On Phillies Outfielder Pat Burrell

"He's a total dirtbag. He's the type of guy that walks into an elementary school, rapes the teacher, beats the kids, takes a shit on a desk and burns down the classroom." --Mets Fan Pinky

C'mon, Alaska, Yer Better Than That

I've taken to writing more longwinded posts in lieu of the quick hits on Slack LaLane, but we're going old school with this one.

Alaska's Ted "Bridge To Nowhere" Stevens, the longest-serving Republican Senator and former chairman of the Appropriations Committee, was indicted today on "seven counts of failing to disclose hundreds of thousands of dollars in services from an oil services company that helped renovate his home." No gouda.

The AP put out some biographical information about Stevens in the wake of his indictment, but it left out some key pieces: He's up for re-election, he's batshit crazy, he's a bumbling buffoon and he's got no business representing a lemonade stand, let alone a state and a country. I'm sure you all remember him for calling the Internet a "series of tubes" a few years back, but when's the last time you heard the two minutes that preceded that statement? Have you ever? In a million years, you'd never guess that this is a man charged with making public policy for 300 million people. Let's take an aural gander:



My 102-year-old great grandmother who still won't allow black people in her home and calls every Hispanic person "waiter" understands the world wide web better than this clown.

If Only McDonald's Were Switzerland

Pop quiz, hotshot. Which one of these two scenes grosses you out more: a) Two women or two men cohabitating and sporting bands around their left ring fingers, basically enjoying normal, boring married lives; or b) A frumpy orca-fat behemoth lady with a FUPA the size of Sweden pouring over the vast waistline of her Mom Jeans chomping on 75 grams of dripping grease fat during one of her two early lunches?

Since it's wildly obvious to everyone except brain-dead liberals that homosexters are disgusting, amoral animals, I'd go with the former. I'll tell y'all right now, there are only two things more disturbing than letting members of the same sex enter into this holy bond of matrimony that grows stronger and more sanctified with each passing year. One is the fact that I actually used the phrase "Clubhouse Lester" to describe Manny Ramirez's narcissistic team-killing antics this past weekend; the second, more germane to the point, is when companies refuse to "stay neutral in the culture war over homosexuality," or better yet, when they refuse to take the side of hardworking Americans like me who have never met a homosexual but see plenty of then on B-roll during the Hannity program.

And that's why I wholeheartedly endorse the American Family Association's decision to coordinate a nationwide boycott of the McDonald's corporation. The AFA's heroic boycott is about values, our values, and it's motivated by the fact that McDonald's has sullied its good family name by throwing "the full weight of their corporation to promoting the homosexual agenda, including homosexual marriage."

Here I am, peacefully trying to kill myself slowly and drive up your insurance premiums with double cheeseburger value meals and thrice-daily McFlurries, but I can't shake the image of two people of the same sex that I'll never actually meet actually getting married...to each other! That kills me more than clogged arteries ever will. So it's with a heavy (failing) heart that I must swear off the golden arches forever in order to ensure my hard-earned money doesn't go to legalizing any lewd behavior by the queers. No skin off my back: I'll just give more money to the church instead.

I urge you all to immediately log onto Boycott McDonald's and make your voice heard. There you can join the many on the AFA's 2.8 million-person e-mail blast by leaving comments with which we all certainly agree, comments like: "The LORD is the author of moral standards. He lovingly calls all sinners to repentance, including sodomites. McDonald's is choosing to promote perverse behavior in blindness or defiance. This is between McDonald's and God. I'm disapointed with McDonald's in the disreguard they have shown for the convictions of the majority its customers. I will join the boycott."

Spot on, man, well said. And I can just picture that epic tete-a-tete between Ronald McDonald and Our Father Who Art in Heaven. God will chastise Ronnie for wearing all that transgender-style makeup; Ronald in turn cries and stomps out of the room and into the loving arms of his daddy, Grimace. Maybe there's even some light assplay between the two, though I'm not sure where Grimace's butthole is and what that would entail. Either way, it'll be a hoot.

Let's take a look at some of the other comments that nail my point of view:

--"We love your fries, but we will not compromise truth. You have taken money that our family, and millions of others, have contributed to the success of the McDonald's Corp. and chosen to use it for an agenda that defies the foundation of our nation, the family, as created by a man and woman..."

--"It was bad enough having to keep my Spanish to English dictionary handy every time I pulled up to your drive-thru window (to the tune of about $1,000 per year). But this is the final straw (and I guess the final Big Mac) for me. Your blatant disregard for the strongly held moral values most Americans hold dear has cost you my business. Yes, Wendy's, I will have a Frosty with that."

--"It is sad that McDonald's is not FOR the nuclear family. Please put Ronald Mc Donald in the closet."

--"As long as McDonald's keeps supporting same sex marriage my family will NO longer be eating there. Please Do consider others Faith and our children. It is Very wrong to be supporting gays, it even says so in the Bible. I feel that you are so wrong about supporting gays, mabey you should pick up your Bible and READ it!!!"


--"I use to love McDonald's food but I cannot stomach your food now because of your decision to support the gay agender in this country. I will be diligent in getting this message out to everyone I know To boycot McDonald's PS I have found Hardees has much better food."

--"As long as McDonalds continues to promote homosexuality I will continue to support Wendy's. This is not something that a family friendly restraunt should ever think of doing." [ed. note: Wendy may or may not be a giant dyke. Stay tuned.]

--"This makes me sick! McDonals's has chosen to accommodate a small group of people who live by what is right in THEIR eyes, and they expect all of society to accept their definition of morality and tolerance. "Although they claimed to be wise, they became fools.""

