Friday, May 30, 2008

Instant Replay? Fuck That!

I tried to think of something more clever to title this piece but it just wasn't coming, so you get what I'm really thinking.

In case you missed it espn.com reported today that the umpires are now say that instant replay in Major League Baseball is imminent. There has already been talk of experimenting with it in the Arizona Fall League, so the writing is clearly on the wall here. http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/news/story?id=3418530

Now, I wouln't call myself a baseball purist by any means, but I can't help but think that this is the worst idea since Greedo shooting first. Everyone is saying (in stupid meathead voice) "Why not!?!? Football has it, and it works great." Does it? Really? Then why did football abolish replay all together once after implimenting it in 1986? Cuz it was problematic and dragged games on longer than the commercials did already. And if it's so great in football, why is its continued existence debated during every offseason? The answer is because it's not so great. It works, barely, because in football the number of close, overturnable calls is relatively few. In baseball almost every call is a bang-bang play. Almost every tag play is debatable. I'd bet 4 out of every 5 plays at first base are within a step or less. Not to mention balls and strikes, trapped balls, fair or foul balls, check swings, and of course, the plays that started this whole debate home-run balls (at Yankee Stadium). Can you imagine what the baseball haters, who already bitch about baseball "taking sooooo long", would have to say when you stop the game 2 or 3 times to go to the replay just to find out that a guy had been correctly called out at first base?

Now I know that they are only talking about implimenting this for home-run balls, but this is your text book "slippery slope." All it's gonna take is for one "missed" call at 2nd base or on a foul ball in some Yankee playoff game to have the Jay Mariottis of the world screaming about what a travesty this is. About how baseball has the technology to get the call right, why aren't they using it. Can you imagine how different last year's postseason would have looked if there had been repaly available for that Matt Holiday slide into the plate?

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Me neither, because that play was SO close that if you show it to 100 people, you'll probably get 50 safe and 50 out calls. (I personally think he was safe, and I was rooting for the Padres.)

If you think I'm crazy about all of this, go to that espn.com article and look at the poll results. 89.4% of the responders favor some form of instant replay in baseball. Of those 89.4%, 22% favor replay on ALL CLOSE CALLS!!! That is complete fucking insanity.

All I'm saying is that this could open up a can of worms that NOBODY except for the screaming heads on TV, and maybe Don Denkinger, would really want to see opened. The umpires make the right call so often that all replay will do is prove how fucking good they really are, and give the haters more ammo. I can't have that, especially after Moongoose McQueen just came over from the dark side. I can't justify introducing replay into the equation EVER. Even if it would have taken that "homer" away from that little prick Jeffrey Maier.

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When Did This Happen?

So, I'm sitting in a large teal mini-van with my father-in-law, driving up to Minnesota for part two of my Spring Road Trip trilogy:

Spring Road Trip: The Hunt for the Golden Weasel (released last week to rave reviews)
Spring Road Trip: The Vikingland Nuptuals (currently in production)
Spring Road Trip: The Unfrozen Tundra Party (in pre-production)

And because this isn't a Star Wars feature, I don't expect the second act to be the crowning achievement of these excursions. Combine my lack of enthusiasm for the trip with a burning desire to avoid a five hour discussion about how modern music is a disgrace and the last great rock song came out in the early 70's, and I am left with a lot of time to my thoughts. And, shockingly, I have come to a painful realization.

If Kenosha is the armpit of Wisconsin, then Detroit is the asshole of the Midwest.

No, not that. We already knew that.

I am a baseball fan.

I don't just tolerate it, I don't pay attention to just the Brewers. I am a baseball fan.

When the fuck did this happen?

Those who know me realize how big of a deal that is. Maybe it's because I'm getting older and I'm trying to recapture my youth. Maybe it's because I've started playing fantasy baseball, which is like a fucking aphrodesiac for math geeks like me. Hell, maybe it's because my brain is trying to hedge out my sports investments in case the Packers are entering a playoff recession. But whatever the reason, I have caught myself watching an entire baseball game without somebody else saying, "Hey, mind if we watch the game?" This scares me.

The next thing you know, I'll be sitting down to watch an entire NASCAR race.

Note: This will not happen. I have not developed a slack-jaw or changed my name to Cletus.

Maybe it's not such a bad thing. I can participate in intelligent discussions now about the Brewers without feigning interest. I have something to pay attention to in the spring and summer. I can sit still for 3+ hours and not contemplate the number of ways to end my existence.

So, bring it on, baseball! I can handle you now. Oh, and if you'd get the Brewers to play some consistent ball, that would be great.

Shit. I'm being asked if I can explain exactly who this "Fall Out Boy" is and if I really think this kid could hold a candle to Jimmy Page. This is going to be a long weekend.

Thursday, May 29, 2008

Checking In With Tan Tommy

Let's see, whose name hasn't Tom Crean pulled out of his rolodex to write a "Tom Crean is trying to save Indiana basketball, but it's going to take time" puff piece? Andy Katz? Check. Gary Parrish? Check. Pat Forde? ... Nope, not yet! So how 'bout it, friend? Care to undo the fly on Tan Tommy's khakis and have a nibble on his hoo-hoo-dilly? You know you want to!

CREAN APPEALS TO HOOSIER FANS AS HE TRIES TO SALVAGE THE PROGRAM

You have to give the guy this: in a world of self-aggrandizing me-promoters, he sure does a hell of a job worming his way back into the spotlight.

