Joe Sez

Milton Bradley thinks Cubs fans are racist. I wonder what Cubs fans think of Milton Bradley.

2010-03-10T09:39:00.011-06:00

Before I begin, I gotta say that anybody who disrespects someone because of the color of their skin is a friggin a-hole. There's simply no excuse for that. There are causes; most notably Pea Brain Syndrome, but that can be corrected if someone wants. So... no excuses. If that's you, please find another team besides the Cubs to root for.

Ok, so anybody hear what Milton Bradley said about Chicago Cubs baseball fans yesterday? Anybody kicked in the stomach, spit on or sucker punched yesterday? Kinda the same thing.

Now, I don't want any of you to think that I give a rat's ass about what Milton Bradley says about Cubs fans. But I just gotta respond to someone who takes a cheap shot at us—even if the source is a light-hitting, grossly over-paid, whining, sulking, pain-in-the-ass like the Monopoly guy. (He was called something else by Lou, but I'll just leave that one alone.)

Anyway, Bradley—a guy that's so beloved that he'd been on 8 different Major League ball clubs in 11 years—intimated that if you booed him on the field, you are a racist. Oh sure, yeah, that's right. Bradley got booed because of the color of his skin. Not the fact that he sucked in the field, or that he sucked at the plate, or that he sucked as a teammate. And lest we forget... his blockhead toss of the ball in the stands with only two outs, his not infrequent nuclear temper tantrums, and an attitude so bad that he was asked by management to pack up and go home before the end of the season.

Mr Happy went on to say that "unless you're Superman—you're Andre Dawson, you're Ernie Banks, you're in the Hall of Fame—then it's going to be tough" for African-Americans to play in Chicago. Gimme a friggin break. We love everybody. Show me a team that's sucked as much as we have in the last 100 years but still fills the stands with Jobe-like loyalty, and I'll show you the Red Sox. And we're exactly like the Red Sox, only more so. You don't have to walk on water to be loved in Chicago. All you gotta do is try, respect the game, and appreciate the fans that are lining your pockets with gold.

Bradley, on the other hand, says that things were so bad for him in Chicago that he "felt like a prisoner in [his] own home", he "ordered in every day" and "never went anywhere." Too bad that isn't quite true, cuz if he'd really not gone anywhere, he wouldn't have come to the damn ballpark either, and we would have been spared his season of discontent. Actually, it was only one of them, but it was the one we got to see up close and personal.

So, to the Mariners, I say good luck with that trade you made with us. You think it's cold and gray in Seattle? You ain't seen nothing yet. And to Cubs management, I ask if there's any way we can have our brief relationship with Milton Bradley annulled, like a bad marriage that shouldn't have happened in the first place. It would be good to have him stricken from the Cubs record, so as not to leave a permanent spot on the right field grass.

Joe

Mark McGwire comes clean? I think we're gonna need a little more soap.

2010-01-13T15:13:00.005-06:00

I got one friggin question for Mark McGwire... if performance-enhancing drugs don't enhance your performance, bat rack, then why are they called 'performance-enhancing drugs'?

I'd say the guy is smokin' crack, but crack probably doesn't have an any effect on him.

Whoever or whatever is controlling Big Mac — perhaps aliens, or maybe a wizard or Barry Bonds — has convinced him that he, Mark McGwire, is the only human on the planet that is immune to the effects of anabolic steroids. His physiology is different than the rest of us. He is a species of one.

Apparently, this major piece of beefcake doesn't think steroids had one iota of influence on his home run production; says the good Lord gave him the strength to be a home run hitter. Too friggin bad he didn't give him enough strength to tell the truth. I'll tell you what, pallie... you wanna see an enhanced performance? Google the Costas interview. McGwire could get a guest shot on Inside the Actor's Studio based on that. He's got the quivering lip. He's got the cracking voice. For a minute there I thought I was watching Vivien Leigh in Gone With the Wind. Criminy. Get me a tissue, Tito.

So I guess, according to the special sauce inside Big Mac's head, the Olympic Committee oughta rescind their ban on performance-enhancing drugs. Right?

Joe

The Cubs absolute, sure fire, guaranteed path to the World Series.

2010-01-13T14:56:00.003-06:00

Stand by your man? Not if he plays right field for the Cubs.

2009-12-13T17:01:00.003-06:00

You know, all this hubbub about Tiger Woods using his driver on every hole in sight got me thinking about Milton Bradley. Not cuz he can't keep his putter in his own bag, though. I mean, Milton's no prize, but as far as I know he doesn't try to score unless he's in uniform. He's not too good at it, but you know what I'm sayin', right?

Anyway, I'm thinking Elin Woods isn't gonna do the 'stand by your man' thing. She'd look like an idiot. Same goes for the Cubs and the Monopoly guy. I'll tell you this, my friend; if Stand by your Man had been penned by the twangy Joe Schlombowski rather than that country vixen, Tammy Wynette, it woulda gone a whole lot different...

(Alright, you gotta hear the tune in your head, now.)

Sometimes it's hard to be a Cubs fan

When you got an A-hole out in right

You'll have bad times

And he'll have mad times

Doing things that you don't understand

I could go on, but you get the point. And speaking of things I don't understand, I heard Billy Williams ain't ready to broom Bradley yet. And that just boggles the mind, doesn't it? How can B-Dub even have the first second of that thought enter his head without calling his doctor?! I mean really.

Joe

There's a sucker born every minute.

2009-12-09T13:42:00.005-06:00

P. T. Barnum had it right; there's a sucker born every minute. How else can you explain the fact that the Cubs continue to sell out every year, even though we haven't been to the big dance since 1945? And then there's that hundred year thing on top of it. Sheesh.

In keeping with Barnum's cynical yet surprisingly accurate credo, the Ricketts family supposedly says they're gonna keep ticket prices down due to this crap-ola economy we're in.