--"I and my family will be buyers at burger king.. You need to change your gay position.."

Agreed! Although "change your gay position" sounds pretty gay to me.

So thanks, McDonald's -- now every time my kids yell "McDonalllllld's" but we don't pull in to the lot, I have to tell them that their favorite restaurant supports equal rights over traditional values and that they can't gorge themselves on Big Macs because two guys in Peoria are hoping to one day join the ranks of the rest of this Christian nation's unhappily married populace. Dicks.

Dan Struggla: Killing Daddy's Dream

On a night that many baseball fans will remember as the best All-Star Game of their lifetimes, Florida Marlins second baseman Dan Uggla will rank this one somewhere on par with or below the curiously special evening that his mother walked on him in the midst of a particularly kinky auto-erotic asphyxiation session at age 14.

Uggla may rank second among all major-league second basemen with 23 homeruns and 59 runs batted in, but last night he looked like the anti-Danny Almonte: a boy among men. This was Uggla's second trip to the ASG, and I doubt this one will make his short list of personal favorites -- this performance that rates worse than his 2006 appearance, when he didn't even play.

Last night Uggla hit into an inning-ending double play in the 10th, made two straight errors in the bottom half of the inning and another in the 13th, and he also struck out three times and left a total of six men on base. Shit, I know a couple of Thai ladyboys who could have pulled that off. No, wait, I don't know any Thai ladyboys.

Dannyboy told the media this week that he was living his father's dream of playing in Yankee Stadium -- his father must have been living a nightmare last night. No word on whether Uggla's pops formally disowned his son last night, but there's a good chance that if Uggla had a gay brother that he'd be the family's favorite son today for once in his life. You have to feel for the gent, especially considering he's a stellar athlete and one of the game's best players. But I did some research and dug up some interesting facts about last night's goat:

Dan Uggla fucked Terri Schiavo while she was laid up in the hospital. Dan Uggla masterminded the 1993 World Trade Center bombing. Dan Uggla licks Jon McCain's faux goiter for good luck before every game. Dan Uggla drove the lead car of paparazzi that chased Princess Diana down the highway in France. Dan Uggla produced I Know Pronounce You Chuck & Larry.

Dan Uggla injected Bobby Murcer with brain cancer as part of a vast right-wing conspiracy. Dan Uggla's has a lower back tattoo that says Guantanamo Bay 4 Lyfe. Dan Uggla's idol is Big Ern McCracken. Dan Uggla leads the junta in Burma. Dan Uggla broke up Jimmy Kimmel and Sarah Silverman. Dan Uggla also broke up The Phish. Dan Uggla thinks Barack Obama attended a madrassa. Dan Uggla pooped on Tawana Brawley's chest. And Dan Uggla hasn't yet chosen sides in Darfur.

Chin up, Danny. We can only hope your father has Alzheimer's...

And Now For Some Political Geekery

Big news from the nation's capital today: Hillary Clintonbot's unwaveringly moronic former chief strategist Mark Penn has hired former George W. Bush adviser Karen Hughes as a vice chairman at his PR firm, Burson-Marsteller. The pair will "combine forces to offer a one-stop crisis-communication and public-affairs shop” to corporate clients.

The mainstream media is mostly focusing on the bipartisan spirit of this coupling. Several reputable news outlets even ran verbiage from the press release, calling this a “Bipartisan Brain Trust.” Whoa. Hold the phone. Really, guy, pick up your phone and just hold it for effect. A brain trust? I simply see an Axis of Idiocy that may finally cripple the excess-driven wants of corporate America once and for all. Well, maybe I’m being too optimistic.


But I'm a little confused: Is this the same Mark Penn as the one who put Clinton’s dreadful campaign in a hole so large she couldn’t possibly dig out from it (or, more accurately in this case, in a box so large she couldn't munch her way out)? The same one who lobbied for a free-trade deal with Colombia while his candidate stumped loudly and often against it? The same one who blamed her loss on insufficient funds rather than his own disgustingly shortsighted strategies and decisions? And is this the same Karen Hughes who predictably failed to market President Bush’s awesome policies to the Muslim and Arab worlds? Yes, let’s hire these nincompoops!

I gotta say, the thought of Mark Penn and Karen Hughes dispensing crisis communication advice is almost as bewildering as if former FEMA director Michael Brown consulted for a disaster recovery company. Oh wait, he does! For the past two years, Brownie has worked for a private firm called Cotton Companies, where he does just what he failed to do when those dark people needed him most. But why work for someone else? I’d suggest he open his own shop called “Brownie’s Heck of a Job Disaster Recovery Consulting Company.” That shit would look great as a neon sign.

Where else but Washington DC can failed policy advisors thrive as trusted consultants? These clowns are all luckier than weathermen, Wall Street analysts and economic forecasters. This whole Penn/Hughes deal brings to mind all kinds of possibilities. What will we see next? I can just picture it now:

• Elizabeth Taylor’s Marriage Counselor Services
  
• David Duke’s Interracial Marriage Counselor Services
  
• The Michael Vick Pet Care and Rehabilitation Center
  
• J. Hazelwood’s Exxon Valdez Tanker Driving School
  
• Angelo Mozilo’s Countrywide Subprime Mortgage Lender
  
• Ryan Howard Always-Make-Contact Batting School
  
• The OJ Simpson Real Killer Detective Agency
  
• Isiah Thomas Leadership Training Program
  
• Bea Arthur's Ye Olde Feminism Finishing School
  
• The Mark Penn/Karen Hughes Crisis-Communication & Public-Affairs Shoppe (oh, right...)
  

