In our offices, everyday it seems like Zack gets a piece of Hate Mail from just about any and everybody you could imagine. Here are some of the keepers:
In our offices, everyday it seems like Zack gets a piece of Hate Mail from just about any and everybody you could imagine. Here are some of the keepers:
So The Onion’s SportsDome has already explored a subject my friend, Mr. Steve Lattimer, and I have discussed at great length: what we, were we to own the Cardinals, would give Albert Pujols in return for him to stay in St. Louis and continue to play for our beloved and aforementioned Cardinals.
There’s been much ado on the subject as of late. The formidable task of finding enough dollars to pay the slugger’s expected price tag is leading many to believe such a task cannot be fulfilled by the Cardinals’ front office and should not even be attempted as “No player is bigger than Cardinal nation.”
“Quite true,” Lattimer and I would politely retort. “However, that’s retarded. JUST SIGN THE BEST BASEBALL PLAYER IN THE LEAGUE RIGHT NOW AND POSSIBLY FOR ALL TIME AND BE THANKFUL YOU GOT HIM.” The last part isn’t polite, but it would be about as polite as we could muster.
So we’ve compiled a list of things we would personally assure Mr. Pujols to have upon his signature. Let’s just say the list is infinite, but we’ve decided to highlight some of the splendors of this vast, imaginary wealth Mr. Lattimer and I have procured creating high-speed trains that have tracks like rollercoasters, and trees that grow candy bars. The list is as follows, yet is not limited to:
(As originally published on The Ghost of Roy Hobbs, your source for sports and culture analysis from the Natural himself.)
This is an ongoing series throughout what, for me, is the worst period of time in sports. Baseball is a few months away, and football is as good as dead until the fall. And it’s all because, no matter how much I try (AND BELIEVE YOU ME I TRY A LOT) I just can’t watch, like, enjoy, get behind, or generally stand basketball. I’ll watch a Blake Griffin dunk, or a last second Rudy Gay buzzer-beater, or LeBron do anything. But, and nothing against basketball or any of its fine fans, this time of year is a real struggle for me to get through. Feel my pain, and bear with me, as I try to show room for the game’s improvement.
Make The Players Better Looking, Then Throw Them Through The Air
If there’s anything I don’t like watching, it’s men sweating as they perform feats of athletic prowess. The speed. The dexterity. The muscular definition. I’ve got none of that. I somewhat famously pulled a muscle or broke a rib sneezing. That’s a bodily function. I didn’t hurt it doing anything as athletic as Phil Jackson does on the bench coaching, and he’s like 119 years old or something (THERE’S SOMETHING TO THAT ZEN, KIDS). Seeing all these guys, you know, moving well puts me in a bad mood. Plus, I’m not tall at all. All of those guys in the NBA? They’re really freaking tall, which is why most of them got into basketball in the first place. Steve Nash is supposed to be short, and he’s like 6’2″ or something. Baseball? Prince Fielder is good at it and he’s so fat, he’d float in most bodies of water, and that’s AWESOME. Humans don’t play football anymore, it’s steroid-fueled creatures of Frankenstein and those dancing robots Fox has that are really playing under those pads and jerseys.
In order for me to tune in to college or NBA hoops, I’m going want to look at the players. And you know who I like looking at? Pretty women. Fill the NBA with gorgeous women running up and down the court, sweating, and fouling each other. That way when I watch them, I’m going to want to keep watching them play all of the basketball things that I don’t understand. You want to know why all of those late night channels run ads with voluptuous women talking on phones? Because people like watching them do things, like talk on the phone and demand money. I’d wager a lot more people will enjoy watching them do whatever it is that people who play basketball do.
Also, other people should be allowed to throw the now good-looking basketball players through the air to make plays. And a lot of plays, too, like mid-air passes, throwing a person into a dunk, and imagine the midcourt buzzer beaters! In the NFL, there are rules forbidding players to use other players to levitate themselves. If there are any of those rules in the NBA, we should get rid of them. That way, players could get thrown through the air, simulating the same – IF NOT MORE – type of high-flying antics that NBA fans already enjoy. People already don’t like the WNBA because nobody’s flying around, and even if they did, well, now we’re just back to the original problem with the NBA. My advice is to make sure that the good-looking players are flying around.