Yeah, right. Dry that one out and you can fertilize the lawn, pal.

Joe

Did Sammy Sosa's face get in the way of Tom Sawyer's paint brush?

2009-11-14T19:08:00.015-06:00

Somewhere over the rainbow, there was a guy named Sammy Sosa who looked like a dude. Not only that, but he looked like a dude from the Dominican—dark; good looking (uh, I mean... you know... for a guy); one that could snap you in two just by looking at you crooked. But on this side of the yellow brick road, my friend, we got ourselves a different kind of Sammy. I don't quite know what kind, but I can tell you this: This Sammy was definitely stealing signs from Michael Jackson.

Personally, I think what someone wants to do with their skin is between them and the mirror.

If it's a woman.

But if it's a guy, or say, a certain former Major League, Chicago Cubs version of the Sultan of Swat, then the only thing you oughta do with your skin is wash it, maybe put sun screen on it now and then, and shave the part where your beard comes out. And that last one... that's just optional. You start rubbing Nur76 or WD40 or, in this case, what appears to be gallons of Clorox on your skin, then... well... it's still not my business. But jeez, I'm gonna tell you what a jaggoff you are anyway.

So, Sammy, whatever crap that you've been smearing on your mug... stop it! You look like a friggin idiot. You look like a pasty white woman. You look like you wanna see the Wizard, pal. And if you do get in to see him, you be sure and ask him for a brain.

Joe

Cubs file for Chapter 11. It's about time.

2009-10-13T14:47:00.007-05:00

So, the Cubs filed for Chapter 11. Kinda poetic, don't ya think? But it's like Dr. Seuss poetic. Not Robert Frost or Robert Service or Shakespeare poetic. Although, this season was a comedy of errors. (Uh, for you White Sox fans... that was one of Shakespeare's plays.)

Anyway, it just seems fitting that the most pathetic baseball team in the history of history is declaring bankruptcy. I know, I know, it's just a technicality that will let the Ricketts family take over the club. It's not like they're breakin' up the team and selling off the jock straps. Although, I think I can get maybe two or three hundred thousand people who would agree that may not be such a bad idea.

One thing's for sure, the Monopoly guy has got to go. In fact, he oughta go directly to jail without passing Go, and without collecting $7,000,000. That's right, sports fans, Wiltin' Milton took home a seven with six zeros after it. And you know what we got for that? A .257 average, a whopping 12 dingers, and the attitude of an abused rottwieller. And who does he blame this on? Us; the fans; Chicago; the best fans and the best city in the world.

Hey, Mr Anger Management, why don't you just bite me! You ain't good enough to wear a Cubs uniform. Hell, you ain't good enough to wear a McDonald's uniform! (Those guys have to make change, which means they gotta count higher than 2.) I never heard of somebody being sent home early, but if it was cuz you were hurting the team, like Hendry said, you can count your lucky stars that it didn't happen sooner, pal. (That is, if there are less than three of them.) I mean it's not like your bat and glove did us any favors. In fact I've seen nicer swings in Cabrini-Green! And I don't give a crispy crap what the Player's Association says, I think you gotta know how to count to three if you're gonna play ball at the Major League level. Of course, you weren't really playing, you were just out there blaming the grass for being green. So I'm sure you'll sucker some team into giving you a job next season. We'll know who it is when the truck full of egg shells pulls up to their locker room. Take a hike, pallie.

Sorry. That last paragraph was intended just for the Milt Shake. I gotta go brat-itate, now. That's where I sit in a dark room and think about eating 3 or 4 brats with the works. Always calms me down.

Ok, I'm back. You should see the calm on may face. I look like I've been hypnotized by Kreskin. Anyway, part of me thinks Hendry oughta be on the Monopoly Guy's bus for making that deal in the first place. Gotta hand it to him, though, for sending the bum home early. It's like the Major League version of having to stand in the corner during class. Thumbs up on that one, Jimbo.

So what I think is that the Cubs should take this opportunity and sorta Chapter 11 the roster; do a little restructuring, especially with the Ricketts taking over. You know, clean slate and all. To me, that means a closer that does fine at Wrigley, but couldn't close an umbrella on the road... oughta hit the road. In my most fluent Fukudomese, I say sayonara, Gregg. I'd say sayonara Soriano too, but we're stuck with that friggin contract. Actually, I say it all the time just cuz I like the way it rolls off the tongue.

I could go on, but what's the point? It's not like what I think matters a hoot. But, my fellow bleacher bums, you might as well be prepared to make the new drought number "102," cuz unless a handful of over-paid, under-performing Cubs are replaced (yeah, right after hell freezes) or they somehow turn themselves into Albert Pujols over the winter (sure, and monkeys are gonna fly outta my butt) I don't think the word 'postseason' will be used in the same sentence as 'the Cubs' in 2010.

Of course, I could be wrong. But I'm not.

Why baseball kicks football's ass; reason 3,477.

2009-09-04T14:03:00.004-05:00

For all of you couch potato football fans out there, let me just remind you, again, that baseball kicks football's ass. To illustrate this point, I'd like to draw your limited attention span to baseball, which gave us grandpa Pedro Martinez outdueling Tim Lincecum last night, while football gave us LeGarrette Blount. Case closed, pal.

Somewhere Woody Hayes is smiling.

Joe

The Cubs are frustrating, but AT&T is a stupid name for a baseball park.

2009-08-15T20:21:00.006-05:00

Hey there, ring tones.

Having to move to San Francisco has been a series of kidney stone moments for me, only with extra large, economy-size beach balls instead of those little tiny stone doo-dads. Know what I'm sayin? But the biggest just-put-a-gun-to-my-head moment so far was trying to talk to a live human at AT&T. Not the park, the phone company. I bring this up for one reason only; to help put the frustrations of being a Cubs fan into perspective. Because let me tell you one thing, pallie, the curse of the goat is nothing compared to working your way through that friggin, pain-in-the-ass AT&T computer voice thingy. (No surprise that a loser club like the Giants would play in a park named after them.