Ahh, the possibilities are endless. Whatcha got, Slackers?

She Ain't Got Nuthin' At All

Coherent thoughts are a rarity these days, and thus, it's why last Monday's George Carlin post still sits atop this here rag. I wrote half a screed about the Supreme Court's gun rights decision, but I soon realized it was about as funny as interspliced footage of the Bataan Death March and a day at Auschwitz playing behind a John McCain speech on free trade. So in lieu of any semblance of a lucid essay, here are some quick pre-holiday rumblings:

All the Baldwins are dead?
The media may have a little fun with the seemingly fake-but-reported-as-real proclamation that Stephen Baldwin will leave America if the populace elects Barack Obama (see video here). The youngest Baldwin's announcement in his four-minute interview with Laura Ingraham will most certainly make the headlines, but I'd instead like to focus on what will no doubt be buried by this abdication nonsense.

Ingraham actually asks this intellectual heavyweight and obvious policy wonk, "Why should we care what Sheryl Crow or Susan Sarandon or Tim Robbins or anyone of these people think about [America's problems]...why should we care what any of them think about any of these issues?"

Does this strumpet not realize she's asking that loaded question to a guy who may be best known for making a bong out of a snorkel, an ice pick and an avocado, a man who played second fiddle to Pauly Fucking Shore in Bio-Dome? Does this floozy understand she's querying a C-level celebrity himself why middle America shouldn't listen to celebrities? It gets not more meta than that, sports fans. I'd sooner heed the political advice of Halle Berry than the anti-Hollywood bullroar of a smug born-again Christian who looks like he's continuously sucking lemons and inhaling dog farts.

Welcome back, casual racism...
They say if you wish to tap your Innerjew, there's no better place than Israel. To stand at the noble sanctuary of the Temple Mount, one can only feel a level of Jewishness unseen in their mundane, secular everyday life. I'd like to make a motion to reconsider. I've found a new place to be reminded daily of my Jewish roots: the locker room of my New York Sports Club in downtown Brooklyn, a place teeming with stereotypically endowed gentlemen of color. If you look around, and then look down, oh yes, that's what it's like to be a Jew.

Imagine all the pills he can buy now...
When I think of Rush Limbaugh, I like to picture him swimming in a vault of OxyContin, like the Scrooge McDuck of little white pills. And that trove's got more treasure: breaking news today that Limbaugh just signed a $400 million deal to stay on the air through 2016.

Only in America can an opiate-addicted upper-class fearmonger claim to have his finger on the pulse of middle America -- well, at least he has the Oxy abuse in common with his many bigoted minions. I will say, though, the man is incredible at what he does, and I'm sure he'll earn every penny back and more for his employers. Rush, while acting the silly WWE-like entertainer, knows exactly what he's doing, and for that, well, I have a weird level of respect for him. I also love drug addicts (see: Garcia, Jerry; Anastasio, Trey)

Say a word for Jimmy Brown
Until The Phish From Vermont end the charade and get the band back together (09/09/09, folks), My Morning Jacket is the best touring band in the country, bar none. Three associates and I sat fourth row at this month's Radio City Music Hall show, and while half the new stuff has yet to grab me, the show was as good as you'll see from anyone these days. The last hour of that 160-minute monstrosity of a set rawked so hard that I surely walked out with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

A friend recently sent me the XM feed of their ludicrously ourageous Bonnaroo set, and it's truly one for the ages. Seriously, get on that shit. The standout for this music geek comes in the form of a cover, and more specifically a cover of one of the most underrated songs of all-time: the Velvet Underground's Oh! Sweet Nuthin'. So if you've got eight minutes to kill, spend some time with Jim James and those other nameless dudes from MMJ:



Happy Fourth of July, my friends. Just remember, when you're being inundated with all this American bicentennial Fourth Of July brouhaha, don't forget what you're celebrating, and that's the fact that a bunch of slave-owning, aristocratic, white males didn't want to pay their taxes. School's. Out. For. Summer.

We Are Essentially Tubeless

This one hurts more than Russert. RIP to a true fucking genius, though I doubt this motherfucker will ever rest in peace. George Carlin could never claim to be perfect, but he was always perfectly honest, and that made him one of the greatest social commentators of the post-war era. Chalk this one up in the Major Societal Loss category.

Carlin never cared who he offended, as long as they deserved it. But the true rub with him was that everyone deserved it. Everyone was a cocksucker. To call him a cynic would be too easy -- he was the world's ultimate realist, scrutinizing everything through the magnifying lens of real-world absurdity. Come to think of it, his greatest gift to society may have been that countervailing scrutiny in the face of mainstream douchebaggery. Like this:



I'm struggling to find the proper words for a man who spoke to so many on an equally intellectual and base level. Highbrow and lowbrow in the same sentence? It came so naturally to him. As a fan of language, I admired the way he could take a word or phrase and turn your whole world upside down. His "on the plane" vs. "in the plane" routine hinged on a one-letter switch, and yet at the time may have been the funniest thing I'd ever heard. One letter. How many people could do that? I've only heard one pull it off with the pieces of flair like Carlin could.

So, for the second time in a few weeks, we send off another great.

California'd: Score One for Normalcy

There's a reason that a mild-mannered three-term senator would press his expensive pantlegs to urine-soaked linoleum for a few fleeting moments of anonymous sexual gratification. But after the curious incident of horndog in the bathroom, nobody felt like asking the right question.