Tom Crean's get-acquainted tour of Hoosier Nation came to the state's southern edge Wednesday. The highlight of the day might have been a trip to the bathroom.

Hold on. A trip to the bathroom, you say? Give me a minute -- I need to consult urban dictionary for some synonyms for 'fellating.'

Businessman Ned Pfau of Jeffersonville, Ind., has turned the spacious men's room at his office into a replica of the Assembly Hall locker room. Yeah, the men's room. A guy can relieve himself amid lockers, banners, posters and autographed memorabilia of all things Indiana. The only thing missing is Damon Bailey handing out paper towels and mints.

Even for Indiana, this is the fucking dumbest thing I've ever heard of. Lemme take a stab in the dark, Ned Fawww -- you flog the dolphin quite a bit, don't you?

"We had 12 grown men hanging out in a bathroom today," Crean said. "That is not healthy. But that is what it's all about."

No, Tommy, that's called a Greek bathhouse. And I can't wait til you start printing your truckload of inspirational T-shirts for your four players next year: Indiana Basketball: 12 Grown Men In A Bathroom -- That's What It's All About.

"It's not going to be easy next year," the coach told his audience Wednesday evening. "I think most of you know that. It's very, very likely that for the next couple years, we'll be the youngest team in major-college basketball."

We will also run the most dribble hand-offs of any team in the history of sport. It may well look like we're running the three-man weave out there. Actually, it's entirely possible that, at times, we will only have three warm bodies on the floor. This is part of the plan.

Crean made both a telling gesture and a telling comment Wednesday night when he brought his entire staff, including the academic support group, to Huber Winery in Starlight. When he had the academic people stand up and take a bow, Crean said, "I can't wait to see what they can do when they have the full backing of their head coach."

My God, wasn't Kelvin Sampson supposed to be this asshole's friend? Jesus Tittie Fucking Christ. Any more dirt you want to heap on dude's grave, cocksnorter?

Crean drew a combination of groans and laughter from his audience Wednesday when, following a standing ovation, he said, "I needed this a couple weeks ago when potted plants were flying around our office."

Hey, that could be another T-shirt: Indiana Basketball 2008: A Combination of Groans and Laughter.

At least Crean has the luxury of slow-cooking Indiana back to promise. He negotiated an eight-year contract ("It didn't start out that way," he said with a smile) that gives him a chance to methodically crawl out of the smoking crater in which he currently resides. The guy would rather milk goats for a living than lose, but he has the contractual latitude to go about this the right way.

Two things: in two years, when IU is still looking up at Northwestern in the Big 11 standings, it won't matter how long the fucker's contract is. And two: once Crean 'n Crimson is run out of Indiana, his next job will likely involve some form of goat milking. You think your alleged "friends" in the coaching industry are going to hook you up with an assistant's job when you so cavalierly toss them under the bus for your benefit? Give Kelvin a ring in a couple years. I'm sure he'll take the call.

Still, that's always easier said in May than done in February. At a school that is accustomed to success, humility and patience are in small supply. Perhaps that's why a local banker who introduced Crean to the throng said "nobody cares" about the coach's bio.

"We want to know how you're going to win, when you're going to win and who you're going to win with," the banker said.

First he's going to win with his mouth.

I know what you want me to say here. It's too easy.

Crean simply cannot and will not shake enough hands, sign enough things and kiss enough babies over the next year or two. Because the victories will be slow to come on the court, he'd better win the PR campaign first.

That isn't a problem. Crean doesn't just coach a good game, he talks one, too.

No disagreement on the latter point. (I do wonder, though, how well Tan Tommy's huckster routine is going to play in Indiana. There was always a certain segment of the Marquette community, especially those of us who are from / stayed in Wisconsin, that rolled its eyes at TC's schtick. So, I see one of two things happening: either TC ends up like Harold Hill when the people of River City finally figure out he's full of shit -- and by 'end up like Harold Hill,' I don't mean: 'fucking the town librarian,' I mean 'being chased by angry townspeople who are searching for the highest tree and the shortest rope in the area' -- or the goddamn hayseeds buy into his cocksmoke-and-mirrors wholesale. After living through Kelvin Sampson, somehow I don't think the second scenario will play out.

As for the former point -- that TC coaches a good game, too -- let's just say that, at best, the jury is still out on that one. In fact, the jury's been out for a damn long time, about nine years. Maybe someone should check on the jury. I imagine it's getting pretty fucking stinky in the deliberation room.

...

OK, we checked on the jury. Yep, they're dead. You read it here first -- Tom Crean: Murderer.

That Escalated Quickly

Just when you thought Dave Bush was the only Brewers pitcher who enjoyed pissing away the countless opportunities he's been given...

NOT SO FAST, MY FRIEND!

Enter Seth "MC Lung" McClung. In terms of why he's ineffective, he's the yin to Dave Bush's yang: whereas Dave Bush sports a 85-mph fastball that doesn't fucking move and an 82-mph change-up that also doesn't fucking move, MC Lung comes atcha with a straight-as-an-arrow 95-mph fastball and an even straighter 97-mph fastball.

Now, most professional athletes don't have to split time between the big leagues and MENSA, but you don't have to be rocket scientist material to figure out when an opposing pitcher is only throwing fastballs. You know why a guy gets sent to the bullpen in the first place? Because he doesn't have a third pitch (or, sometimes, a good second pitch). And if you don't have a third pitch (or a good second one), you can't work through a batting order more than one time.