I'd rather be forced to hold hands with Luis Castillo and watch a 24 loop of the Bartman play while wearing a Cardinals jersey and sitting next to that obnoxious San Diego Chicken (last name always omitted for obscenity reasons) than go through trying to find a human on AT&T's end of the telephone. And isn't that their friggin business, anyway?! Hey, AT&T! You're a phone company! You're supposed to answer the damn phone! Of course, Milton Bradley is supposed to know how to count to three and catch a baseball, and Soriano is supposed to hit 100 points higher for that ridiculous contract, and at least one of our closers is supposed to actually know how to close something other than an umbrella.

My point is, we Cubs die hards got a lot to be frustrated about, no doubt. But I'd rather put up with a hundred-plus year curse than the virtual eternity it took to get a pulse on the line at AT&T. And not only that, I had to do it twice. TWICE! Cuz the first time, when I was finally told I was being connected to a live person, I got cut off. But not before the line had that 'dead' sound for about 5 more minutes. You know, the sound where you think you got hung up on but you been waiting so long to talk to someone you don't want to risk hanging up, just in case that's how their phones sound when you're on hold. So I waited. Stupidly. This is AT&T's way of not having to deal with you. They're trying to frustrate you so you'll go away. At least the Cubbies aren't doing it on purpose. I don't think. Maybe Soriano, but not the rest of the guys.

So, our year has basically sucked... for a lot of reasons. And it's not looking good with Pujols swatting everything that comes into his zip code. But, I say it ain't over until we say it's over. Unlike AT&T, who says it ain't even gonna get started.

Remember this: AT&T sucks. San Francisco sucks. Go Cubs.

Joe

Cubs in first place.

2009-07-28T10:26:00.004-05:00

Alright. So we were in 1st place for one whole day. Cry me a river, pal. At least we're there; we're on the cusp. (By the way, what the hell is a 'cusp'?) We're on the verge. (Is a 'verge' the same thing as a 'cusp'?) The Cubmeisters have been on a roll since the mid-summer classic. We got two sweeps under our belt in the past week, Aramas is back, even Soriano has lifted his I'm-makin-waaaaay-too-much-to-be-hittin-like-a-girl average above .250. And Monday night—holy crap, did you SEE that game?!! We come away with a 13 inning win. That, my friend, is what you call 'heart'. Except for that thing where Soriano didn't run out the ball. That would be called 'sphincter'.

Anyway, given all the pins that have been stuck in the Cubs doll this year, the fact that we're toying with first place ranks up there with 1) feeding a whole crowd with 2 fish and 5 loaves of bread, 2) walking on water (I'm not talking waterskiing here, cuz I've seen regular guys do that. I mean no boat, just going for a stroll, walking.), 3) the 69 Mets, and 4) a few of Kreskin's card tricks.

If I were the Cardinals I'd keep pulling rabbits like Matt Holliday outta Tony La Russa's hat. I know we folded in the playoffs last year, but I'm thinkin' the embarrassment at the hands of those la la land pinheads is enough to motivate us. Even Soriano. So the Cards could put King friggin Kong in the lineup behind Pujols. It ain't gonna matter.

Joe

What's wrong with Lou Piniella?

2009-07-22T02:48:00.003-05:00

Casey Stengel and Yogi Berra proved that you can have one wheel in the sand and still be thought a genius baseball man. This I do not understand. Mostly because baseball is always called "the thinking man's game." I don't see it. At least not in the Cubs dugout. If they're thinking—and I'm not saying they are—it must be about nail polish or something, cuz it sure as hell isn't baseball.

I give you exhibit A; Lou Piniella. Now, I love Lou. I mean the guy is right out of central casting and, up until now, I thought he was exactly what we needed. But when I read stuff like I did yesterday, it makes me wonder if Lou wouldn't be better of with a few jolts of electric sunshine to the temples. Or, perhaps, some other more vital area of his anatomy.

Take the Milton Bradley thing for instance. Lou's assessment is that the best thing he can do to get the Monopoly guy's crap .230+ average to a respectable level is to relax. ReLAX?! If he was any more relaxed he'd be on a beach somewhere getting a tan. Instead, how about friggin CONCENTRATING?! Ever thought of that? This is a guy who drops routine flies, and turns out number 2 into a souvenir. He doesn't need to relax, he needs 3 or 4 guys pulling on his shoulders until his head pops out of his ass.

Honestly, I think Lou needs to go off his medication for a while. Is it me, or is he turning into the Dahli Lama? I remember when Lou used to get fired up; put the fear of God in people. Now, when you screw up and you gotta go to the principal's office, you might as well be having a session with Doogie Howser. In this case, Bradley got a warm and fuzzy personal tutoring session from Lou. Same difference. Last year the Monopoly guy hits .321 for the Rangers. This year he's hitting about as good as my mother. (No offense, Mom, but you never could hit a curve ball.)

And what does Lou say? "Hitting a baseball is ability, and he's got ability." Brilliant, huh? No wonder they paid him so much money to manage us into a World Series. "It's good eyesight, and he knows the strike zone well." He does? Stevie friggin Wonder knows the strike zone that well. "It's also good hitting mechanics, and you have to get yourself in good position to swing the bat..." What the hell does that mean? Like, he should stand in the batters box? That's usually a good place to be to swing the bat. C'mon, Lou! Is this why you're so revered as a baseball guru? And then there's the "...adding the relaxation mode to it more than anything else. No tension." I got news for you pallie, Milton Bradley makes more in one plate appearance than I do in one year. About $25,ooo. So does Soriano. I think it's time you bulldozed the day care center and brought back a little bit of the fury that made you famous. If we'd wanted milk toast as our manager we'd have hired Joe Torre.

Joe

Get the Joe widget.