The query most asked in the aftermath of the Larry Craig Revelations was "Why would he do that?" But the emphasis fell on the wrong word. The obvious question attached to this sordid affair should have been "Why would he do that?"

Despite his post-arrest denial and strong assertion of heterosexuality (hey, at least he didn't McGreevey it up and say "I am not a gay American"), police caught Craig as red-handed and open-palmed as any public sex offender before and after him. This particular elected official's lewd and lascivious behavior is not, like so many religious zealots would have you believe, a byproduct of the much-maligned myth of promiscuity in the homosexual libido. No, his political demise was predicated upon the orchestrated act of a closeted gay man trying to get some no-strings lovin'. Funny: through the simple act of coming out, the senator would not currently be outgoing.

I can't say for sure why Craig never felt comfortable enough with himself to halt this double life. Some people just never do, and while tragic, I certainly understand it. For him, it could've been the job. It could've been his family. But I'm guessing it's the same reason why most people wait too long: He didn't grow up with homosexuality as a normal, acceptable option. And boy did that do some serious psychological damage.

Craig is not alone. Even in today's times, even with the apparent prevalence of homosexuality in our society, it's still not exactly easy to be gay. You can't say the six-letter N-word in public (and rightfully so), but it's still wildly acceptable to drop the six-letter F-bomb. Hell, "gay" and "fag" have become an immovable part of the vernacular. How many professional athletes have admitted to homosexting? You think nobody in the Giants locker room sees Eli Manning in the shower and thinks, "Well, he looks kinda retarded, but cute retarded"? Why would a teenage boy who wants kids and a family even consider coming out if he thinks he'll be disqualified from that dream with one simple admission? There may be less and less daily discrimination, but the bigger issues linger.

This longwinded introduction brings me to the news that as of Monday at 5:01 pm, same-sex couples can officially marry in Massachusetts and now California -- two down in an unfortunate piecemeal effort.

Let me throw out a curveball here: Legally, I am not wholly for government-backed same-sex marriages. But I'm also not for government-backed marriage for the opposite sex. Everyone in this country, straight or gay, should be entitled to a state-recognized civil union, and it's up to you and your church, synagogue or mosque to go through the ritual of marriage (though if it's up to your mosque, I think you're probably in trouble and/or about to be hanged). In an ideal world, everyone has equal rights and protections under the law.


The California Supreme Court's decision that led to Monday's change in policy may or may not have been the correct legal decision; that's for smarter legal minds than mine. But what I do know is that the 4-3 ruling was a landslide victory for normalcy, a direct message to society at large that same-sex marriage should be and one day will be as acceptable as, say, interracial marriage.

When the U.S. Supreme Court handed down its decision in 1967's Loving v. Virginia, which made it illegal to put race-based restrictions on marriage, nearly three of every four Americans disapproved of the mixing of the races. Forty years later those numbers are reversed: Now almost four of every five approve of interracial marriage.

Admittedly, the Loving case and California's decision are not exactly similar. The former overturned laws barring the practice, whereas the latter set its own precedent. Also, Loving ruled that measures to prevent marriages between persons solely on the basis of racial classifications violates the Equal Protection and Due Process Clauses of the Fourteenth Amendment. The California decision can't quite make the same claim, though I think 2003's Lawrence v. Texas helps the California Supreme Court's case. The point is, this may have been an instance of "activist judging," but if four decades from now gay marriage if as commonplace as interracial marriage, then it's a brilliant piece of legal work, whether it is or it isn't.

I'll never claim to be a huge marriage advocate, but you can't help but be ecstatic at the prospect of Monday's rush to the courthouse -- that couldn't have been a more important victory for sheer fuckin' normalcy, a giant leap that shows kids growing up today that same-sex couples can be the same as everyone else. And based on this landmark decision we'll have a society with healthier sexually confused teenagers, as well as much healthier adults that can find sex in a bar rather than a room where most people piss and poop.

Sometimes you need to chip away at society until what's right is also what's conventional. Given Gov. David Patterson's announcement that he will sneak gay marriage through the back door, New York probably isn't terribly far away from this step -- that will make three. Do I hear a fourth? Then a fifth? With Loving as a shining example, maybe the next generation won't even think twice about a two-groom or two-bride wedding cake.

So I only have one question for Californians: Are you ready for some man-on-dog shit? Ricky Santorum says it's comin', and I hear it's rampant in Massachusetts. Godspeed, Golden State.

Hey, Willie!

Every sports fan with a blog today will likely turn their lazy eye and foaming mouthpieces to the asinine firing of Mets manager Willie Randolph.

Hyperbole aside, this may go down as the biggest front-office mismanagement in the history of managerial dismissals. New Yorkers thought the Yankums' firing of Joe Torre was off-putting? Poor Ol' Willie's sacking is about as classless as it gets, more poorly handled than an eight-month-old infant in the care of a British au pair. The term "exit strategy" has made a huge comeback since the start of the Iraq war -- it's clear the Mets possessed not clue one about how to get out of this situation.

Nearly everyone will agree to the facts: the Mets knew they would eventually fire Willie but left him on the line at least a month too long, a true lame duck; they let him take the team 3,000 miles away on a road trip, watched him win three of four, had him hold the typical post-game press conference, and then they canned him in the dead of night. The result? A press release at 3:15 am. And if there's anything the print press loves, it's going to bed in all its morning editions with information that's totally untrue by morning. I'm sure they'll be totally sympathetic to the Mets all year long after this slight.

Okay, we're all on board with these things. But here's my favorite part of the firing, perhaps the biggest insult to Willie: "It was a frustrating end for the 53-year-old Randolph, who was set to be an NL coach at the All-Star game at Yankee Stadium next month."