That's what happened to Chuck New Town this year. His change-up is really good, but his fastball is very ordinary and his curve looks an awful lot like his change-up. And wonder of wonders -- he runs into trouble all the time in the fourth or fifth innings!

I suspect King Ned knows this as well. This is the one time I'll actually feel some form of sympathy for that asshat: he was supposed to have eight starting pitchers to choose from at the start of the year. Now he has to run out MC Lung. Fuck me. That ain't right.

The Question on the Mind of Every Milwaukeean:

Courtesy of JSOnline's online poll:

Do you think the Sausage Race is rigged?
  • YES
  • NO
  • Are you fucking kidding me? Are you really going to market yourself as a "newspaper" when you put shit like this on your website? Did anybody associated with this rag attend journalism school? Is Anthony Witrado preparing a hard-hitting expose on the suspect training methods of the Italian sausage?


Wednesday, May 28, 2008

The Billy Hall Conundrum

I didn't attend UWM, so I don't have an abiding man-love for everything Bill Hall. Just because his name fits with the "Bruce-clap-clap-clap-clap-Pearl-clap-clap-clap-clap" cheer and he has a couple of game winning hits does not make him a good ball player. He is your classic Hop On fan favorite. "He did something cool at a game I went to once so I'll love him forever" pretty much sums up his fans.

That being said, here's my pro and con list on whether to platoon or not to platoon Billy.

To platoon
  • Maybe this is some Ned Yost psych-out bullshit to get Billy pissed and hungry. It certainly seemed to work last night
  • Billy is about 1 for 387 against righties this year
Not to platoon
  • Russell BRAN-YAN swings and misses more than Bobbo hunting for 'tang for Philly. Note, this is note a rip on Philly, just a comment on how creepy Bobbo can be - in a demented skinny guy sort of way
  • Branyan is a downgrade defensively. I understand that Billy has had his struggles lately, but, come on, there's a reason Billy was brought in last night
  • Branyan runs the bases like Frankenstein, at least Billy can provide some speed
  • This could destroy any confidence Billy has left
  • This could negatively impact the clubhouse b/c, from what I can see, Billy is a popular player

There you have it, an exhaustive list (kinda, not really). I think Billy should be playing every day, even though I think he is overrated. After all, we have no place else to go.

Julian Tavarez really? Like, really really?

That's what I first thought when I heard the Brewers had acquired the veteran reliever that I was unaware was even still in the big leagues. "He's gotta be like 60 by now," I thought, "How is he going to help anything?" The things that first came to mind when I thought of Julian Tavarez (pronounced Joo-lian... or is it Hoo-lian?) was him breaking his hand on the bullpen phone in the 2004 playoffs, hitting lots of batters (Top 100 all-time with 91 career hit batsmen), starting a brawl or four along the way, and playing for more teams than Todd Zeile (not really, but almost). Oh, and the thing that everyone thinks of, dude is fucking UGLY. I'm usually not one to throw stones when it comes to a dude's looks. No woman is ever gonna refer to me as a good lookin' man, except maybe a stripper trying to extract a few extra Kroners out of me (successfully). But damn man, I'll make an exception for Tavarez. So add that all up and you get an aging, hot-headed, ugly, super journeyman reliever that was discarded by the Red Sox. Whoopty-fuckin-doo!

However, last night when he was predictably thrown into a tight game like 15 minutes after getting into town, he showed me something that may change my opinion on the matter. He did something that has been soooo rare for Brewer relievers this year; he came in and threw STRIKES (gasp)! Now, I'm not saying that this is the acquisition that is going to reverse the fortunes of this team. I know I'm putting way too much into his first appearance in a Brewer uniform. And I know that there will probably come a time when he ends up hurt or getting shelled in several appearances and he'll look like the donkey that I expected him to be. And I know that one of the people he mowed down last night was Tim Hudson, who should NOT have been batting for himself at that point. But if someone else (Mota) would've come out of the bullpen and walked Hudson on 4 pitches it would've been a shock to absolutely no one. All I'm saying is that it was nice to see a guy come out and throw strikes for a change. Relievers help their cause immensely by not coming in and putting 2 guys on base right away. Hopefully we get this on a consistent basis out of Joo or Hoo-lian.

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Even in Victory, Dave Bush Hurts Me

He gives up homers to two fucking nobodies, and I'm getting all ready for my first "I thought Bushie threw the ball well" post, and blam -- the idiot goes out and throws seven solid innings. Asshole.

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

The Man Love Abounds for Corey Hart

This is from Gery (I checked that three times, so it's accurate) Woelfel from the Racine Journal Times. (I was checking my little brother's box scores, that's why.) Let's look at this baby Fire Joe Morgan-style:

BREWERS' BEST PLAYER? IT COULD BE COREY HART


I am intrigued by your ideas and would like to subscribe to your newsletter.


It’s not hard to figure out why the Milwaukee Brewers are foundering these days:


I have a few ideas. Just off the top of my head, I'd say the manag--

And, no, it’s not because of manager Ned Yost.

Oh. I see. Might have to re-think that subscription.

The Brewers are stumbling because many of their key performers have stumbled.

'Stumbled' isn't the word I'd use. I'd go with 'played like fucking horseshit for the majority of the year.' Toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe.

Consider the culprits:

Bill Hall. Major disappointment.

Fair enough, though I'm beginning to think more and more that his 2006 year was a complete fluke: a decent player on a really shitty team playing without expectations and without an increasingly-vociferous fanbase on his ass.

Jeff Suppan. Disappointment.

