain times call for intellectually suspect and overblown measures, I’m pretty sure I hit upon the perfect plan. I am calling for Lou Whitaker to step out of retirement and once again man second base. Of course there will be naysayers against my “Draft Lou” campaign but those are the same people who say that it was a bad idea to put a banker in charge of regulating the banking industry. That worked out all right in the end so why shouldn’t this? Come back, Lou! Let’s see some of that 1984 magic all over again.

-A

Giving Thanks a Few Weeks Early

Awaiting your praise, huh, Mr. Lung? Well, you’ll get your salutatory essay soon enough. However, today is not the day. Today I’m in too much of a celebratory mood. Why? Why not. It’s the beginning of the Islamic weekend, I have a martini in one hand as I’m writing this and I just obtained Season 2 of True Blood which started off much stronger than the first season.

Not only that, but the Yankees have not yet won the World Series. There’s so much to be thankful for and we’re still three weeks away from Thanksgiving (and the Eid Al-Adha, too).

But more than that, I’m just grateful because no matter what else might be going on, I can still wipe my @$$ without needing any kind of assistance. That, just like Chase Utley, is the gift that keeps on giving:

Happy Hump Day!

-A

Awaiting One’s Praise

NY.Yankees.jpgRelax.  Breathe easy.  Enjoy this, fellow Yankee haters: Cliff Lee and the Phillies have given us another precious day of hearing “twenty-six rings” over the inevitable “twenty-seven”.  And remember, God made a “firmament” in just one day.  Think of what we can do with ours!

Because let’s face it, whether it happens on Wednesday or it happens next year, the year after that or whenever (it’s gonna happen in your lifetime), the Yankees are going to get their twenty-seventh ring.  That’s fine.  I’m okay with that.  The franchise more than deserves it.  You see, if you spend a billion dollars on something, it will work.  Ask our government.  And if I spent a billion dollars on something in just 9 years I’d expect that something to at least win me a trophy of some kind, or get a bill named after me, or land me a free room at Holiday Inn Express (they still make me pay there).

The point is: the Yankees will win… sometime… eventually…

…probably.

Until then, A-Rod, Party Boy, Mo and Tex… you will have to wait patiently for this hater (me) to shower you with praise. 

Speaking of people who want to shower me, I believe Mr. Krause lost the World Series of Metaphors and owes the winner (also known as Me) a meritorious essay on the topic of why I am awesome.

Can’t wait!

Hate me ‘cuz I flash a flair of fetidness, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.

Peace,

Jeff

Red States Win……And We All Lose

In an effort to avoid any bias in reporting the results of the recently completed World Series of Metaphors, RSBS decided to ask an impartial third party to announce the results of the contest and authors of the metaphors. Unfortunately, it was kind of short notice and the only person willing to help out was our old friend, Max. So, despite our better judgment, here goes.
___________________________

jeff_allen_nats_pose.JPGPopulism can eat my @$$. For that matter, so can democracy. You know what happens when you let democracy and populism run amok? Sarah Palin and Barack Obama. Speaking of which, you know what both of them can do? I’ll give you a hint: It has already been mentioned in this paragraph.

You know what else happens when democracy and populism run amok? Worthless excuses for contests like the one that happened right here on this blog. Look at those metaphors. At least there was an attempt to keep it a little highbrow with the biblical references and I thank Allen for that. But Jeff went straight for the gutter. Way too embarrassed to tell your friends about Ryan Howard? That doesn’t even make sense. He might be a fat girl but he’s popular. Wouldn’t that put him more in the Jennifer Hudson vein? I’d expect Jeff to make that connection anyway considering his practically pederastic love for underage Filipinas and everything else that American Idol entails. Way to play to the lowest common denominator there buddy.

As it stands, Jeff won the contest. Jayson Werth as the dirty uncle and this whole A-Rod as a pretty girl business won it for him. But really, doesn’t that just mean that we all lose? And just to be fair, I’m more than a little disappointed with Allen for sinking to the same level with his self comparison to Yankee fans. Did you forget that you hate the Yankees, pal? And as if that wasn’t bad enough, you still lost and now you have to write an essay praising Jeff. Well played, Judas. Hope you remembered to pick up your thirty pieces of silver on the way out.

Frankly, I’m not even sure what I’m doing here right now. I consider Jeff and Allen great friends but intellectual minnows, a point they proved impressively well with this “metaphor-off” or whatever poorly disguised euphemism they might have used for their h0mo-erotic excuse for a blog. I need to get home anyway. Populism and democracy are coming by in a little while to attend to some business.

-Maxwell “Max” P. Framington

The Evil of the Thriller

craig_sager.jpgWhat could be more spooky than changing locations for a pivotal game 3 on Halloween night? The answer: not much. I think I’d even rather face the terror of national health care than show up wearing Yankees gear in Philadelphia tonight. No matter which side of the debate you find yourself on, the fright of getting dropped from your health insurance because of a pre-existing condition or sending Nana in front of a “death panel” because her health is no longer viable sure beats the horror of beer and hot dog wielding phanatics. 

However, no matter how insane Phillies fans may be, I am hard pressed to believe there is anything more scream inducing than listening to Joe “I don’t even pay attention to baseball anymore” Buck doing the play by play. Although they could have made it even worse by bringing TBS and the corneal abrasion that is Craig Sager in on the act. Even Michael Jackson couldn’t make that outfit look good.

What would be really nice is if just for one night they would bring in a voice that could give the World Series the gravitas it deserves. And since it’s Halloween I think you all know where I’m going with this. Exactly. We should raise Vincent Price from the grave and let him do it. Hey, it worked for Thriller:

-A

***IMPORTANT PROGRAMING NOTE***

The World Series of Metaphors continues and there’s still time to make your opinion known here, here and here before the results are announced on Monday. Vote people!

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