2009-07-17T11:36:00.016-05:00

Greetings to all Cheap-seaters.

I got a widget now. Everybody should have a widget. Er, uh, you should have my widget. Mostly I like it cuz it's fun to say. Widget. Widget. Widget. See? Of course having a widget means I'm going to have to come out of my depression and start yelling again. But, after losing my job and having to move to—holy crap, I can hardly get these words out of my mouth—San Francisco, home of the Giants and many other questionably-human subjects, it took me until about a week ago until I stopped chain-calling the suicide hotline.

Oh, they're still on speed dial, my friend. But this is due to the 101 year drought, and the goat, and the Under Armor signs in the ivy, and Sorriano in the playoffs, and Milton Bradley's hollow bat and on and on and on. And the way the Cubs are playing ain't makin' it any easier. But at least I've pretty much come to grips with living in a city where they serve lattes in ballparks, that's in a state run by a guy who can't pronounce its name, and is populated with actor types, technology geeks and guys named Jesus. (Pronounced HAY SOOCE, but it's Jesus to me.) Oh yeah, and the anti-christ lives here. No, not Bud. Barry Bonds. In all, it's not much like Chicago, which I miss desperately. But here's something sorta funny: the Giant's are almost as bad as the Cubs, so the talk on the street (that doesn't have something to do with decorating) kinda makes me feel at home. They don't have any curses to overcome though, except Zito's arm. Which, I grant you, is a major problem. But no worse than Sorriano's bat.

So anyway, I got this widget (I LOVE saying that) which, if you download it and put it somewhere, like your Facebook page or something, you can access updates to my blog right from there. Easy. And you know me, I'm Mr Easy. All you gotta do is follow the link and grab it.

Joe

A moment of silence, a couple of toasts, and a lot of screaming.

2009-04-09T11:05:00.011-05:00

Last night Nick Adenhart, a good young Angels pitcher, was killed along with two others by a hit and run driver just a few hours after the best outing of his career. This, my friends, is a tragedy of gargantuan proportions. I mean he was just 22 or something, with the whole world in front of him, but it was all snatched away by a guy who ran a red light and then hoofed off into the night trying to get away with it.

So I think a long moment of silence is called for—for Adenhart, the other two victims, and their families. And then, at the first opportune moment, I hope you'll join me in raising a few Old Styles (or reasonable facsimile) in their honor. And remember that Adenhart could have been a Cub just as easily as an Angel.

As for the SOB that did this... it would be good if his daily showers at Folsom are standing-room-only sell outs of Angels Fans (currently doing time for crimes too nasty to list here) giving him a steady diet of the high hard one. If you know what I mean.

Joe

Are you ready for some baseball?

2009-03-03T16:53:00.009-06:00

Hey there, dust covers. Unless you've been vacationing on Jupiter, you know that it's Spring Training time in Mesa. (Everywhere else, too, but Mesa is the only place that matters.) So, while the Cubbies are doing wind sprints, practicing pick-offs, and are still tied for first, I thought it would only be fair that you and me got into 'fan shape'. And I'm not talking about wait-until-next-year shape. I'm talkin' about in-your-face, trash-talkin', we're-not-gonna-take-this-gettin'-broomed-in-the-playoffs-crap-anymore shape. WARNING: Do not drive or operate heavy machinery for 12 hours afterwards.

Alright, Step 1) Pour yourself a nice, frosty adult beverage—Old Style if you got it—and put that La-Z-Boy in full recline, my friend. This step is actually common to many important activities, and happens to be one of my favorite parts of gettin' in fan shape, because I get to make those faux farting noises that accompany even the slightest butt adjustment against my chair's fine corinthian leather. Always fun.

Step 2) Prepare your mind. (Only natural since baseball—unlike football—is a thinking man's sport.) Try and clear out everything you got running round in your head. You Sports Illustrated subscribers get an extra couple of minutes to get rid of page 57 of the Swimsuit Edition. Once your head is completely empty, and the beer has started to take effect, you're ready for step 3. You'll also know what it's like to be a Dodgers Fan. But I digress.

Step 3) Fill the void with a jumbotron-sized, slow-motion, 2003 instant replay of Steve Friggin Bartman. (That is his middle name, right?) And set it to loop over and over and over. If you start to get hot, it's ok. That's normal.

Step 4) While this motivational video plays in the background, start thinking about all of the great achievements of the past 100 years. Among other things, this would include the following: The automobile. And the airplane. Television, telephones, computers and the electric garage door opener. You got Einstein's General and Special Theories of Relativity. Both of 'em. There's Dove Bars and air conditioning. And Hooters. There's the assembly line and the bikini and, oh my God... Playstation. I love Playstation. The Sears Tower went up. The Berlin Wall came down. On the medical front there's that special gift to Yankees fans—penicillin. And, uh, Viagra for White Sox fans. And there's the heart transplant (that I now need after having mine ripped out last September). Did I mention the bikini? Let's see... we've had guys standing on the top of Mt. Everest, and other guys hittin' golf balls on the moon and, hell, we got us an African American for President. We've had all that in the last hundred years. Oh, and Halley's frickin' Comet? It's been by TWICE my friend. Twice.

Step 5) Addendum to Step 4. While you're thinking about all that, ask yourself this: Do we have even... one... Cubs World Series championship? Noooooooooooooooooo. You know, I feel compelled to mention here that the friggin Marlins have TWO of them. And they've been a team for like 4-1/2 minutes! And in just the last 5 years, the pathetic '06 Cardinals scored a ring, the Red Sox—who have stunk almost as much as we have—won it twice, and even the damn White Sox won it. Let me say that again; the... White... Sox... won... it.

The Cubs? Nothin'.

Step 6) Status check. Take the nearest Cubs logo into the bathroom and look in the mirror. If your face matches the red part, you're in Cubs fan shape, my friend. You're also probably dangerously close to a heart attack, so while you're in the bathroom, grab a couple of aspirin from the medicine cabinet and wash 'em down with the last of your beer.