Let's make this clear at the get-go: I fucking hate Jeff Suppan. I hate that we're paying him $10 million per. I hate that he's signed for two more goddamned years. I hate that I'm supposed to accept the fact that his career WHIP is close to 1.5 because he 'pitches to contact.' I hate that the pitchers who are listed on baseball-reference.com as being most similar to Jeff Suppan are Jaime Navarro, Esteben Loaiza, and Pedro Astacio. I hate his well-manicured goatee. No me gusta Jeff Suppan.

Now, having said that, I don't consider Jeff Suppan a disappointment. Jeff Suppan is what he is. (And don't say that he's a 'gamer'; gamer is a euphemism for 'below average, but makes it look like he's trying real hard.') The fact that we were dumb enough to pay him $40 million just because he pitched well in two NLCS games doesn't make Jeff Suppan a disappointment. This is exactly what I expected from Jeff Suppan.

J.J. Hardy. Mild disappointment.

But MAJOR HOTTIE! Woot woot! Yum yum gimme some!

Prince Fielder. Mild disappointment.

Disagree, citing examples. Prince is the biggest disappointment on this team. Not because the homers aren't there, not because his defense has fallen off from its already-low standard, not because his pre-game meal consists of Ding Dongs, Tootsie Pops, and two-liters of Coke -- because he has turned into a sullen asshole. All the talk last year about how this was his team, despite the fact that he was only twenty-two? Gone.

I'm not saying I'm entirely surprised by this; he grew up expecting to be a professional baseball player, his dad is apparently an enormous douchefucker (literally and figuratively), and his agent is Scott Boras. Still, it is kind of sad.

Cue Bright Eyes.


Rickie Weeks. Major disappointment.

Nah. You can't be a disappointment if you've never done anything.

When you get right down to it, one of the few everyday players who has actually overachieved this season is Corey Hart.

The Brewers’ right fielder is quietly enjoying a banner season. Hart is batting a team-high .302 -- well above his career average of .287 – and has an on-base percentage of .354.

OK. This is in no way a knock on my mancrush. But saying he's overachieving and citing to his fucking batting average? For his career, he's gotten a hit 29% of the time. This year, he's getting a hit 30% of the time; that's not "well above" his career standard. That's, what, two extra hits a month? Who gives a shit?

Why not try a semi-meaningful stat? Check out his OPS. Last year it was .895. This year it's .825.

So, no, I don't think I'd say Corey Hart is overachieving. I'd just say: Corey Hart is a MAN, and he's just confirming it with his play so far.

Get the Geritol Ready

With the signing of The Corpse of Julian Tavarez today, the average age of the Brewers bullpen shot up to 52.2 years. My God -- between Shouse, Mota, Torres and Tavarez, we're going to need to put rocking chairs out in the 'pen instead of benches. Billy Castro's title is going to be changed from Bullpen Coach to Rouser. As in:

CASTRO: Julian! Wake up!

TAVAREZ: Huh? What? Is that you, Lord?

CASTRO: No, dipshit, it's Castro. Wake the fuck up! Bushie threw the ball good today, but he had a problem in the fifth. We're down 12-2. You're in.

All that said, the fact that most of our bullpen is eligible for AARP does present certain possibilities. Maybe we could supplement the sausage race with a bedpan race -- brought to you by (of course) Direct Supply. Hook it up, D's 3Some.

Final Tallies

These are not the official numbers for The Great White Excursion to the Great White North; these numbers have to be verified by our official accountant, Softball's Tony Gwynn:

Number of stadiums (stadia?) visited:
two. I thought Comerica was pretty cool, except for the string a questions about why we were all wearing Brewers gear. (I mean, is it that hard to piece it together? Ten guys...all wearing Brewers shirts...save for the guy in the pink Joe Mauer tee...what the shit did you think we were doing there?) I also enjoyed that almost every Detroiter asked us what our ultimate destination was. Everybody in Detroit seemed to know that we were just passing through on our way somewhere else. There's like an unspoken understanding that their city is dead. Your trip begins at michigan.org, indeed.

The Toronto Mausoleum was a different story. It wasn't as dated as I thought it would be, but Jesus Christ, would it kill you to play the "CHARGE" riff every once in a while? The only time anybody got out of their seats was during the seventh inning stretch, when they played that fucked up "Let's Go Jays!" song. And let me say this: if it is your life's ambition to see 15,000 Canadians rise in unison, sing about the joys of baseball, and make disturbingly-coordinated arm movements ("let's play ball!" raise right arm "go Jays go!" raise both arms "what a great day!" scissor kick), well, friend, Toronto is the city for you. Devil's Threesome and I stood there for a good five minutes, jaws agape, burrows frowed, just trying to figure out what the fuck had happened. Seriously -- is there a training video before the season starts? Do they broadcast this shit on public television? It was like watching wildebeest mate.

Number of strip clubs visited: again, two, and I had impressions of each that were eerily similar to the impressions of the ballparks. The Brass Rail was pretty cool; I liked that they had a giant billboard over the entrance to the club that had half-naked ladies on it. I'm in favor of putting your cards on the table -- just announce "HERE BE SIN" to the world and get on with it. The talent wasn't bad, and the beers were only $10.

The Fillmore, conversely -- I can't say much more than what has already been said below. I'm not involved in marketing or advertising, so I don't know if this is some new trend in the business, but if you're going to market yourself as a strip club, you should probably have, um, strippers. Because if you don't, and it's just guys inside drinking overpriced drinks and not having women flash their pooters, you're basically a gay bar.