So Willie, who spent 13 seasons in pinstripes as a beloved player and another 10+ as an assistant general manager, third base coach and bench coach with the Yankees, will no longer be participating on the field at Yankee Stadium in its final season. It'll be a magical All Star Game, a swan song for the ages, with old Hall of Famers and baseball nostalgia out the arse, and Willie missed his chance to be a big part of it by three weeks. Omar Minaya just Omar Little'd Willie's shot.

If Big Stein were still with it, I bet he'd bring Willie back on the field in a Yanks uniform. Just to show those rat bastards in Queens how things are done. Things can be done.

I Loved You in Meet The Parents

I wear many hats during office hours, though none of them are straight-brimmed and make me look like a shortbus mongoloid child. But among my numerous disparate responsibilities, my favorite involves "researching the shit out of shit."

I know it seems foreign in the Era of Broadband Intertubes, but there really is nothing like tracking down an unGoogleable answer. Internet sleuthing is fun. But sleuthing in general is priceless, be it searching through online or offline databases, calling human after human at bureaucratic departments or, wait for it, visiting the public library. It's not quite the do-it-yourselfedness of auto mechanics or home improvement, but rifling through data and archived material or finding the perfect source is the DIY of information. The answers are always out there. Sometimes it's up to you, not a search engine, to go and find them.

And fact-finding is what I always loved about Tim Russert. That's why he'll be missed.


Everybody's entitled to their own opinions, but not their own facts (unless they're in Congress, heyooo!). It's this old adage that Russert proved to be true. He'd dig deep through the archives and, in the case of so many politicians, find at least one "Gotcha" quotation to throw right back in one of their two faces, no matter which side of the aisle on which they sit.

He never wore his partisanship on his sleeve, only his integrity as a journalist. Cable news these days is excruciatingly depressing -- anchors are either horribly misinformed, unbelievably stupid or bloviating schmucks. Russert was the antithesis of all three. He was prepared, smart and humble in the face of a business that increasingly relied on nonsense for ratings.

In 2004, Russert said in an interview: "Lawrence Spivak, who founded "Meet the Press" 57 years ago, said, 'Learn as much as you can about your guest and his or her position on the issue. Take the other side. Be persistent, but be polite.' And I try not to berate people. I don't want to make them sympathetic. But sometimes facts are important." He made Spivak's advice work like nobody else in the television news business.

I don't know who'll go on to host Meet The Press. (I'm guessing it'll be Andrea Mitchell and you'll hear "first woman to blah blah blah" a whole bunch.) But I can't picture anybody bringing the level of professionalism that Russert brought to the broadcast and to the industry. You'll notice I don't write all that many serious posts, but this is a man that deserves a somber tribute. Timmy!

And while we're talkin' newsmen, check out this apparently punctuation challenged news anchor. Attaboy!

Yanks & Yanks: A Tale of Two Stadia

It's still unacceptable, for some preposterous reason, to repeatedly scream "cunt" at the officials or opposing players in American soccer stadia. That saddens me.

For no matter how many people show up to surround the U.S. men's national team, no matter how loud the wall of sound from the crowd becomes, we'll just never be as cool as our British friends. And that's some separate but equal shit right there.

It wasn't exactly three-ring, but The Meadowlands on Sunday night actually featured a bit of circus atmosphere for the highly anticipated friendly match between these United States and the arbitrarily ranked number one team in the world, Argentina. Lionel Messi and los Albicelestes came to town just days after our two incredibly putrid friendlies against England and Spain, efforts that showed the Americans to be outclassed, listless and unworthy of even a modicum of national pride. If we even had an offensive attack to speak of, I'd probably say nasty, nasty things about its wardrobe, hygiene and general demeanor. There's a chance I'd even start rumors about its sexuality.

But this was a two-stub day for Don Fiedler, Handstand the Younger and your intrepid field reporter, and by game time we couldn't have been more geeked up for this one. Recent performances, be damned. And as the national anthem blared for the second time in seven hours, we all did our best Carl Lewis impersonations and belted out the Star-Spangled Banner loudly and awfully, but with feeling. And I remember thinking, this is the first in my life that I'm singing the anthem for real, for my country, for my national team. We had just heard it at Yankee Stadium hours earlier, and it meant nothing. This rendition, however, was like beating off lefty: new, special and unequivocally enthralling.

Seven hours earlier in a neighboring state, relief wunderkind Joba Chamberlain took the hill against the Kansas City Royals for his second ever start in Yankee pinstripes. The heat and thus far mediocre Yankums play combined to make the stadium as dispirited as the aforementioned USMNT attack.

In fact, the crowd only buzzed on four separate occasions in the first five innings -- three times for Joey Gathright's stellar running and/or diving catches in center field, and once when Gathright fouled off a Joba fastball into the now-disfigured grill of some poor lady on the third-base line. (By the way, if you haven't seen footage of Gathright hopping over a BMW as effortlessly as an Edwin Moses hurdle, check this shit out...)



Joba lasted four and a third innings, an equally impressive and frustrating outing for a guy who will surely get the hang of this sooner rather than later. We lasted only one more inning, preferring to leave our upper-deck seats in the lifeless stadium in order to tailgate in the Meadowlands' parking lot for a few hours with what seemed like every Argentinian in the NY/NJ/CT tri-state area. The split of the 78,000+ at Giants Stadium on Sunday was about 50/50, but the lot scene seemed full of people that rooted for Gabriela Sabatini over Pam Shriver all those times in the late '80s (What? Seriously? Just an awful reference).