You, my friend, are ready for the season. Question is, will the Cubbies be ready?

Joe

The $275 million A-Juicer.

2009-02-10T17:45:00.007-06:00

Lemme get this straight. A-Rod juiced because he had the burden of carrying around a $252 million contract on his shoulders???? Awwww, poor widdle baby. I'll tell you what this pin cushion needed: a large, economy-size dose of Vito Corleone slapping him in the face and telling him to man-up.

Every friggin time I hear one of these pussies whining about the pressures of the money they're making—to plaaaaay a sport, by the way, for a cruel and unusual 6 months a year—I wonder if they'd like to step into the well-worn shoes of some single mother who cleans hotel rooms for a living. You know, someone who doesn't have two nickels to rub together for anything more extravagant than an extra helping of Top Ramen. THAT person knows what money pressure is, my friend, not a guy with a car collection.

But hey, I'll play along. If A-Rod can't stand the heat in the $250 million dollar kitchen, I got a very simple solution for him. Yeah, yeah, he doesn't need it anymore—and regrets having juiced and is all very sorry, blah, blah, blah—cuz he supposedly stopped using when he slipped on the pinstripes. Uh huh. Are you telling me that Yankees fan pressure is less than Rangers fan pressure? That $275 million pressure is easier to take than $250 million pressure? That don't add up, rocket scientists. I figure the guy has become a human voo doo doll since he's been in the Bronx, and has probably done more juice than Minute Maid.

Of course, I could be wrong. He could be telling the truth. Yeah, and a monkey is gonna fly outta Jeter's butt. All I'm sayin' is that he lied to Tom Hicks (the guy who brought A-Rod to Texas). He lied to Katie Couric, which is like a big "so what," but I'm trying to establish a pattern here. He fabricated all kinds of crap about the SI reporter, Selena Roberts, the woman that broke this story in the first place. And then you got the Madonna thing, and the stripper thing, and the fact that when a guy hits a weak grounder to the pitcher in a crucial situation in the ALCS and then pathetically tries to slap the ball out of the first baseman's mitt, he simply can't be trusted.

But like I said, there is an alternative to steroids for guys like A-Rod who can't handle all that nasty-wasty pressure. Play for the minimum, fruitcakes. Play for the minimum. Otherwise, shut the hell up about how difficult life is while you're lounging around one of your 9,000 sq. ft. swimming pools fantasizing about Material Girls. Or Material Old Ladies, as the case may be.

Joe

Before and After

2009-02-08T11:51:00.006-06:00

News flash: Barry Bonds tested positive for three types of steroids.

No freaking kidding.

Guess what else. It rains in Seattle in the winter. Yeah. And if you stick your hand in a fire you get burned. And, can you believe this?... Rod Blagojovich, a Chicago politician, is a crook. Yeah, a shocker. Know what else? If you fall out of a boat, you hit water. (Unless your name is Alfonso Sorriano and it's the playoffs. Then, no.)

I gotta tell you though, all this hubbub over Bonds' cheatin' heart is starting to get on my nerves. I know it's against the law and all, but I could give a crap if he lied to a Grand Jury. It's not like he shot somebody or 'accidentally' forgot to pay $140,000 in taxes. Besides, everybody knows he used, so everybody knows he lied. The Grand Jury knows, baseball knows, Greg Anderson certainly knows, hell, even you latte-drinkin' Giants fans who defend the guy know. I mean you gotta be living on another planet to look at the guy and think he's clean. Arguing about it is like arguing over who won the game three days after the last out was recorded. The guy did it—look at him—so who gives a crap if he didn't man-up in front of the Grand Jury?

Now, you wanna argue about something? Let's talk records. Like the ones Bonds and McGwire misappropriated while at the same time acting like they had so much respect for the guys that set them. How do you honor Hank Aaron, what he went through, and his contribution to the game—and sports in general—when you cheat to break his career home run record? And what are you when you chemically transform your body to belittle the 61 yard shots that Maris hit in 1961? Let's see... "ass hole" comes to mind.

The way I see it, the only way to know how good, say, A-rod really is compared to guys like Ruth and Mantle would be to wind the clock back to before Madonna; before Kabbalah; before the $25o million contract; all the way back to the Mariners, and then make him smoke and drink and stay out all night, all season long. And for his whole career. Take a look at his numbers then, pallie. Hey, the guy is gifted, I'll give you that. But on a level playing field, I think we'd be comparing him to Mickey Hatcher, not Mickey Mantle.

Anyway, it makes no sense to me to Al Capone the guy and try to hang him for lying to a Grand Jury. The real offense is the desecration of the records; records that were earned through talent and hard work, and in the face of adversity. I say, put the books back where they were before these guys started cooking them in the steroid kitchen. And then, open up a new wing in Cooperstown for Sammy and Barry and Clemens and the like that draws attention to what it is that they really brought to baseball; disgrace.

Joe

Sushi anyone?

2009-02-07T19:21:00.008-06:00

You remember last fall when gas prices were in friggin orbit, and Manny was giving us the full Gordon Gecko monty? "Gas is up, and so am I," I believe was the quote by the loch head monster.

Well, now that gas is like half what it was then, and everybody and their grandmother is outta work, and fat cat bankers are pulling outta their naming rights deals with certain New York teams (that suck), I'm wondering if that sharkmeister Scott Boras is gonna stop playing chicken with the Dodgers and advise Manny that being Manny—in this particular instance—means not being so Manny. I doubt it.

In which case, I got 4 words for those two bozos: Hokkaido Nippon-Ham Fighters.

Sayonara, baby.

