Results tagged ‘ Ty Cobb ’

The Filibuster

If you were in the A’s bleacher section, and you could only choose one, would it be bacon or beer?

Mark
New Albany, IN

___________________________________

Jeff continuously tells me how engaging the NBA has become.  According to him, it’s not just the quality of the professional game, it’s also the personalities and all the drama surrounding them.  To use a direct quote, “It’s a goddamn soap opera.”

Baseball, on the other hand, is rather tame.  Sure, there are historic villains like Ty Cobb and uplifting stories like Jackie Robinson and Josh Hamilton.  But it’s all kind of “Touched by an Angel” while the NBA is more “The Wire.”

The perfect example of this is Jeff Francoeur and his love affair with the Oakland fans.  Sure, it’s great that Francoeur has made a personal connection with the fans of another team.  But is that really good for baseball?  Wouldn’t it be better if Francoeur had left Oakland after coming up with the team and was greeted by a beer shower while trotting along the warning track?

That kind of rancor just doesn’t exist in baseball today.  Albert Pujols left behind a city that adored him and although St. Louis fans are heart-broken, most of them still respect Albert and remember him fondly.  Johnny Damon not only left the Red Sox, he went to play for their arch-enemy and shaved his beard.  Boston fans were upset but they didn’t hate him with the cold intense hatred that Cleveland has for LeBron James.

Maybe it’s because baseball is played in summer and draws families out to watch games together.  Maybe it’s the stir-craziness of winter and the 60 minute intensity of a basketball game that creates an aura around the game as a whole.  Or maybe baseball just doesn’t have the same type of personalities you find in basketball.  Let’s be honest, how often do you hear about a baseball player choking his coach or punching out a fan?

I don’t see that changing.  Sure, I’d love to say that if I was one of those fans in Oakland, I’d keep the money and throw the baseball back.  The fact is, though, I’d be thrilled to death.  And that’s not just because being an A’s fan is even worse than being a Royals fan.

Somebody needs to spice things up a bit, give people a reason to hate.  And no, I’m not talking about Milton Bradley, preschool-esque drama.  I’m talking pure, LeBron James type anger.  I think Francoeur has a golden opportunity to start it off, too, by taking that relationship he has built with the Oakland fans and totally misusing it.  In fact, I even have the perfect recipe:

I bet no one would choose a caramel onion.

-A

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I’m Not a Racist But….

Ty Cobb was a great baseball player but not a very nice person.  Actually, he wasn’t a very nice baseball player either, regularly trying to hurt the competition.  The thing about Cobb, though, is that he never pretended to care about other people.  Love him or hate him, you could never say that he was a hypocrite.  He did everything balls out and that included his racism.

That’s the difference between Cobb and two of the remaining candidates for the Republican presidential nomination.  When Cobb said something, he owned it. He was an awful person but he didn’t try to hide behind obfuscations and pseudo-intellectual drivel in an attempt to prove that he actually meant something else.

What is truly amazing is that  50 years after Cobb’s death, Rick Santorum can say he doesn’t want to  “make black people’s lives better by giving them somebody else’s money” and Newt Gingrich can regularly call Barack Obama “the food-stamp President.”  And then both men try to claim that they’re just trying to help black people.  I have a feeling that Newt’s phrase “I know among the politically correct you’re not supposed to use facts that are uncomfortable…” has a good chance of becoming the new “I’m not a racist but…”

The only thing black that Santorum and Gingrich should be talking about is the space inside their respective heads.  Come to think of it, there was an article written about that recently, too.  “Abyssal yawns 10 times the size of our universe.”  Yep, that sounds about right.

-A

Setting the Mahmud

johanna mahmud.jpgRSBS Special Correspondent and Podcast Sensation, Mr. Johanna Mahmud reports:

Abominable Apocryphal Deplorable Illustrious Wonder

This weekend provided some flat out taint tickling and nipple pulling excitement golf at the Masters. And…guess what….because…wait for it…. Tiger Damn Woods was in the middle of it. Shocker.