(Entering the stadium)

The Argies were boisterous and cocky, knowing their 11 would just roll over an inferior foe. We were boisterous and cocky, just because we're assholes. But we knew there was NO shot of U.S. victory, not with a beefed up Argentina squad missing only a few key regulars -- we heard that Carlos Tevez was off on an Abercrombie model shoot.

We had 8th row seats pretty close to the net we defended in the first half, in ridiculous proximity to some of the best players in the world (sorry, Landon, I meant the Argies) and only a couple sections from the horribly uncool but surprisingly cool Sam's Army, our most rabid supporters.

Donnie tried as best he could to start a couple rounds of "You're a Grand Ol' Flag," but nobody obliged. And nary a soul joined in with his "Your steak is overrated" chant. Alas, we couldn't even find a giant placard and Sharpie to write "World's Number One...In Runaway Inflation." And I spent the evening trying to figure out how to fit "We're better 'cuz we don't let former first ladies become presidents" in rhyming sing-song, but I just couldn't make it work. Nonetheless, we sang, we chanted, we bounced up and down, we made friends, and we saw a hell of an effort from our boys.

I won't recap the play-by-play that night. That's why we have the good people at That's On Point. But when Tim Howard stoned the Argies four or five times from point-blank range in the first half, we realized that this wasn't going to be a blowout. And as time wore on, we realized this may be a draw. And as the rain began to pour down on a heat-soaked crowd begging for the precipitation, we realized that we may actually win this fucker. Could we take it? Could we pop up with something, maybe a set piece in the rain? I thought maybe, and captured this quick video:



With suspicious red cards handed out to one man from each team, the 10-on-10 open play on a slick pitch made for some thrilling moments. Nothing materialized, and ultimately the match ended in a scoreless tie -- eat your heart out, soccerhaters -- but it was absolutely entrancing, especially for a friendly.

There are 162 baseball games a year for your favorite team, and over the many years of fandom, only a few of them will truly stand out as special. Eventually Yankee Stadium becomes old hat. But this night at Giants Stadium was really the first time I've ever felt a special pride in my country's national team, one that got me on my feet and jumping like a kid again, and this one will forever stand out as special.

An at the end of a grueling day, I was exhausted but genuinely proud of my country and its recently clueless national team. That rain was the capper on a brilliant day -- one victory that felt like a draw and one draw that felt like a victory. Perfect in every respect but one: that referee was a fookin' cunt.

Eight Belles to Big Brown: "Hey, Could Be Worse"

What began as a "foregone conclusion" ended with "whaaa happened?" The wide world of sports and racing's casual fandom prepped for the first Triple Crown winner in three decades, but instead we're left with mouths agape and frightening images of a sweat-drenched trainer. Shit, Dutrow was more sweat than man by Belmont's end.

Everyone's asking "What went wrong?," but I think even my amateur arse has figured out what's becoming more obvious with each passing Triple Crownless year. The breed-for-speed mentality embraced by most (if not all) horse farms these days has made the grueling mile-and-a-half Belmont unattainable for sprint horses. In other words, it's nearly impossible to birth a horse with both speed and stamina that can win the breezy Kentucky Derby against a huge field of fast equine motherfuckers and the long, hard slog of the Belmont Stakes a few weeks later. I'm not sure we'll ever see a Triple Crown winner again. We know Jim McKay will never see one again either. More on that in a moment.

This must be a real heartbreaker for jockey Kent Desormeaux. He's the winner of three Kentucky Derbys (including one atop Fusaichi Pegasus in 2000 when I was there) and two Preakness Stakes, but he's failed in now two highly anticipated bids for that rare Triple Crown. Maybe Kent's also been bred poorly. Hey, we know from the avalanche of human interest stories on his brave son that he may have some breeding problems of his own (ouch, that was low even for me...jeez, sorry Kent, I'm the asshole).

I gotta think, however, as badly as this day went for Desormeaux, it's better to lose the way he did yesterday than the way he did aboard Real Quiet in 1998. For those of you who don't remember that exact race, check out this kick in the junk below. I'd rather ease up my horse than lose by a nose in the final stride of the race -- then again, I am a defeatist and have very few, if any, characteristics of a winner. Check it:



Back to the aforementioned Jim McKay, who fortuitously passed away on his beloved racing day. I'd eulogize a fellow journalist and sports fan here, but there's no room for my tongue on his dick with the media all over it. He deserves all the praise heaped upon his larger-than-life character, and Rebirth of Slack MGMT has nothing but hot lovin' for McKay and his persona.

Having said that, just once, just fucking once, wouldn't it be awesome if someone dropped in a horribly untrue but seriously delivered iota of biographical information in an obituary before the last line? It's so easy! Something like: "McKay's survived by his wife Margaret and daughter Aranxta Sanchez Vicario. Jim McKay, dead today at age 86." Or maybe something like: "McKay said he has no regrets and wouldn't change a thing, except the time he fistfought a monkey and lost badly. Jim McKay, dead at age 86." Or even something like "McKay was a true poet in a world of prose. He's the only known journalist to have given Walt Whitman a well-oiled handy. Jim McKay, dead today, at age 86."

RIP, Jim.

Apparently I Am Very Similar to the Giant Squid

I read or skim no less than 100 varied news articles and blog posts between the hours of 8 and 10 am. Some are political, some economic. Some are human interest, some in-depth reporting. Some are serious, some offbeat. News aggregators have made it entirely possible to read a story about the next step for uncommitted superdelegates 10 seconds after finishing one about the arrest of an underemployed longshoreman who delivered an unauthorized donkey punch to the back of the head of a three-legged transvestite hooker called Scuba Steve the Love Pumper.