Number of times Sheets' Va Jay Jay mentioned Matt Damon in his sleep: one, that we know of. And it might not have been the right time to bring it up, but his point was valid: if you're looking for a girl scout, Matt Damon is your best bet.

Number of toilets plugged:
1 -- and on the first attempt, too! I think that's a record (probably an often-tied record, but a record nonetheless).

Number of prostitutes solicited: ERROR. This data is not contained in this file. Please enter your query again and push enter.

Number of girlfriends/wives dismayed: at least three, that I'm aware of. (To quote Mrs. Rubie Q last night: "I don't care if you get a lap dance. But don't get one from the ugliest fucking stripper in the place! That's just disgusting!" My attempts to explain that: (1) getting a lap dance from the ugliest stripper in the place was not my idea and (2) I took an extended shower after the encounter (there really is no other word for what happened back there) were not well-received.)

Feel free to add any numbers I've missed.

Monday, May 26, 2008

Filmore = Worst...Strip Club...Ever


Well, we just got back from a "strip club" called the Filmore here in Toronto. For all those who have been to Art's Performing Center in Milwaukee, imagine Art's with uglier strippers and then take the number of strippers at Art's and multiply it by 1/12 and you get an approximation of the Filmore experience. I mean, fuck, man, with a name like "Filmore" certain things are expected, but all those expectations were not approached. First off, there were about 6 people in the joint, never a good sign. Then, the best looking whore was named "Mystery." What? Destiny was taken? I didn't personally witness any heroin tracks on the girls' arms, but makeup can cover a lot. I have tried to block out the rest so no more details can be provided. I hope that the bachelor enjoyed his travails in there.

Because of the overall shittiness of the place and because we didn't want to contract the clap, we bolted for more verdant pastures, ie, the Novotel in T-town. As of now, we are watching the Terry Goins's special, "Boy Meets World." SBTG is claiming that Topanga is fat. Assuming that she is of the age of consent, and hell, even if she's not, I'd give it a whirl. Time to look up some pron on Sheets' Va Jay Jay's computer.

Sunday, May 25, 2008

This rave needs some manners.

Bachelor party day 2...and 3 I guess.  None of us have been arrested and we have not caused an international incident yet.  I think that sounds like a success to me.  The country of Canada have welcomed us with open arms.  We have had our share of Molson, said aboot a few times, and even took in a baseball game.  Since this is mainly a sports blog (mainly) I suppose we should talk about that.  We saw the Blue Jays take on, and defeat, the Royals of Kansas City.  Skydome...er...Rogers Center is pretty nice.  Incredibly big with some horrible seats, but not ours.  We were in the first and second row of the field level in the outfield.  We had good sightlines and we were even in the shade for the whole game.  Since we are all incredibly white, that was a nice thing.  The in-game entertainment was very weak at Rogers Center.  It was like watching a game in a library.  They hardly played any music or sound effects during the innings.  They did an okay job with the mid-inning breaks, but in-game entertainment was weak.  We also had the pleasure of seeing a real closer.  B.J. Ryan came in and took care of business.  He also gets bonus points for having Slipknot as his entrance music.  We all commented that we forgot what a real closer does.  It was said best when the bachelor himself said, "It's bad when you pray for a double play ball when your closer comes in."  He's right.  Even before any closer wearing a Brewers uniform comes in you know you are going to need a double play ball.

Most of us were dressed in Brewers clothes today.  The locals really took a liking to us.  We stopped by a very nice brewery where a guy bought us some beer and talked about how much he liked Miller Park when he visited.  He also tried to talk one of us into trading our Brewers shirt for his shirt (I would have, but I was too chubby to fit into his... no one wants fat guy in a little shirt).  We also ran into some people from Milwaukee.  Small world.

So, I bet you are wondering why this entry is titled, "This rave needs some manners."?  Well, last night we enjoyed a wonderful night out on the town.  We stopped at some nice places and got our dance on.  After it was all done, we asked if there was a good place for an A-Bar.  They all told us to go to the Government.  Interesting sounding, and my oh my it was interesting.  It was, for lack of a better term, a rave.  There was loud, bad, and body shaking house music.  There were lights flashing and I'm sure that anyone prone to seizures would have had a major problem.  There were also kids walking around selling freezy pops.  Awesome!  I basically found most people at this "party" to be quite rude.  The bathroom was the worst place.  People just budging in front of everyone and people stepping on everyone else to get anywhere.  It would be a bad idea to wear new shoes there if you don't want them scuffed.  I was also a little disappointed to not see anyone taking drugs and or overdosing from drugs taken earlier.  Oh well, there is always tonight.

Enjoy Memorial Day everyone.  

Saturday, May 24, 2008

Where is the nice downtown?

That is my question to you Detroit.  Where is the nice downtown?  My friends and I are on a bachelor party trip of epicness (that's not a real word, but I like it).  Our first stop was in Detroit for a Tigers game.  Comerica is a really nice park and we had a good time.  I was not a fan of the scoreboard.  You can do better than that Comerica.  The worst part was driving in.  Man, Detroit is one crappy looking city as you drive in.  I have never seen so many falling down buildings in a major city before.  Especially in the downtown area.  I see why Michael Wilbon calls it Beirut.

The only good thing about seeing all this crappiness was that we got to make several Robocop jokes.  There really is nothing like a good Robocop joke.