Plus, people getting thrown through the air is just cool. I believe everyone here knows my stance on the necessity of a return to an Era of Catapults.
That would make me watch some more basketball. 66 days until MLB opening day, by the way.
What? WHAT?! NONONONONONO, I don’t have a problem. I have a problem? I DON’T HAVE A PROBLEM! HAHAHAHAH That’s funny that you’d think I have a problem, because I’m just a dog, you see. THAT’S HILARIOUS. See I’m just a dog, A DOG. I can’t do drugs, I just eat my food, drink my water, and chase rabbits when I get outside. OH MAN IF I SAW A RABBIT RIGHT NOW I’D CHASE THE EVERLOVING CRAP OUT OF IT. Can we go out and get some rabbit right now? RIGHT NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW. Gimme. Gimme gimme.
Alright, alright. Alright alright alright. I know how to get out of the house now. When you guys go out and leave me overnight, yeah, I’ll get out, LOCK THE DOOR I ALWAYS MAKE SURE THAT DOOR IS LOCKED, and go hang out with some guys I met. What guys? THESE GUYS I MET, GAHHHH BACK OFF. Acey and Ray. I don’t know how I might ’em but they ARE THE COOLEST GUYS. RAY DRIVES A 4RUNNER. IT’S THE COOLEST! Sure, I’ll go out of the house sometimes, but it’s just to get a drink or two nothing hard NOTHING HARD AT ALL.
“Bad, bad dog!”
Okay, who hasn’t gotten a LITTLE crazy before? WHO ARE YOU TO JUDGE ME? HUH?! Maybe I’ve had a joint or two, when I’m wasted or something, WHO CARES? IT’S NOT LIKE IT’S GOING TO KILL ME. Maybe there’s a time or two when there’s been a little booger sugar around or something, I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW WHO ACEY AND RAY KNOW, ALRIGHT? But I don’t have a problem. HAHAH. I’m a DOG, RIGHT? RIGHT? I’M RIGHT. THAT’D BE HILARIOUS. Wait. WAIT. YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE WOULD BE HILARIOUS, OTHER THAN YOU JUST SAYING THAT. OH MAN, IF IT WERE TRUE. Could you IMAGINE a DOG?! BEING HIGH? OH MAN, I THINK MY BRAINS ARE LEAKING OUT OF MY TEETH! THAT’S SO AWESOME.
/slight bop on the nose
FINE. But can I get a new bone? Please? PLEASE? PLEEEEASE?
/chews on new bone for seven hours
//falls asleep chewing bones
///forgets incident altogether
Two words: WEAK SAUCE. Like the Mom said, if beauty pageants weren’t about beauty they wouldn’t be called beauty pageants. Little girl needs to GROW THE EFF UP AND TAKE THAT SCALDING HOT WAX LIKE THE GROWN WOMAN SHE CLEARLY ISN’T. Those eyebrows that were removed? UNSIGHTLY. I guess. I don’t know I couldn’t really see them, but I’m not a trained professional judge. THOSE GUYS ARE THE KINGS OF DISCERNMENT AND THEY WILL CATAPULT YOU AND THAT BERT AND ERNIE UNIBROW OF YOURS LITTLE GIRL.
I’m confident this girl will be crowned champion one day. She’s got the drive and determination to be a proven winner, and, if she does happen to falter, has a mother who’s willing to belt her into the winner’s circle against her will. GREAT family hustle.
STOP THE SHOW! STOP THE SHOW! PRIDE OF ARKANSAS! PRIDE OF THE NATURAL STATE AND PRIDE OF THE LAND OF OPPORTUNITY, WHICHEVER PENDING LEGISLATION WILL MAKE IT BE CALLED!