If Tiger isn’t playing, I’m not watching. If Tiger isn’t in the hunt, I’m usually running naked through the yard, among other Sunday things on my to-do list.

The thing with Tiger is it’s so rare to watch someone be the absolute best at something. Jazz-wise we have Coltrane, Armstrong, Miles, Ellington, Parker, Ornette. Once in a lifetimers. I’m not necessarily a golf fan, but I am Tiger fan. I want him to get back to just assassinating the field every weekend he plays. It brings me joy to see anyone he’s paired with pee his pants and lose his s***, or as Ralphy Wiggums would say, “I have two kinds of wet in my pants.”

tiger-cubs.jpgIt’s not about how nice he is or was to the fans, or exceptionally boring and emotionless to the media. I couldn’t care less. It’s not about his love of whooouures. And it’s not about me watching to see a devoted, faithful husband church goin family man.

I want the stone cold killa. I want him to murder people. The way he used to.

air album.jpgI had no problem when Michael Jordan would talk trash, or be a complete pr!ck to his teammates; because his play was legendary. His competitiveness was legendary boarding on hilariousness. “Dude, Jordan just knocked out Horace Grant in practice! He’s so competitive…” “Did you hear Michael put arsenic in Cartwright’s Cheerios to motivate him? SO COMPETITIVE…”

To me, Barry Bonds was different because he cheated the game. Big Mac (Mark McGwire) cheated the game. I loved Jose Canseco (mostly for trading card purposes) as a kid, but he cheated and ever since he retired he has been completely worthless, (other than exposing some other users).

I was a Bulls fan growing up, but I know non Bulls fans across the world that prayed that they could witness in person what M-Jeff could do on any given night. To be there transfixed on the master transforming the court, baseline to baseline, into a cathedral of windmilling-above-the-rim-artistry. Poetry in white-hot electric motion. Also, the only guy ever who could pull off a Hitler stache….

tiger shoes.jpgThe same goes for Tiger. Putts that always fall at the most clutch times, power rips from the rough, bunker shots that no one will ever make one out of 1000 times.

In baseball, (believe it or not), some of the worst people ever are LEGENDARY PLAYERS. Or….as I would like to dub, the Veda Pierce division, (fyi, watch the HBO miniseries Mildred Pierce. Amazing. The daughter Veda Pierce is the worst, most vile piece of filth I’ve ever encountered in a film character. Yeeshh…WOMEN are awful to each other. The things women say to their own friends is unbelievable. We’ll save this for another time.)

A short list in the V-Pierce division……..Ty Cobb, (beat up a man with no hands once), Mickey Mantle (showed up wasted to games and told young endearing fans to buzz off), Bonds (liar…liar…cheat), Jeff Kent (renowned male member), Roger Clemens (no explanation necessary), Ugueth Urbina, (not so legendary but assaulted servants unwarranted with a machete for swimming in his pool, now in jail for 20 years…) etc…..

air-pocket-symphony.jpgTiger doesn’t have a great rep with the fans, but how many times were Nicklaus and Palmer miked up and how many times did they yell at fans to shut up or trash talked or cussed up and down the course that we’ll never know about?

We don’t ask the legends to be humanitarians, nor wonderful people. We need them to be heroes of their game. Our heroes won’t always be nice. But they DO things no one else can or ever will do. Everything else is perception mixed with irrational desire for purity. The true pureness is the game played at the highest level.

That’s all I want.

And Latrell Sprewell choking P.J. Carlesimo, because don’t we all want to choke P.J. Carlesimo at some point?? I mean….he tried to play Kevin Durant at shooting guard???

–Johanna Mahmud

Throw the Bums Out

wall_drives.jpgSports networks love days like yesterday.  As the conference championships finish up, the guess work kicks into overdrive.  Who will be the top seeds?  Who are the first four out?  Who’s on the bubble?  And is this finally the year when a 16 seed takes down a 1?

I’ve got nothing to add to this debate since my knowledge of NCAA basketball this year is pretty much limited to random John Wall highlights.  And it’s still a little too early to start the baseball playoffs debate so that’s going to have to wait a couple more months.  However, there is another debate I feel more than qualified to weigh in on.  Which baseball player, current or former, is the biggest jack-hole?