So, back to this bachelor party business.  Day one was a smashing success.  We hit up Bell's Brewery in Kalamazoo and then Detroit.  We had a post-game beer at Hockeytown (I really dislike the Red Wings, but it was kind of a cool bar), we then hit up the Old Shillelagh which was a good place if you like to grind on girls (and who doesn't?).  We ended the evening at the Greektown Casino.  We all survived and no one got arrested.

We head for Toronto in a couple of hours where we will talk with mounties, drink milk from a bag, and take in a Blue Jays game.*  There will be more posts dealing with this trip tomorrow if the internets exist in Canada.  Otherwise they will come on Monday.

And to end this post in the best way possible...a picture.


*only one of these things may be true.

Friday, May 23, 2008

Hop ons. You will have hop ons.

First off, I would like to welcome myself to the world of sports blogging.  Is anyone going to read this besides the 4 guys posting here... probably not.  Oh well.

As my fellow bloggers and I prepare to embark on a trip, in only a couple of hours, that will include visits to two major league parks, it got me thinking about the Milwaukee Brewers.  We at Quevedo at the Buffet all love the Brewers.  We are the "true" fans that always follow the team.  We argue amongst each other non-stop.  We dissect every little move made and we research things that have happened or need to happen (Emoney should have a doctorate at it at this point).  Back to thinking about the beloved crew.  I remember last year at this time that there were a lot of Brewers' fans.  I repeat, a lot of Brewers' fans.  People were so excited.  It was the 25th anniversary of an okay team that lost to a better team in the World Series.  (This still blows me away.  Would you see the Yankees celebrating the time they lost?  No way.  I know they have won... a lot... but still.  What does it say about your ball club, your city, when you celebrate the time you almost won something.  Imagine if this rule applied to everyday life.  We would have lonely men celebrating that one time 5 years ago they almost got laid.  You could celebrate that one time you almost got a job.  Celebrate that time when you almost won the battle of the bands... I digress.)

Back to my point.  There were a lot of Brewers' fans coming out of the woodwork last year.  That will happen when a team actually shows some life.  I remember being excited when we didn't have a losing record two seasons ago.  We didn't have a winning record, but hell, we didn't have a losing one either.  Now we get to the Hop ons.  Most people call them bandwagon fans, but I'm going to call them hop ons.  Why?  Because I think it is funnier, and I love the show Arrested Development.  I'm not a huge fan of hop ons, but they have their place.  They make our team sell more tickets, take in more revenue, and give away more interesting bobble-heads.  The one thing they do that I can't stand... dumb down the ballpark.  You've seen these fans.  Just go to any Cubs game.  They are everywhere.  They have no idea what inning it is.  No idea who is on the team.  No idea that you shouldn't do the wave...ever!  And no idea that they are a hop on.  Now, I hate to put every hop on in this category.  I will fully admit that I am a hop on for the Bucks.  If they are playing well I will watch more games.  Hell, I might even go to one in person.  But when they suck, I pay no attention to the NBA at all.  There is no way I could even tell you all the teams that made the playoffs this year.

Does this post have a point?  I'm not sure.  Part of me really wanted to type something so our creator wouldn't be the only one doing it.  Another part of me really wanted to type a post about hop ons.  Another part of me was just so excited about the trip to Detroit and Toronto this weekend that I couldn't sleep anymore.  I guess what I'm basically saying is that hop ons have their place.  Sure they do stupid things, but who doesn't.  Just please stop doing the wave.  Please.  I can handle hop on things like people pledging to pee their pants for the Brewers last year (now that was funny).  I can even handle some more stupid fans at the ball park... wait... I can't handle that one.  I guess I really have no good way to end this post, so I'll end it this way.

Hop ons.  You'll have hop ons.


Thursday, May 22, 2008

The Return of McSteal

In news that sent tremors through absolutely nowhere, Marquette guard Jerel McNeal announced today that he's returning for the Fuck Tom Crean Memorial Tour next season. He'll be performing on the main stage with the other returning members of the Big Three --

(Let's stop here for a moment. We couldn't come up with a better nickname for James, McNeal, and Matthews than "the Big Three"? It's the most overrused group nickname ever. For God's sake, Ray "Soft as Charmin" Allen, Sam "Alien" Cassell, and Glenn "Most Terrifying Person Dribbling in Open Court Ever" Robinson were called the Big Three at one point. I hereby submit the Holy Trinity as the nickname for the trio. You don't like it? The line to blow me starts right back there.)

(And, no, I'm not worried about the blasphemy. I don't go to church anymore, so I'm outside God's jurisdiction....Holy shit, was that lightning?)

Anyway -- he'll be back with the other members of the Holy Trinity (TM) as they give a collective and emphatic middle finger to Tom Crean, Indiana basketball, the Indiana administration, and, basically, the entire fucking state of Indiana. (You know why Tom Crean kept saying "It's Indiana. It's Indiana" at his press conference? Because he wanted to keep the discourse at a level that the whole state could understand. Fucking dipshit hayseeds.)

Early, conservative predictions for Jerel's final year: 28.1 points, 12.2 rebounds, 8.9 assists, and 9.7 steals per game.

Update on the Quest for a Corey Hart T-Shirt.

Earlier this year (but not in this space), I recounted my attempt to secure a Corey Hart jersey tee from my beloved gramama. Said attempt resulted, not altogether unpredictably, in no Corey Hart jersey tee, and ultimately led me to purchase a $10.99 Prince Fielder jersey tee at TJ Maxxxx. (Why hasn't some young up-and-comer in the porn industry adopted this as his/her name yet?) Said purchase was promptly followed by Prince (1) apparently eating truckloads full of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups; (2) deciding that he was going to look as unhappy as possible at all times, save for when he's dropping throws or muffing grounders at first; and (3) ceding his mantle of Team Leader to Ryan J. Braun.