2008. Wake me when it's over.

2009-01-12T22:13:00.003-06:00

Well, lookie here. My beat-to-hell Timex says we're already into '09. I musta been dozing in front of ESPN Classics channel, or possibly I fell off the sofa while watching Rebecca Romijn on Ugly Betty and hit my head on the coffee table causing a couple of days of coma. Anyway, here it is, 2009 already. (My how time flies when you have a crap post season and can't wait for pitchers and catchers to report.) Which means, french fries, that it's time for my annual Ten New Year's Resolutions:

#10: No more chuckin' beer cans at the TV during Cubs games. At least not full cans. It's a waste of that nectar of the gods; Old Style. Plus, if I break one more plasma, the wife's gonna slice off my walnuts.

#9 Invent a product that competes with Rogaine, then sign up Blago as my spokesman. Or spokesprisoner, as the case may be. That, my friend, is what you call a sure thing.

#8 Sell every single last bit of my Kerry Woods memorabilia on eBay, then go to the 99-cent store and buy two or three things with the proceeds.

#7 Convince Jim Hendry to have "Free Laser-Pointer Night" every night game we have with the Yanks. How the hell else are we gonna beat them? I mean, they just spent $4o0 million on three players. Just three, pal. Three. $400 million. Christ! Either the Steinbrenners steered way clear of Bernard Madoff, or some of that bailout money ended up in their pockets. Anyway... "Laser-Pointer Night."

Or...

#6 Get a job as the visiting team's clubhouse (at Wrigley, duh) custodian and spike all the protein drinks, Gatorade and Red Bull with muscle relaxant or Ex Lax. Works like a charm.

#5 Photoshop Blago's hair onto Howie Mandel's head. Just because.

#4 Hold a memorial service in the backyard for last season. Including actually, literally burying a hatchet. What's done is done, my friend. The past is past. It's Old Style under the bridge. Time to let bygones be bygones. After all, tomorrow is the first day of all the days that aren't yesterday. Translation: I forgive you, Alfonso Soriano, for hitting like an anorexic she-man in the playoffs. You are once again in the good graces of Joe Schlombowski. At least until that first throw you airmail past the cutoff that allows the winning (make that the losing) run to score.

#3 Lose 10 pounds. I know, I know, they'll serve kitten sandwiches at a P.E.T.A. picnic before that happens, but hey... I got dreams like everybody else, pallie.

#2 (This is a tough one.) Drink less beer in the Friendly Confines. Not because it turns me into a rude, obnoxious, disgusting pig (a debatable point, I grant you) but because I miss too many key plays while takin' a whizzer in the loo.

#1 Never again try—in fact never even think about trying—to send a text message while whizzing in the aforementioned loo (and subsequently dropping my cell phone into the flowing yellow river).

Now, before you say, "Joe, you're full of crap," let me just remind you that as of today, the Cubs are tied for first, Soriano hasn't left a single runner in scoring position, and Dempster's e.r.a. is 0.00. Which just goes to show you that anything is possible.

Happy New Year.

Two balls. No strikes.

2008-12-18T01:26:00.012-06:00

I do believe the entire Texas Rangers pitching staff has just seen their careers flash before their eyes. Why?

Muntadhar al-Zaidi—reporter for Baghdadiya Television; right handed; excellent velocity; decent control; deceptive delivery. And he's a free agent. Well, technically he's currently an incarcerated agent, but I think you know what I mean, my friend.

Alright, alright. He was throwing shoes, not baseballs. And that is a girly thing to do, I grant you. But hey, the Rangers already pitch like a bunch of junior high cheerleaders, so you can't really use that against this guy. And just try throwing a shoe compared to a hardball. No way you can control a size 10-1/2 as well as the horse hide, my friend. Plus, there was some serious cheese on those things. At least the first one. I gotta think he took a little off the second one to try and throw Bush's timing off, but he ducked that one, too. Behind a podium, I might add.

So I figure you put this guy on the mound in Arlington—where guys can't hide behind large, imovable wooden objects—and the Rangers just improved their team pitching stats by about 20%.

Think about it, Texas.

First of all, you could sign him for something like a couple of showers a week. And it would only take one field trip to Texas before he'd be itching to put his name on the dotted line. One look at those Lonestar state debutants and (schwing!) hello big hair, good bye burka.

Second, he's totally fearless. Totally. I mean the guy stood up in a room surrounded by gun-toting Secret Service agents and chucked his shoes at the most powerful man on the planet; a guy who could train 400 ICBMs on his little patch of sand and push the magic 'disappear' button. Given that, do you think A-Rod stepping into the box with the bases loaded and the game on the line is gonna mean squat to al-Z? I think not, pallie.

Third, he'll challenge hitters. I mean before he even started his wind up—before he was hardly out of his crappy little folding chair—this guy barks "This is a farewell kiss, dog," at the President. (I think that's what he said. My Arabic is a little rusty.) A trash talkin' Iraqi; you gotta love it. And announcing it was coming is just so totally psycho. You gotta think this bozo is good closer material. Anyway, the only challenge the Ranger staff throws up now is makin' it through the bottom of the third, so closer or not, this guy deserves a look.

Joe

I didn't do it. Nobody saw me do it. You can't prove anything.

2008-12-12T20:29:00.008-06:00

Hey there, ballot boxes. I expect you'd have to be dead to have missed all the stuff flying around about our august, soon-to-be-wearing-an-orange-jumpsuit governor Roddy, and the lovely and oh so eloquent Mrs Roddy. Of course, that's not sayin' much, since dead people have been part of Chicago politics forever. I'm just sayin'.

But can we cut the crap already, and drop the use of the word 'allegedly' from the Blagojovich story? That's like sayin' Bartman didn't cost us the Series cuz it wasn't proven in a court of law. It was on tape, pal. Bartman did it. You saw it. I saw it. Friggin Hellen Keller woulda seen that. And Blago? His I'll-make-you-an-offer-you-can't-refuse back scratching has been preserved in full Dolby digital glory. Along with the supporting, delicate and poetic demonstration of the english language by that *%@#, Lady Macbeth—as so perfectly anointed by the Trib.

