It’s Friday morning, and after a night of barfights and gunplay [Thank you, Providence], we’re just gonna let this one devolve into a series of random thoughts. See how we get to booze up and riot, yet you folks are the ones who must pay? We are thoughtless bastards. Yes we are. But we clean up nicely, and our work with the elderly cannot be overlooked. Actually, it can be overlooked in the fact that much of it is nonexistant, but the thought is there. Anyway, that’s the Jaegermeister still talking.
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Great article in today’s Globe by Shaughnessy all about Minty and the ball that was the final out of the 2004 World Series. “Doug Mientkiewicz has the ball. The Red Sox want it back. Stay tuned.”
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Hands down, one of the coolest things about being a Red Sox fan after your team has won the World Series is that we get to be subjected to humor like this, from SI’s Pete McEntegart:
The Massachusetts State Lottery will pay the Red Sox $250,000 to sponsor the team’s tour of the World Series trophy to all cities and towns in the state. The deal was made possible because the lottery has been running a giant surplus. Evidently, Red Sox fans have used up all their luck.
Heh.
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Speaking of Evel Knievel, which we weren’t, this is simply the funniest thing I’ve read in a long, long time.
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El Guapo’s Ghost has claimed Rachel Ray as his TV girlfriend. That’s cool, because I’ve got my eye on Summer Sanders. Both eyes, even. And if I have to don my magic titanium robot suit and smash through the walls of Fox Sports to claim her as my own, I will do it. ::Cue scary music::
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As I’ve mentioned before on this very blog, I would love to see the Sox pick up Carlos Delgado. Alas, Ed Berliner of CN8 tells the Big Dog that a report we had signed CD turned out to be false. BTW, who’s the blonde riding shotgun in that Carlos photo on BDD? Crikee!
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Am I the only person in the world who is looking forward to seeing Johnny Depp play Willy Wonka? I must be. Yes, I must.
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Call me a purist, but what up with C.C. Sabathia? Not his pitching, which is good, but the way he wears his uniform. Extra baggy, with his cap in a sorta cock-eyed tilt on his head. Man, that’s gangsta. Also: Kinda ridiculous. The kind of thing that Pudge Fisk would regard as disrespect for the game, before giving the kid a “talking to.” And when Pudge talks, you listen, browneye. You nod, you curtsey, you say, “Thank you, Pudge, for setting my narrow ass straight.” And you walk away.
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My studies show conclusively that most women prefer Tom Brady over Gene Shalit. This is an unscientific survey, mind you. But I believe it may hold some weight.
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Two blogs you should be reading if you don’t already: Singapore Sox Fan, which presents the voice of RSN from half the world away, and Sex and Sox, which is, as John Cleese would say, something completely different. And well worth your time. Although, not exactly “work safe” if you catch me.
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Can we all agree that Camper Van Beethoven was the worst band name ever? Puddle of Mudd comes close.
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As much as I try to supplant it with images from the ALCS and World Series, I have to say that my single favorite moment from the 2004 season was the look on Miguel Cairo’s face in that spectacular late September win at The Stadium when he found out that Manny had gone all Superman on his deep drive to left and robbed him of a home-run.
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Garden State, the movie, really is as good as they say. Garden State, the CD, really isn’t.
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Vertical stripes make you look taller. So in a Yankees uni, expect Randy Johnson to stand about twelve foot six [or, for those of you who utilize the metric system, one and a half Chewbaccas].
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There are a mere 52 days until the first spring training game. Can’t you almost taste it? The heart of the season will soon be upon us, quicker than you think. Saturday. Gorgeous weather. A cold case of Hamm’s in the fridge. Eliza Dushku sunbathing topless on my roof. And a full house at Fenway Park. This is paradise, my friends. We’re living the dream, while folks in Russia have to stand in line to buy waffles.
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I am haunted by the creepy suspicion that when Trupiano calls the first Miller-Mueller-Millar double play, I’m going to spontaneously combust.
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Thanks for indulging me. Sleep tight, folks.