(Note: Braun received overwhelming support in his application to join the Corey Hart 'I Am A MAN' Club after his two-homer day against Josh A-Beckett in Boston. Seriously, did you see the look on Braun's face after he hit the second homer? The one that said: 'How dare you throw me a hanging slider with two strikes. Look what I do with it.' The chutzpah (Yiddish term) of this kid! I love it. I fucking love it. If we had the technology, I would make that chutzpah into a nice pesto and feed it to the rest of the team after every game.)

So, Mrs. Rubie Q (Simmons can do it, so can I) and I are at the mall on Sunday, and after I hold her purse for an hour, I get to go to the Brewers Clubhouse store. I'm in heaven. Jersey tees are coming out their arseholes -- and No. 1 jerseys are plentiful...

In sizes XXL through XXXL.

It seems I am not alone in my love for Corey Hart. Well, I think, maybe I can work a double XL. This thought quickly passes. I can't pull off an XXL. I look like a fucking hobbit. (Second Lord of the Rings reference this week! Fuck yeah!) I look like I'm wearing a fucking mu mu. This will not do.

Now, right next to the navy Corey Hart tees are old school, royal blue Corey Hart tees. And now begins the internal debate:

(1) I need a Corey Hart tee. By going to Brewers games wearing a Prince Fielder tee, yet professing that Corey Hart is my favorite Brewer, I am a fucking poser. I need a Corey Hart tee.

(2) I am uncomfortable with the retro unis. I've got the old ball-and-mitt logo cap, but that's because it's the coolest goddamn logo ever. I was nine before I realized that the glove had the 'mb' in it. (That's a defining moment in a young Wisconsinite's life. It's like the first time you got a Magic Eye to work. It's a fucking sailboat!) I didn't like Retro Sundays, I like Retro Fridays even less, and I remain of the opinion that we look like fucking idiots getting in a tizzy over a team that lost the fucking World Series twenty-five years ago.

(3) I look good in royal blue. It's my best color. I can't do orange, I struggle with yellow, red and green are just OK, purple is out of the question -- royal blue is my color. If I was thinking about joining a gang, even if the Bloods made a really good recruiting pitch, I'd have to be a Crip.

No. 3 tipped the scale. And that's why y'all get to look cool by association when I'm sporting my royal blue Corey Hart tee in Comerica tomorrow. You're welcome.

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

An Amazing Display of Stamina

Somehow, someway Ben Sheets' vagina was able to maintain its structural integrity in a 9-inning, 123-pitch outing. Probably the most impressive display of endurance by a cha-cha since Jenna Jameson's pooter got pounded by 58 dudes in Gangbang Warfare 8.

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

'The Blogger Made Me Do It'

Outrage on the Brewers Blog at JSOnline today, as Milwaukee Brewers Reportage Czar (MBRC) Tom Haudricourt linked to a post on something called the 'Badger Blogger' -- that's your first problem right there, MBRC Tom Haudricourt; anything that's got 'Badger' in the title should be avoided like a syphilitic whore -- that claimed that King* of the Milwaukee Brewers Ned Yost would be fired on the team's off-day on Monday. This 'Badger Blogger' fellow (or lass) claims that a source on the team provided this information, but says it cannot be confirmed.

(Note: henceforth, Ned Yost will be referred to by some variation of King, His Highness, His Majesty, etc. Why? Because "manager" implies, however slightly, that you've actually done something to earn the position. What the fuck has Ned Yost done to earn his job? Best I can tell, his main qualifications are: (1) he played for the Brewers; (2) he was fortunate enough to be here in '82; (3) he was employed for a number of years by a team that is managed by Bobby Cox. In sum, then, he got his job because he's been around for a long time. Isn't that how kings get their jobs? Around long enough, somebody dies or is beheaded, new guy takes over. That's Ned.)

(Also, it is becoming more and more likely that, to dethrone King Ned, we will need to organize some kind of coup.)

For some reason, MBRC Tom Haudricourt feels the need to post this admittedly unconfirmed piece of "information" on his blog, all the while saying: "I think this is nonsense." So then he calls one of his inside sources, who tells him: "This is nonsense." And then he talks to Melvin, who says: "This is nonsense." And then he has to put up another blog post, saying "I've confirmed this is nonsense. I would also like to point out that it was my original opinion that this was nonsense. You were a bad boy, Badger Blogger, and I was a bad boy for listening to you. Forty lashes each."

Now, if you're like me, you repeatedly hit your head against the wall to try to forget that you ever read this shit. What the fuck was the point of this? Is MBRC Tom Haudricourt so terrified of being scooped by some anonymous whose-it that he's going to post shit like this every day?

(Note: The JS has been getting scooped an awful lot lately. Favre calls Chris Mortenson to announce his retirement, Andy Katz reports that Crean is leaving for Indiana, Mo Williams called Homer to ask where he could send a refund check for all the money he stole from Bucks' fans this year...)

(Note note: THE LAST ITEM IS UNTRUE. An NBA player would never give up any of his money. Families to feed, and all.)