Honestly, part of me doesn't blame her, cuz who can talk about the Cubs without dropping a few well-deserved F-bombs? It ain't easy. I know, personally. But holy friggin crap! She's only a grill and 7 pounds of bling away from being a rapper with that mouth. Hell, she could even teach Lou a few things about how to communicate with umpires.

Anyway, I get all tingly inside knowing that Blagojovich will be making some new friends in the Big House, and that they'll be giving him the same treatment he's been giving us. And I don't think this morning's meeting with the preacher contingent is gonna do much to save his sorry ass, or otherwise keep if from it's eventual fate. Supposedly it was all sugar and spice with the Reverend Acree and a couple of other men of the cloth, who requested an audience for the purpose of comforting the governor's wife and kids. I could be wrong, but I think the Mrs would have been more comforted by meeting with Luca Brazzi, where the discussion was centered on which of the Tribune's editorial staff was gonna get whacked, and in what order.

The really sad thing is that this is sort of a trend in Illinois. I mean, when this dirt bag moves into cell block 8, he'll be the 4th governor outta the last 8 that's done time. In other words, it's easier to end up in prison as governor of this state than if you murder someone in this state. At least it seems like it. I'll tell you one thing, it's certainly easier than it is for the Cubs to make the Series. Now that, my friend, is sad.

All that said, from now on, whenever I get down on my Northsiders for stinkin' it up, or for jacking up ticket prices during the playoffs and then layin' turds on the diamond in return, I'm gonna think about Blago, and toilet mouth, and all the other A-holes since Honest Abe—the last (allegedly) honest politician we had. Cuz compared to those guys, our ballplayers are saints. (Not the White Sox, though. They suck.) But the Cubbies are friggin holy water by comparison; hundred year drought and all.

Joe

Wrigley Wonderland

2008-12-04T15:19:00.018-06:00

Hey there, yule logs. Welcome to the official start of the Cubsmass season, which is marked by the annual MLB winter meetings, not Thanksgiving, as most people think. I know that's a monkey in the wrench for you traditionalists who believe that choking down a dried out bird, and fighting the unwashed masses on Michigan Avenue the day after, are somehow 'festive'. But hey, far be it from me to judge. I'm just sayin'.

And while we're on the subject, the Schlombowski's don't do turkey on turkey day either. In this household, if you're gonna stuff something it better be a sausage casing, my friend. So every year I send away for an economy-size, special-Joe-version beef bunger and jam it with the most delectable processed meats known to man and Cubs fans alike. (That would cover everything except liverwurst. I mean it's got 'liver' in the name, for chrisakes. And 'wurst'! That stuff is not going in the temple that is my body. Alright, it's more like a tool shed. I'll give you that. But no liverwurst.) Anyway, so I do my Brancusi imitation on it so it kinda looks like a turkey. I do this to make the in-laws feel better. (Inheritance.) This, I should tell you, is not always successful. One year, for instance, my brother-in-law turned white as a soda cracker, and started ranting about how it looked like Jesus, phoned WGN, and an hour later 400 people and 3 news trucks were on the front lawn. And another year it was a dead ringer for Nixon. No kidding.

But back to the holiday season thing.

I scribbled down my own lyrics to some carols most people know, so they'd be easy to sing and to kinda put everyone in the Cubsmass spirit. And Lord knows, after that performance in the playoffs last year, we can sure use a little spirit. I also recommend the kind that comes out of frosty 12 ounce bottles. Plus, it'll make my lyrics sound way better. Anyway, I'm posting one here, and will put up a few more between now and Jesus' birthday, so check back every day or so. And don't forget to pass them along, either.

Oh, and one more thing before the lyrics:

I've been asking for the same damn gift ever since I outgrew Creepy Crawlers. And yet, all these years later, no Series for the Cubs. I can't believe I could still be on the naughty list, especially given that it's been 30 years since that thing with the telescope. Maybe it's cuz Santa's a Yankees fan (which would explain why he's fat and sadistic). Doesn't explain the suit, though. He'd have to be a San Francisco fan for that, but they're in the Series about as often as we are, so that doesn't explain it either. It doesn't really matter, because I figure a little Cubsmass cheer will most definitely help the cause. (That and some actual hitting in the playoffs. And some defense. And knowing where the strike zone is.)

So, pallie, in the paraphrased words of Buddy Elf, "The best way to spread Cubsmass cheer is singing loud for all to hear." And to quote Mr. Country Joe McDonald, "There's about 300,000 of you f-----s out there. I want you to start singin'!"

Here you go, and Merry Cubsmass.

WRIGLEY WONDERLAND

(Sung to Winter Wonderland)

That pitch was crushed, did you see it,

Sail o'er the wall? Holy she-it.

A beautiful sight,

We're happy tonight,

Watching in a Wrigley wonderland.

Let's finally kill that damn goat curse.

A hundred years, it couldn't be worse.

It's pretty scary.

Let's win for Harry.

Watching in a Wrigley wonderland.

In the bleachers we all love our Cubbies,

And we throw back balls that don't belong.

The Old Style's served in cups,

But poured from stubbies.

Man, I could eat those brats

All summer long.

Later on, we'll meet at Murphy's,

For chicken wings, swimmin' in blue cheese.

Then we'll jump on the El,

Back home quick as hell.

Watching in a Wrigley wonderland.

In the bleachers we all love our Cubbies;

Aramas Derek, Ryan, Z-man and Lou.

We love them just like

Women love their hubbies;

More when things are good

Than when they're poo.

When they win, ain't it thrillin'?

Waving my arms, my beer starts spillin'.

We sing Go Cubs Go.

What a wonderful show.

Watching in a Wrigley wonderland.

Names-In-A-Blender

2008-11-11T15:36:00.000-06:00

Was it just me, or did anyone else (besides Phillies and Rays fans) feel that even if you used the $27 million microscope at the Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory you wouldn't have found one fly speck of drama in this year's Series?

