09.26.07
it’s official: dodgers take an early vacation
With yesterday’s loss against the Colorado Rockies, the Dodgers were officially eliminated from the NL Wild Card race. Now that it’s a done deal, I can only wish that dear old Gonzo won’t be playing much, and Kent will sit out due to whatever bodily harm Yorvit Torrealba may have caused (what a bizarre play; they were basically hugging each other by home plate). And that a good Samaritan will dislocate Bill Plaschke and TJ Simers’ fingers. And glue their mouths shut, preferably to each others’.
While we’re wishing, I want a pony and a bronzed masterpiece of a man to feed me grapes, Grecian style.
Grossman will suck even more, Belichick will continue to be a jackass, the NFL will be obscenely profitable, TO will get in trouble, and Dallas will crush the Pats in February. Can we call it a season and fast forward to April? No?
Three months of football… I don’t think I’m going to make it (sob).
09.25.07
you hear that? that’s the sound of me banging my head on the keyboard
Anyone with an e-mail address has probably been subject to these surveys: Favorite color? Favorite magazine? Favorite food? Favorite animal indigenous to the African continent? Diet Coke or Pepsi One? Blond with lowlights or brunette with highlights? Embarrassing childhood nicknames? Social Security number? Credit score?
I’m guilty of reading, answering and forwarding them, fully knowing that the responses to those particular questions don’t tell me much about the people on my mailing list. “Pfft, that fool likes meerkats. And burritos! He has to be a jerk.”
If I were so inclined, I would come up with more amusing and, well, more obnoxious ones:
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the inaugural asshat
Name: Milton Bradley, no relation to the board game pioneer
Profession(s): Outfielder, currently with the San Diego Padres; reoccurring clubhouse malignant tumor
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09.24.07
bend over, please
Currently, I work in a lab investigating prostate cancer. I don’t actually deal with the glands, and my experiments are conducted in vitro, thus not involving humans or any animals. But whenever I mention my job to a member of the not-so-fair sex, they respond with either 1) unnerving interest and an anecdote or four, or 2) a cringe, plus an involuntary clenching of their sphincters (I assume). A great majority fall under the latter category, and although most of the people I talk to are too young to think about prostate exams, they seem to have vivid imaginations. Based on my experiences, I have come to the very unscientific and largely unproven conclusion that guys = wusses.
Case in point: whenever women mention their menstrual cycles (or anything of the sort), guys run away screaming. Whenever they hear about their prostates, they cover their ears and babble. They have no problem thinking of and generally fantasizing about copulation, but when it comes to the actual mechanics, maintenance and anatomical plumbing involved, the smarmiest of men cross their legs and change the nature of the conversation.
happy 0th birthday!
Salma Hayek finally gave birth to her baby orca. I keed. Valentina Paloma Pinault was born sometime over the weekend. I’m sure Salma is very much relieved she finally has her daughter in her arms and not in her poor uterus. If I ever decide to have kids, I hope to look as comfortable as she does.
Considering how pregnancy-phobic I am (I’m a wuss with no tolerance for discomfort, let alone pain, and large breasts petrify me), I have an odd fascination with celebrity mothers-to-be. Probably because biology renders everyone commoners.
09.23.07
i’m related to a human trash can.
Living with my brother is like living with a rat with opposable thumbs and a bottomless pit of a stomach. He will eat anything and everything, from dried deli-sliced turkey to expired yogurt. If he had any penchant for coffee, I wouldn’t be surprised if he went after coffee grounds. Wet, grainy, twice-brewed coffee grounds.
2009 dodgers preview?
This lineup is v. v. exciting. If you exchanged Delwyn Young for Slappy, it’d be even more interesting, but I’m more than happy that Grady is giving the kids a shot.
Pierre, CF
Abreu, 2B
Kemp, RF
Loney, 1B
Martin, C
Ethier, LF
LaRoche, 3B
Hu, SS
Billingsley, P
It’s an understatement to say that these past few weeks have been disappointing: all those agonizing losses, the lackluster performances, Kent’s well-publicized (and perhaps misinterpreted?) vents and the inexplicable successes of the AZ D’backs. At least today’s win stopped that god-awful losing streak.
09.21.07
wanted: new ad campaign!
Being the dedicated television viewer that I am, I seem to come across more than my fair share of Carl’s Jr. ads. They’re not as stupid as the GEICO caveman ads, which are colossally stupid but, for better or worse, memorable. One of the more recent Carl’s Jr. segments shows this regular dude (read: overweight guy who looks like he might smell a bit) LICKING a cup filled with some orangey milkshake. The voiceover: “It could take you a while to realize it’s not a real orangesicle.”
I must have seen it about 62 times. And never have I been filled with a desire to ever, ever try one. My inner obsessive-compulsive cringes with every slobbery lick. Can you imagine all the outtakes? I bet his tongue was sandpapery by the end of the shoot.
Granted I’m probably not their target demographic; their spots seem to air mostly during Dodgers games and on SpikeTV (that, in itself, is another ugh). But there have to be more people in the world who see this as nothing short of fricking disgusting.