Watching this live was something of a game changing moment for the rest of my life. You’re watching someone from your home state, and thinking to yourself, “My God, there’s a chance for my state to be special, to rise up from the ashes of getting made fun of for banging our cousins, and really be able to stand proud as an Arkansan.”
Then she brought out two puppets.
Needless to say, I was concerned. “YOU GOTTA BE EFFING KIDDING ME, ALYSE!” I bellowed. “NOT ON THIS STAGE! THIS ISN’T AMATUER HOUR, THIS IS MISS AMERICA FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.” But that’s why Alyse competed in Miss America, and I was sitting at home. She BLEW AMERICA INTO TINYBITS OF LOVE AND HAPPINESS AND PLEASURE. Ventriloquism: Really hard to pull off well. If your dialogue is good, and you don’t look like you’re just talking through your teeth, but the rest of your mouth is moving (LOOKING AT YOU, JEFF DUNHAM), it can be somewhat entertaining. Yodeling: Best part of “The Price Is Right” was the yodeling scale, in which the total number of dollars in which one was over or under for a given item was added up, and if there were too many, the mountain climber would descend to his death. Okay, Plinko was still probably No. 1, but you get it. Yodeling is very entertaining, but, many would say, beneath the decorum of the venerable and hallowed halls of Miss America.
Ventriloquism and Yodeling is nothing short of the Lord coming down, blasting my body with a rainbow bazooka, and having me give birth to a formidable team of baby koala medical doctors. In a word: MIRACULOUS.
So that, little miss my-eyebrows-hurt-but-not-enough-to-not-literally-lick-my-lips-at-the-mere-sight-of-candy, is how you
WIN MISS AMERICA place second in Miss America.
But there’s always next year (or if new 17 Year old Miss Nebraska should find her way into a controversy) to win.
You’ve got some nerve interrupting a perfectly fine afternoon by asking me if I’m watching When Harry Met Sally. Some nerve! You know my girlfriend isn’t here right now, she’s at work, so why would I, working from home BY MYSELF, be watching what is regarded by anyone with a brain functioning between their ears the Greatest
Film Chick Flick of All Time. It just doesn’t make any sense for me to do that. I watch ESPN, “Law and Order,” and Die Hard – all of them – exclusively throughout my day.
I don’t know which of those three I’m watching right now, but it’s certainly not When Harry Met Sally. No way it’s that.
I don’t know what it is you heard, but it wasn’t the ICONIC scene at Katz’s Delicatessen in which Meg Ryan’s character, Sally Albright, convinces Billy Crystal’s Harry Burns that women fake orgasms all the time by hilariously faking an orgasm right there in the middle of the deli! It was probably someone celebrating a touchdown pass they caught or threw or whatever. I WON’T have what she’s having. PS – Did you know the elderly woman who utters that famous scene-capping line was director Rob Reiner’s mother, Estelle Reiner?
I didn’t know that tidbit either, BECAUSE I’VE NEVER SEEN When Harry Met Sally‘S SPECIAL FEATURES.
Frankly, I don’t even watch that much television or film when I’m working. When I’m working, it’s time to work, NOT time to watch classic and historic pieces of cinema that stir the heart, soul, and mind into a compelling and thoughtful laughing fit. Or WHMS (WHMS is the agreed upon acronym and abbreviation for When Harry Met Sally, I…I guess). Nope, I keep my nose to the grindstone, and would never watch such a silly, girly movie like WHMS. I’d be, you know, like, so annoyed and have to turn it off. Then I’d have to get up and take it out of the DVD player, dust it off to make sure that it stays in nearly mint condition, put it back in the protective casing, then put the protective casing in its own protective casing and put it back on the shelf, then I’d be thinking about that movie (and how much it sucks!) for the rest of the afternoon, and it just wouldn’t be conducive to good work.
No I don’t OWN WHMS on DVD, it was on TV! Not that I was even watching it. It was something else completely. On the TV.