More than a few players qualify for spots in this debate.  I’m sure I’ll hear from people claiming a place for AJ Pierzynski.  Curt Schilling and John Rocker probably have legitimate claims, too.  However, I’m going to go with three who merit special consideration.  Let the debate begin!

Ty Cobb
I love the Tigers despite recent disparaging commentary about my fandom.  But the fact of the matter remains, if you want to talk about all time bad guys, the Georgia Peach has to top the list.  I’m pretty sure he’s not even really dead but was instead secretly recruited by satan to stalk the earth, invisibly sliding in, cleats up, attempting to destroy the shins and ACLs of unaware people all over the world.

Barry Bonds
Barry, you may have the homerun record but you’re a stinking cheat and that’s how people are going to remember you. I’m sure I’m not alone in saying that I would like to punch you in your over sized head.

Jim Bunning
Former Tigers appear over-represented in this short list but there’s no way to pass up the senator from Kentucky.  I understand his point in saying that the senate should have found a way to pay for unemployment benefits before passing the bill.  But there are good and bad times to suddenly have an attack of principle.  The middle of winter when people are out of work probably counts as a bad time.

Despite these guys’ well-earned reputations, there are still legions of fans who adore them.  But there are also those who want to see them get some comeuppance.  Ty and Jim are already in the Hall and like it or not, Barry will probably end up there one day also.  That doesn’t mean we have to sit idly by and accept it, though.  Just ask these guys.

-A 

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*


One Big Bag of Weird

delay_ burke_dancing_with_the_stars.jpgThere are a lot of different kinds of weird. There’s the weird of realizing what had to happen between your parents to make you. There’s the weird of managing to be all tied up after 162 games. But then there’s the weird that, as my old Sunday school teacher would say, transcends all understanding. That’s right, I’m talking about the weird of watching Tom Delay on Dancing With the Stars.

Tom Delay. The Hammer. The man who was able to achieve a veritable cat-herding feat by first organizing the Republican caucus in the House of Representatives and then by keeping them in line. The man who helped redistrict Texas to such an extent that no Democrat will ever win outside their existing district for the next generation. And now he’s doing the rumba.

Let me explain this in layman’s terms. It’s like Ty Cobb quitting baseball to lead a civil rights campaign. Ok, maybe it’s not that extreme but it’s also not that far off. Perhaps it’s more like A-Rod leaving his gorgeous wife to date an over-the-hill pop star. Yeah, that sounds about right.

However, all of this oddness led me to an almost stunningly brilliant idea for another long-serving representative. Picture it: Nancy Pelosi leaves the Congress to lead a b-boy pack that takes America’s Best Dance Crew by storm. Hey, weirder things have happened. Just ask your parents.

-A

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*

The Filibuster

holy+cow.jpgA few weeks ago Milton Bradley very publicly decried the racist
comments hurled at him from the bleachers at Wrigley.  But since he
wouldn’t give specifics the press has been having a field day, claiming
he’s making it all up.  It blows my mind how blind they are.  I’m no
fan of Milton’s, but you can’t walk through Wrigleyville without seeing
someone in a “Pujols Mows My Lawn” shirt, or those famous “Horry Kow!”
Fukudome shirts.  I think in this case he’s absolutely right, and the
press would rather continue to crap all over the guy than grudgingly
admit that he has a point.

Ted
Chicago, IL

____________________________________

As much as soccer is the world’s game, baseball is still America’s game. And as games and culture tend to do, it reflects much about a nation’s character. If you watch soccer you know that the Germans play a very methodical game much like the methodical German people. Same goes for the “beautiful game” played by the Brazilians.

But what does this recent statement from Milton Bradley say about the state of our nation? Well, if you paid attention at all during the Presidential race last year, you know that Ted and Milton definitely have a point.