Every once in a while I come across a piece of Dickensian literary genius disguised as wire reporting, and it stones me. This morning, while reading about the capture of a giant squid off the southwest coast of Australia, I found a brilliant sentence that required a bit of town crying. There's a common journalistic practice called "burying the lede," and in this instance, I'm shocked that I had to read 13 paragraphs before seeing this beautiful sentence:

"Giants have very strange sexual behaviour where the male has a metre-long muscular penis that he uses a bit like a nail gun and shoots cords of sperm under the skin of the female's arms and she carries the sperm around with her until she is ready to lay her big jelly mass of a million eggs."

I mean, who wrote that, Vladimir Nabakov? Such pretty prose! The italicized byline concluding the article claims the report was "adapted by an AM report by Alison Caldwell," though it reads to me like it was "adapted from a novel about giant squidcock and sperm transport by Leo Tolstoy."

Alright, enough of that. Let's move on to what used to serve in the old days as the Slack Song of the Day. The good folks at imeem have a cool embeddable player, so I'll be sharing music more often in an easy-to-listen form. This collection of seven tunes is particularly badass, so get down with your bad self and report back as to how that getting down with your bad self went.



And we'll catch ya on the flip flop. Tomorrow is another day.

The Ol' Switcheroo (Goose/Gander cont.)

The average age of an American male at the time of his first marriage hovers around 27; for women, it's 25. And whether ready or not, many people nearing, at, or above these averages feel immense, intense familial and/or societal pressure to, for some reason, get married. Perhaps that pressure is self-imposed, but nonetheless it lingers over nearly all non-married cohabitating couples. 

But the matrimonial pressure to suddenly wed, in this slice of the world at least, is dwarfed by the artistic pressure to enter engagement in style. I read a recent study that showed the very first question asked of most newly engaged women is "How'd he do it?," while the first asked of men is "So should I, like, not jerk it to her anymore?" In this life, it's not the engagement that counts, it's the proposal.

Some men hide the ring in a forthcoming dessert dish, or they drop it into a champagne glass. Some lure their future betrothed out of the apartment and have friends and family decorate their shared living space in the couple's absence. I've always been partial to the scavenger hunt full of personal memories and locations around a particular city, as we'll re-visit in a moment. 

These thoughtful, if schmaltzy, engagements have become the norm (again, at least in our nape of the geographic neck). And yet I've never quite figured out why more people haven't put this much creativity into breakups. Seriously, how flippin' sweet would it be to apply the same effort and wit into calling off a long relationship as cementing one in holy matrimony? It'll be ever more special if the dumpee doesn't see it coming, expecting a ring instead of heartache. 

An example: Take a moment to watch this video. Classic switcheroo.



I have no clue whether or not that's real or fake; but, either way that's not especially germane to the broader argument. The guest's partner at home is expecting the big proposal. The hosts are expecting the big proposal. Everyone else watching is expecting the big proposal. And then, BAM, the big fuck you, a metaphorical Cleveland Steamer right onto her heaving chest. Brilliant. 

So why hasn't this practice become a breakup mainstay? People would really rather talk and weep and snot up for three hours, not even really listening to each other? Please, that's awful. I'd think, as heartbroken as the poor unsuspecting dope would be, even they'd have to laugh at this temporary sparkle of genius from their former partner.

Picture it: Significant others head to brunch on a sunny pre-Summer afternoon. One gets up to use the restroom but stealthily leaves to wait at an undisclosed location. The waitron approaches the deserted party with the first clue on a grand scavenger hunt around the city. The impromptu table for one believes the day of engagement hath arrived. 

After a six-clue nostalgia parade, the couple is reunited at their favorite spot. Maybe it's under a tree, where they first French kissed (or Freedom kissed, if you're still boycotting the Francs). He's on bended knee, and smiling. And just as he reaches into his pocket, seemingly to fetch a box-encased ring, our man pulls out nothing but his extended middle finger. He stands up slowly and nonchalantly waves it in his significant other's frozen face. As the tears begin to well up, he mouths "It's over," puts his headphones in his ears and walks away whistling. One would have to be stunned, but they'd also have to chuckle.

Or perhaps you can get the Yankee Stadium announcer to project: "Ladies and gentlemen. Please turn your attention to Section 27, as [insert cunning bastard here] has a special message for the person sitting next to him." Fifty-five thousand folks hush and search for you guys; the scoreboard operator puts you on screen. Then when it seems like all eyes are upon you, that's when you spill two $9.75 Miller Lites on her and storm off into the tunnel. Winner.

Message sent. In style.

I'm guessing most of you have indulged this fantasy, so come clean, how would you pull this off? What's your preferred method of calling the whole thing off as wickedly as possible? Spill it.

Hey, Uh, I, Um...So Where Were We?

Thank you all for coming. I'd like to read a brief statement and then take just a few questions from the assembled crowd.

Some people [that may or may not be my mother] often ask me whether I've ever regretted the decision to pull the plug on the fierce playground of irreverence we called Slack LaLane. Sure, the masturbatory exercise of blogging has its upside and reward -- Look at me! I have opinions! -- but the daily grind of maintaining a website full of half-baked, misguided jokes about minorities and brain-dead bulimics just stopped making sense along the way. 