Again, I can’t remember what that was I was watching. I would have definitely remembered seeing WHMS, or having been made to watch that ABSOLUTELY against my will. I usually remember doing things against my will. And I ALWAYS remember watching WHMS. LOGICALLY, I must always be forced to watch WHMS. And like I said, I wasn’t being forced to watch WHMS. I was probably watching something totally masculine, because, as you might be able to tell, I’m totally male.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got another 50 minutes or so left in this movie you interrupted. No, I did NOT realize that it’s almost 50 minutes exactly after the orgasm scene to the end of WHMS. That is a coincidence.
When I moved into the apartment I’m in now, I had the understanding that a single man had occupied it previously. It had been uninhabited for some time, so while dusting behind the stove, under the dishwasher, etc., I was very disturbed to find what can only be described as a grown-man’s-dumpsworth of uneaten cat food bits.
It reinforced a long understood axiom of mine that grown men should not own cats. Not by themselves anyway.
I get it. Cats are tidy. They keep to themselves. A good litter box and they’re reasonably low maintenance, perfect for a guy who’s always on the go, traveling for business, or just bedding a lot of strange women at their place. It makes a lot of sense. Dogs you’ve gotta take out, walk them, feed them, give them at least 60 seconds of attention: all things you don’t need to do with a cat.
But the main reason you get a pet is for companionship, and cats, while pragmatic, are soulless creatures that would rather kill you than look at you.
My family has a cat back in Arkansas. We got him around third grade or so, so he’s led a full, nice life. He’s like a dog, this cat, Smokey. You’ll be sitting on the porch, and he’ll come up and nuzzle and cuddle with you, just like your best Golden Retriever or Labrador. But I don’t think for a minute that if Smokey were vested with the power to grow to the size of a lion, or the brain power to operate heavy machinery, that he wouldn’t rip me and a friend or family member of mine that he’d ever come across into as tiny of bits he could manage just to see us BLEED. You can see it in his eyes. YOU CAN SEE IT IN THEIR EYES. I’ve seen what they do to squirrels.
This perception has been a cornerstone of my upbringing, and, as I watch The Godfather on this afternoon, I am shocked to realize something I hadn’t ever before: Vito Corleone, the best Godfather of them all, owned a cat.
It wasn’t his wife’s or his grandchildren’s cat. It was in his office with all of the other important people in his inner sanctum, answering the requests asked of him on the day of his daughter’s wedding, REQUESTS HE COULD NOT REFUSE. This was an integral part of the ENTIRE COSTA NOSTRA. It wasn’t just roaming the house like an idiot. Barzini could’ve just nabbed him and made the little sucker SQUEAL. He got Abe Vigoda, after all.
So maybe there’s something to cats after all. I mean, if the Godfather can have one, why can’t anyone else? Why shouldn’t I be able to get a little feline critter if I see fit?
Quite simply, I’m just not that guy. The Godfather can pull off a lot of things I can’t, liked slicked back hair, cats, and cotton balls inexplicably being jammed in my mouth. Plus, I think my awesome, 95 lbs. dog would destroy a cat in whatever hilarious fashion he saw fit.
Because dogs are awesome, you see.
EMERGENCY FREAK OUT TIME, HOMIES.
I pulled or tweaked or otherwise injured a muscle in my back, like right in the middle on the left side of my back. This has made even the most menial leanings-over to get off the couch or bending over to pick up a slice of cheese that fell on the ground when I was making a sandwich. It hasn’t really hindered any sort of breathing yet, but I’m sure if I ever needed to run for a certain amount of time, it’d give me grief. And that’s the thing about getting mugged: You never know when you’re needing to sprint away.
WE’RE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER, PEOPLE.