Anyway, in the interest of rumor-mongering, I submit the following for MBRC Tom Haudricourt's perusal. If, perchance, he finds his way here -- and that's a hell of a perchance -- I invite him to post his favorite of the following:

(1) A source within the Brewers informs me that hamsters were served in the post-game buffet after the Red Sox game on Sunday. An unwitting Prince Fielder ate two before realizing what they were, then gorged himself on three three-pound bags of Skittles and six Cherry Cokes.

(2) Rickie Weeks is Ned Yost's bastard son.

(3) Melvin tried to get in touch with Mikey "Serve 'Em Up" Fetters about un-retiring and taking over the closer role, but "Serve 'Em Up's" last known number was disconnected. Melvin is now scouring homeless shelters trying to find Fetters.

Enjoy!

Monday, May 19, 2008

The Fat Man

So there's a big hubbub in spring training because Prince Fielder and his man-tits announce that Prince isn't going to be eating meat anymore. Something about how he saw how a steak is actually made or something like that, and now he can't stomach the thought of eating meat anymore. (Which raises a whole 'nother issue: why in the name of God are you witnessing the meat-making process? You know when someone is talking about the unsavory, unseen aspect of something -- most often in politics -- and they say that you don't want to see how the sausage is made? They don't use that metaphor just for shits and giggles; no, they use that specific metaphor because it's the most fucking disgusting thing in the history of mankind. I threw up, just right now, just by writing about it. Seriously. I'm in a puddle of vomit because I thought about how sausage is made. So what the fuck is Prince doing taking a tour of the Jennie-O factory?)

So, anyway, Prince is a vegetarian. Fine. This label -- vegetarian -- makes me thinks Prince will be eating Caesar salads and rice and California rolls and shit like that. Great. Bully for him. Should help him shed a couple pounds and maybe downsize to a C-cup. I mean, when you switch from double cheeseburgers to tofu, that's what's supposed to happen, right?

That is not what has happened. After watching Prince's boobs smack into his face as he jogged around the bases yesterday, it's clear that the weight isn't coming off. And then I realized: this guy isn't a vegetarian; he's just eating fucking candy all day long. He swore off burgers for Rollos, chicken for Tootsie Pops. His eyesight seems impaired, so he's apparently not eating any carrots; if he was, there's no way that ball clanks off his glove yesterday when Hardy throws a perfect strike to him. (Watch the replay in slow-mo: you can see Prince begin to say "Niiiicccceeee playyyyy..." and then go "Ohhh fucckkkk" when the ball smacks off his mitt.)

I'm calling for transparency here. Out with it, Prince. Start wearing one of those candy necklaces out to the field and munch on it in between pitches. Keep a Snickers under your hat. Hide a Twizzler or two underneath the rosin bag at the mound. The world will be much sweeter (ha! candy metaphor!) when you stop living a lie.

Opening Salvo

It has come to this.

I think that sets an appropriately melo-fucking-dramatic tone for this ill-gotten foray into the Realm of Blogdome. (Fuck me, that sounds like a country in Lord of the Rings, doesn't it? "And now, young hobbits, we come to the Realm of Blogdome." I would throw in a buck-oh-five to hear Ian McKellan say that, wouldn't you? Oh, sure, like I'm the only one on the entire goddamn Internets who likes Lord of the Rings. Go ahead and judge me, asshat.)

(And by the way, having watched the extended editions of the Lord of the Rings this weekend -- let's just lay all those Nerd Cards on the table right now -- I need to say that casting Elijah Wood as Frodo is one of the worst moves in the history of cinema. Mr. Wood is No. 2 on my list of "People Who Should Not Play Frodo," right behind that dude who played Dawson on Dawson's Creek. Read the books -- Frodo was a fucking bad-ass. He was like a tiny, medieval version of Shaft. He wasn't a whiny bitch who spent most of his time playing grab-ass with Sam. I swear to God, every time Peter Jackson couldn't think of anything for Frodo and Sam to do, he said: "Oy [in my mind, New Zealanders begin every sentence with 'oy'], maybe you boys could have a cry for a minute or so." This, apparently, shows how heavy Frodo's burden is. You know what else would accomplish that? Having Frodo toss out a: "Fuck me, there's a lot of guys trying to kill me" every once in a while. But that's probably too subtle.)

Anyway, this isn't about Lord of the Rings. It's about a kid who grew up in Wisconsin watching Paul Molitor and Robin Yount and Jim Gantner and Chris Bosio and Teddy Higuera and Dan Plesac and Greg Brock and Chuck Crim (google that one, my friends), and who, as a 12-year-old, watched the Brewers somehow go 92-70...and then promptly lose The Ignitor (y'all came up with some wretched nicknames in the '80s) to the fucking Blue Jays.

You know what? That's all you need to know. That's life as a Brewer fan, right there. Paulie hits .320, steals 31 bases, drives in 89 and scores 89, we finish four games out, and then the bastard goes and wins a World Series with the fucking Blue Jays. (I know that's the second time I said "fucking Blue Jays." I apologize to our brothers from the North. I don't say it with malice; more bemusement. Honestly -- the fucking Blue Jays?!?)

Now, on the heels of a season in which we pissed away the division (due, in large part, to the facts that our best starting pitcher's vagina is unable to withstand the rigors of a 32-start season, and that our manager suffered an epic and public meltdown at the most critical juncture of the season), the Brewers again find themselves in last place, behind even the Pirates, who used to pick up our cast-offs like we were St. Vincent DePaul. (Helloooo, Jeromy Burnitz!)

So, in lieu of breaking another remote control against the wall, I'll try this as an outlet. Come along as one man screams himself hoarse while talking to no one in particular.