But like all masturbatory exercises, it's tough to stay away for terribly long. And since the world wide web seems to have an astounding lack of attempt-at-snarky blogs written by self-centered twenty-somethings, I think it's just about time to get back in the game. They say all the greats eventually return; now we know that all the mediocre ones return exactly a year from when they left. I'll take some questions now.

Howard Kurtz, Washington Post. So why the comeback, Ace? What's behind this decision? Do you really crave attention that badly?

Of course I do, but that's not why I'm adding to the congestion on the information superhighway. I'm just not done yet. I've got some resin left in the screen. I want you all to know why I rank Game 7 of the 2004 ALCS just ahead of Pearl Harbor and just behind 9/11 on the list of important events that changed the balance of the universe. I want to bring "Psyyyyche" and "Grotie to the max" back into the mainstream. I want to tell the world that the new Indiana Jones debacle was demonstrably worse than a combination of tapeworm, the NBA headband trend and C. Thomas Howell's performance in Side Out. I've got shit to say, and chances are, you'd rather read a bit of hot garbage than do actual work. 

Eleanor Clift from Newsweek. Have you been writing at all this past year?

Eleanor, gee I think you're swelleanor. I've had an exceptional year actually. I used Slack LaLane's renowned reputation as a natural springboard to literary stardom, (self-)publishing the Idiot's Guide to Date Rape, What's the Deal with Skinny Jeans?: How Crushed Testicles Became Fashion, The Steve Holt Story: Steve Holt! and a series of investigative pamphlets about Chien-Ming Wang's secret involvement in the persecution of the Falun Gong. 

I also wrote and developed a new weekly series for ABC Family based loosely on the Defenestration of Prague, and I created a ton of erotic Mythbusters fan fiction under the name JaimesMoustacheRider. Other than that, I've just been chillaxin' (as, I believe, the kidz are still saying) and appearing in dance clubs under the nom de dance Mr. Wave:

Ace, Helen Thomas, Old Cat Lady Times. Have you been following the politics? Thoughts?

Excellent question; well asked. I'll tell you one thing, as an unabashed supporter of the Tuskegee Experiment, I'm not voting for that crazy preacher with all the scary snippets on the YouTube. He's a candidate, right? Oooh-eee, he was hateful. I find him to be very unpatriotic, and I bet he doesn't wear a flag pin or drive a Ford Focus. But as an uncommitted superdelegate, I've still yet to decide my vote. I'm kinda leaning towards the half-white gentleman raised by old caucasians who went to Columbia and Harvard Law that people have taken to referring to as "the black guy."

And to be honest, McCain should be disqualified. Policies aside, how can you have a president that can't lift his arms over his head? When he accepts the Republican nomination next to his youthful, vigorous running mate, they're expected by law to lock inside hands and raise them high above their hands. Then they pump their raised interconnected fist a few times while waving with their outside hands or giving rapid-fire thumbs ups. That's how staged politics works. You know the move. If he can't pull it off, I say "Thanks for your service -- now hit the bricks, pal."

(On the serious, how many people can identify and name all the presidential candidates on the stage at the first couple of Democratic and Republican debates? Now how many people can identify and name some wackadoo preacher with no relevance to the world at large whose most outlandish statements were parsed every night on TV and talk radio for six weeks? Awesome stuff, media. Great work.)

Anderson Cooper, The Mole. The original one. Way back. It was a cool show. Now I'm on CNN. Craisins, as you'd say. Anyway, let's get back to the blog -- what do you expect it to be? Will it be daily?

I don't know the end game, but it certainly won't be daily. The general problem with blogs is the rush to be first and the desire to be loudest. On this go-round I'd much more prefer to speak mediumly and carry a stick of unspecified length. 

Some people are ace when it comes to providing expert analysis and pithy remarks just moments after the news breaks or they get back from a life-changing vacation. But most bloggers are so quick to be the first one out of the shoot that they fail to consider the big picture. I'm hoping this can be more of an arena for essay and insight rather than quick-take, reactionary jibba jabba. That won't actually happen, but it's nice to dream. So what do I expect it to be? In terms of importance and staying power and awesomeness, I'd say somewhere along the lines of the Federalist Papers. 

David Byrne, boss musician. You know any good jokes?

I'll tell you later. 

Tom Rinaldi, ESPN Schmaltz Division. Are you going to keep talking about subjects that suck, like soccer and Phish? Should I just tune out now before you start?

Look at the stones on Tom. What do you wanna discuss now, my favorite color? (Noice, you weren't expecting a Colonel Nathan R. Jessup reference, but I got one in anyway. It's funny...I know Kaffee says to Jo and Sam that Jessup's dying to let the world know he ordered the code red, but when the lieutenant gets all up in the good colonel's grill, the judge actually finds him in contempt of court and tells the the witness he doesn't have to answer the question. Even though Jessup is a real sonuvabitch and a picture of smug, shouldn't he, as a decorated Marine officer, have enough discipline to let the question and the trouble pass without comment? Aren't they all about discipline? Maybe the threat of the airmen's forthcoming testimony was enough, but I think Jessup's better than that.) Shit, what were talking about? Swimming pools? It's tired in here. 

Oh, right, yes. I will probably be talking about Liverpool striker Fernando Torres every time I get the chance. Is it weird that I'm trying to become a fluent Spanish speaker in the off chance I run into him one day? Dreamboat Central. I'd go Larry Craig with him in any baño. 

At this point I'd like to issue a saucer full of thanks to my longtime run-in buddy Scuffy McGee for coming up with the clever play on a Digible Planets classic for this new blog's moniker. And at this point which follows that point, I'd like to declare that I'm back, to let you know, I can really shake 'em down. Let's begin.