I don’t think I broke a rib. I sneeze pretty freaking hard. Like HARD. You know how people will release an audible “guhh” when they release everything out of their nose? I sound like those soldiers from 300 when Leonidas asks them what their profession is. All 299 of them. Right here in my barrel chest. If I broke a rib, that’d be some weak, weak sauce. I’m embarrassed enough that it might be a tweaked muscle. Nothing sounds more feminine than anything something being “tweaked” unless you did it climbing a mountain, getting tackled playing football, or some other awesome story that will captivate people you want to forget that you had tweaked something.
THAT’S WHERE YOU COME IN, FRIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCES.
I need a great story to tell people when I’m hobbling around with this
injury mild pain of mine. Something that’s going to make me seem way more masculine than a snot-related hindrance would seem at first glance, which is, of course, not at all. I need something that commands respect instead of the indifferent scorn such an incident will evoke when I, ya know, try to stretch my back while I’m at the bar or something. Here were some of my preliminary thoughts:
Saving Baby From Burning Wreckage: So there’s a lot of snow today. Everyone’s assuming there’s going to be a lot of auto accidents, some of them QUITE POSSIBLY INVOLVING FIRE. And everyone knows babies can’t be driving themselves around to their numerous appointments and meetings. The calamity would be catastrophic.
I’m betting I can convince people that I strained my back pulling a baby out of the fiery wreckage of a wintry collision. “Well, the doors were bent shut, and I couldn’t just sit around and wait for the Jaws of Life to get there, I HAD TO ACT FOR GOD’S SAKE.” People might not believe that I could rip the doors off of a car, but if the doors were already well damaged, or partially ripped off already, or oh! Better yet! It was a SmartCar! I was able to rip the roof right off of it.
No one would believe that I’d escape that heroism without, at the very least, a slight injury to some part of my body. This isn’t that movie, Unbreakable. I WOULD HAVE CERTAINLY TWEAKED SOMETHING, WOULDN’T I?
Some Sort of Lat Pull Down Working Out: So maybe I, AT FIRST GLIMPSE ONLY, don’t seem like the type of guy who would rush into an auto accident, putting myself in danger to save someone else from their own danger, or the type of guy who would be outside when it was so snowy. I get cold!
But I’m not in that bad of shape. I look like I could find my way around a gym alright. I used to be something in high school. Why, I could bench press roughly 315lbs during my senior year! Yeah, I might’ve lost a step or two, but when you see me, you see a person who isn’t out of the daylight of their physical peak just yet. Yes! Perhaps I decided to do YET ANOTHER set of lateral pull downs, flexing my dorsimus, upper dorsimus, and middle dorsimus to the point of utter exhastion and CONTINUING TO DO WORK. Clearly, I have the look of a man who, when he sets out to do something to better himself or others, by God, he finishes the job. Maybe the ole back got a little worn out. Wouldn’t be the first time. Working myself out so regularly for so long and so hard, I WOULD HAVE CERTAINLY TWEAKED SOMETHING AT SOME POINT, WOULDN’T I?!
Surgery To Remove Long Embedded Shrapnel: Maybe the tale can come from long ago. Perhaps my car broke down next to a city development or construction site of some sort. Maybe I was walking around it, looking to see if there were anyone still working, or perhaps had left a radio or walky talky behind. Yeah, and while walking around, I inadvertently set off one of the grinding machines or whatever construction workers use to…construct. This created a TREMENDOUS EXPLOSION setting the development of my tiny hometown in Arkansas back a few more years and sending rock, metal, and wooden shrapnel out of the machine and bringing the entire site down on me. Of course, I heroically rose from the wreckage like a Caucasian Phoenix, but not without sustaining HIDDEN INJURIES.
And many years later, in 2011, I had that hidden injury removed and the result was a slightly sore back for a few days, but nothing serious. THAT WOULD CERTAINLY RESEMBLE A MINOR TWEAK, WOULD IT NOT?! IT TOTALLY WOULD.
I dunno. Those are my best guesses. I can’t believe I sneezed so hard I injured myself. Is that masculine at all? I mean, I’VE GOT THE SINUS POWER TO INJURE MEN! No? Alright. Feed me stories, friends. Trying to salvage some dignity here after all.