The state of race relations in this country has not come all that far since the times of the king of the racists, Ty Cobb, or Jackie Robinson’s first foray across the color lines. We may pretty it up these days with Rainbow coalitions and politically correct buzz-words but the fact of the matter is, there has never been an actual, frank discussion about race in this country despite what we’d like to lead ourselves to believe. As much as it pains me to say it, Cubs’ fans are not the problem. They’re nothing more than a symptom of the problem.

It’s not exactly the same thing but this reminds me of being in Wrigleyville a couple years ago late at night. I was walking with a few guys and there had definitely been some drinking going on. As we walked to find a cab, some thin young guy came hurrying down the street toward us and one of the guys in the group jumped at him and then started harassing him, calling him “f@g” this and “f@g” that. This poor guy was scared sh!tless and the rest of us were too stunned to even say anything. Finally someone pulled the guy from our group away and he looked around at us like it was the funniest thing ever. As the guy who had been getting harassed walked away as quickly as possible, the rest of us just stared at this d0uchebag standing there obliviously with a huge grin on his face, all of us still shocked at what had happened.

And again, it’s symptomatic. Racism and homophobia come from the same place and the fact that neither one has ever been dealt with directly in this country means that it will continue to go on. Whether or not someone said what Milton says he heard is not the point. The fact that we really shouldn’t be surprised that it happened is.

-A

Kalamazoo Conspiracy

kalamazoo college logo.jpg“Secrecy, once accepted, becomes an addiction.”
–Edward Teller

Fear not, my dear and trusted readers, for I also feel the sentiment of pain and worry caused by Mr. Krause’s latest right-field reclamation.  While it is common for seedy men in prominent positions of power to manipulate their stances on a particular subject in order to woo the masses, this one goes far and beyond being just a simple cause for alarm. 

One minute Mr. Krause is doling out his undying hatred for the “evil” Yankees; the next he’s praising New York’s golden boy, Derek Jeter (nice work on catching Lou Gehrig, by the way).  And the worst part about it?  He substantiates his softness by claiming the “Kalamazoo” connection.

Fooey.

To get to the heart of this conspiracy, the RSBS interns and I have toiled hard to unlock the mystery of Mr. Krause’s secrecy.  So just go with me here…

Kalamazoo.  While this is the city where Mr. Krause and I first met and became friends, this is also close to the home of a minor league baseball team: the West Michigan Whitecaps, affiliate of the Detroit Tigers.

Tigers.
  This is the team Mr. Krause supposedly loves.  This is the team that was defeated by the St. Louis Cardinals in the 2006 World Series.  This is the team synonymous with backwoods alcoholic racists.  This is the team that lost 119 games in 2003. 

119.
  If you add up the individual digits of this atrocious number, you will get 11.  The word “eleven” has six letters in it, three of them “e”s, eerily akin to the word “seethe”!

Seethe.  If anyone has the ability to foam at the mouth from agitation, it is Mr. Krause.  Some would even call him a shape-shifter — like he showed us in his last video, which proved he has a special place in his heart for Colby Rasmus (and cross-dressing).

Colby Rasmus/Cross-Dressing.
  Only in Mr. Krause’s world does this combination sound like a great way to spend a Friday night.  And Al loves Fridays. 

Fridays.  If you are a woman and you go on a date with Mr. Krause, this is where you will go.  This is Al’s place to spend big.  Pay special attention to his overbearing recommendations of anything and everything from the “Jack Daniel’s Grill” menu.  Al loves him some Jack Daniel’s.

Jack Daniel’s.  This is the only key you need to unlock Mr. Krause’s mind.

derek jeter crying.jpgMr. Krause’s Mind.  Der-ek Je-ter *clap-clap-clap-clap-clap*… Der-ek Je-ter *clap-clap-clap-clap-clap*… Der-ek Je-ter *clap-clap-clap-clap-clap*

Yes, folks, that is what Al was trying to say.

He loves Derek Jeter. 

Unconditionally.

Forever.

And ever.

And if Ozzie Guillen can kiss a dude then I have absolutely no problem with Al lovin’ on Jeet.  Just come out and say it; and don’t blame it on geography.

Hate me ‘cuz I pull back the layers, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.

Peace,

Jeff

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