Results tagged ‘ William Howard Taft ’

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

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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*


Ninemen’s Morris: New column enlivens politico-diatribe with concurrent Base-ball imbroglios!

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To begin, a warm welcome, reader, you of discerning taste
and eye, to the maiden voyage of Ninemen’s Morris, a clear voice rising
above the innumerable newsman’s clanging gongs. 
Here you shall encounter cogent commentary on the politic of the day,
juxtaposed with tantalizing tid-bits from this season in the national
past-time.  In our first column, we turn
our attention to a crucial topic: this first year of a fledgling
presidency. 

 

What is this brand of nouveau dandyism practiced by the
current administration?  The cloying
pretense of free trade and thinly-veiled cronyism only further illustrates
their disconnectitude from the American main. 
I cannot abide his minced words and Nancy-boy intellectual caterwauling.  In a fearful harbinger, in June it was this
johnny-come-lately’s duty to throw out the first pitch for a clash of titans at
Griffiths Park.  Our gastropod of a new
president was seen to fling the sphere short of home plate by many a yard, all
the more length his atrophied limb would aspire! 

 

Taft First Pitch.jpg

This is the leader of our fair republic?  Please! 
A finer metaphor for his soft-lipped foreign policy and his craven
crumbling in the crucible of overseas conflicts I could not conceive.  Endure this so-called Dollar Diplomacy?  I would sooner have my shins sluiced by the
sharpened spikes of the Georgia Peach, Tyrus Cobb!

 

On the diamond, an historic battle is shaping up clearly in
this season, a pas-de-deux between the elegiac behemoth, Johanus Wagner, and
that aforementioned centerfield hit-smith. 
The Detroit man’s vitriol is well known (to quote one sporting
columnist, “he would climb a mountain to punch an echo.”)  It may well be that the echo in greatest need
of punching is that crafty and classical shortstop from Pittsburg.  A study in contrasts, these two men play in
styles so differing they could be two separate sports. 

 

Roosevelt Taft Cartoon.jpg

An equal contrast comes current in the governance of our new
president, as opposed to his predecessor. 
Where Roosevelt was a man of action, and given to a spiking style (does
his big stick not slightly resemble Ty Cobb’s Louisville Slugger?), Taft is a
soft, gentlemanly sort, of a disposition more to demure than vociferate.  Already his rhetoric against the Trusts
brings to mind the gentle way of the Dutchman Honus Wagner, a man far more
likely to even the playing field with a kind word than to spike the unwary
second baseman’s leg on a steal.  (Though
on pace to steal over 700 bases in his career he may well be, I query still,
where the teeth?!  Where the threat?!)

 

As we tread unwillingly into the end of our summertime, and
the autumnal pennant race begins its inexorable warm-up, we shall watch with
interest the progress of these titans, 
and pray for as hardy a disposition in the capital.  Though he spoke of his profession, it could
just as easily be the office of the president that Cobb referenced when heard
to say, “it is a grown up game for grown up men.  It is no pink tea.  Mollycoddles better stay out.” 

 

Hear you that, elephantine executive?!

- – -

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*

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