Sunday, April 12, 2009

Where's A-Roid?

Already, a week of baseball has passed and I missed my imaginary deadline as an imaginary sportswriter. I suppose I should hold off on the paperwork to get my name legally changed to Scoop. I'm failing already.

However, for both of you who have subscribed as readers of my blog---already my sports column is going the way of newspapers everywhere---here is a bullet-list (in the vein of The Providence Journal sportswriter Bill Reynolds) of my impressions, thoughts, and my intellectually vacuous and retarded commentary on Week One.

  • Where's A-Roid? Has anyone seen A-Roid?
  • I didn't think it would be possible to miss Julio Lugo, but given Lowrie's performance at the plate so far, I can't wait for the ugly bastard to get back.
  • I've always said that only assholes and rednecks use their initials in place of their first name. I believe that puts $160 million dollar C.C. Sabathia in the latter column. What does C.C. stand for anyway? I'm pretty sure it's Cheeseburgers and Chicken Wings.
  • R.I.P. Nick Adelhart.
  • My Yankee rants my soon become archaic, seeing I'd bet the house on Tampa to win The AL East again. After watching them play that first series, they're the real deal. Stacked. Evan Longoria might be the best player in the game. No joke.
  • Where's A-Roid? I haven't seen him around.
  • As far as the greatest rock and roll song ever written, I'd agree with my friend Cracker: it's "Thunder Road."
  • C.C.=Chili fries and Cheesecake.
  • Yesterday, while listening to the color commentator Eric Karros on Fox's Saturday baseball, it became apparent that any monkey with a microphone could get that job. While he tried to get all philosophical and metaphysical about Nick Adelhart's death, I felt pangs of vicarious embarrassment. Settle down, Socrates. But then he followed it with some illuminating baseball insight, such as "pitchers don't want to walk the lead-off hitter." Wow. No shit.
  • I love watching Jason Bay play the game. Since Manny the Moron left town, I haven't spent a minute missing him. Honest.
  • I've had the same essential haircut my entire life. That doesn't mean it's working for me.
  • Best Easter joke I heard this week: What did the egg say to the boiling water? I'm sorry, I can't get hard. I was just laid by a chick.
  • A-Roid, oh A-roid, wherefore art thou A-Roid?
  • It seems every year more and more douche bags become Sox fans. Where were these assholes in 1996? Actually, I know the answer: Not at Fenway.
  • Look for me on Facebook, folks. I'm a total Facebook whore.
  • Seriously, has anyone seen A-Roid?

EDIT: I had a picture of A-Roid, but it got taken down by Big Brother of The Blog World. Next week, I promise nude photos of MILF's and the men who love them.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

The Sportswriter

No, I'm not trying rip off Richard Ford, and, in fact---and this may be an offense punishable by castration in certain MFA programs---the novel bored me to point where I found myself measuring my pubic hairs mid-paragraph. Not poorly written, just not my cup of NyQuil.

Unlike Frank Bascombe, who dreamed of being a successful novelist but found himself moored as a sportswriter, it's always been my dream to be sportswriter, more specifically, a beat writer for The Red Sox. Luckily for me, I'm not a successful novelist, nor poet, nor short fiction writer, nor sportswriter, so in words of Dr. Dylan, I ain't got nothin' to lose. Close your eyes.

Let's do an exercise in guided imagery. Bad cigars. Do you smell them? Beer breath with a whiskey bump. You still with me? A Taco Bell burrito in one hand as I try to slip my other hand up NESN's reporter Heidi Watney's (above) skirt, and she clubs me over the skull with her microphone and security cuffs me. Yeah. The sirens howling. Now we're cooking with gas.

Indulge me, friends. Allow me to believe, for the next six months, that I'm a real beat writer, feed my delusion. Be my co-dependent, bitch.

Starting tomorrow, I will begin my uncensored column titled "The Yankees Are the Reason So Many Red Sox fans have I.B.S." Join me tomorrow, friends, as I explain over the next 162 games, why Mark Texeira was always The Chosen One to complete the Ultimate Yankee Circle Jerk; and why Jason Giambi was WAY too straight for the likes of Jeter, Johnny "Bone Boy in Whirlpool" Damon, and Alex "I Cheat, Pop Roids and Throw My Family Under the Bus, Fuck Hookers AND Their Madams, and Still Find Time To Give My Boys in Pinstripes a Handjob" Rodriguez; and why any writer worth their lick should give a little bit of love to the game of baseball.

Help me, friends. Make me feel like a sportswriter.