I kid you not, this was one anti-climactic Fall Classic, was it not? I mean, tip of the Joe Schlombowski lid to the Phils (though, personally, I thought Dick Cheney would appear in drag on Dancing with the Stars before Phily would win it all). And that Cole Hammels guy. He was Mr. Nastypants, I'll give him that, pallie. But if a rain delay is the defining moment of a not-exactly-down-to-the-wire showdown, well, 'nuff said. Wake me when it's over.

Which brings me to the point of this diatribe. What the hell do we do to get us through to mid-Feb when pitchers and catchers report to spring training?

Alright. I admit football will help. But as I've pointed out before, as fun as football can occasionally be, it is vastly inferior to the one, the only, the true America's pastime—baseball. One need not look any further than ice fishing—the single most uneventful activity on the planet—to see my point. Ice fishing, in which a group of men sit around telling jokes, smelling each other's farts, and risking 1) severe frostbite; 2) maiming oneself with a gas-powered ice auger; and 3) losing one or more fingers to an angry pike or walleye, was invented right smack in the middle of football season. It's like somebody made a bet that since football is so damn boring (Army went a whole game this season without throwing a single pass), nobody could possibly come up with something even more boring. And since soccer already existed, voila, the guy lost the bet and ice fishing was born. (In fairness, ice fishing does have its moments. Like when there's a warm spell and somebody's Dodge Durango is converted into a U-boat.)

So Joe, you ask, what else can get me through to spring without me turning into a raving lunatic? Lord Stanley's Cup? I think not. (Why they ever named a championship after a crotch protector is beyond me.) But here's my answer, pal. I'l give you two things, three if you're a fly fisherman. If you fly fish, just keep tying flies until the icicles melt and you're good. For the rest of you, here goes: 1) The SI Swimsuit Issue (whoever thought of this should get a MacArthur Genius Grant); and 2) a little game I call Names-In-A-Blender.

Here are the Official Joe Schlombowski Names-In-A-Blender rules: You take the name of anyone you love or despise, say Alfonso Soriano, and you combine his name with someone else you either love or despise. Say Scott Boras. You put those two together and you get ALFONSO SOR-ASS.

Here's one you'll like. You put Kerry Wood together with Alonzo Mourning and you get KERRY MOURNING-WOOD.

Staying with that theme for a minute, mix Chien-Ming Wang with Long John Silver and you get CHIEN-MING LONG WANG.

Put Derek Lee together with someone else who screwed the pooch in October and you get DEREK LEHMAN BROTHERS.

Felix Pie plus Mike Holtz of the Dodgers gives you FELIX PIE-HOLTZ.

And my personal favorite: Kosuke Fukudome with Alex Rodriguez gives you KOSUKE FUK-U-AROD.

Once you run out of Cubbies just keep going through all the other sports. Mix it up with the names of a week's worth of Howard Stern guests, and throw in the NY Times Op-Ed columnists for good measure. If all else fails, go to the Yellow Pages.

With any luck, Names-In-A-Blender, a deck of cards, the Home Shopping Network and a couple dozen cases of Old Style should get you to at least Groundhog Day no problem.

Godspeed.

Obama 1, Cubs 0

2008-11-05T23:01:00.000-06:00

That was a pretty friggin big crowd last night in Grant Park, huh? I mean, not your average big. It was huge big. First black president big. Like the Pope is giving an outdoor mass big. You've seen pictures of VE Day? It was like that. Like Pam Anderson takes a naked stroll through Times Square big, or the Rolling Stones are giving a free concert big. It was like we nailed Bin Laden's ass and are stringing him up at Ground Zero big.

And... it was in Chicago.

So imagine the Cubbies winning the Series, and now you got some sorta idea what it's gonna be like. Big. Of course I've been imagining for a helluva long time, myself. So bring on the home run swings of some night stick-carryin' riot police. Know what I'm sayin? Cuz if we got that, it means Obama was right; that America is a place where all things are possible.

But until we get this friggin goat off our backs, the jury's out pal.

Joe

Manny Being Satan

2008-11-01T16:43:00.000-05:00

Regarding Manny's whereabouts next year, I quote... "I want to see who is the highest bidder," Ramirez said after the Dodgers' NLCS loss to the Philadephia Phillies. "Gas is up and so am I."

What a friggin asshole.

I grant you, he's not alone. Everywhere you turn you got guys hitting a buck-75 going to arbitration cuz they think they're lightin' the world on fire. But, exxxxccuuuuuuuusse me! This guy was basically asked off the Red Sox by his teammates because he couldn't be counted on. He made it crystal clear that he didn't want to play for Boston anymore by dogging it, and pretty much treated Epstein, the owners, the rest of the team, and the fans like a baby teats a diaper. Well let me tell you Manny, you are not well-loved when your team dumps you but pays the remaining $7 million on your contract while you play for someone else. That pretty much says it all. In fact, it says you're not just a garden variety a-hole, you're a large, economy, only-available-at-Costco sized a-hole; with a capital 'A' and a 'hole' you could drive a cement truck through.

I know all you Dodger fans could give a crap cuz you wouldn't have made the playoffs without him, and he was a big part of why you kicked our asses for sure. But I'm sorry, someone who doesn't care about anything except money is either my first wife, my first wife's brother, or a self-centered, selfish S.O.B. of gargantuan proportions. Uh... that would be Manny.

Oh, I might mention that none of the three can play left field worth a damn, either.

So while your average fan—the guy driving a cab to pay the rent, or selling insurance for 20 years, or doing whatever to scrape together the money to send the kids to college—is cutting back with the way the economy is and all, we got the likes of Manny Depressant making it harder for Joe Fan to afford the occasional game with the kids. Nice. Thanks a lot, 'Gas is up and so am I.'

But there is a bright spot in all of this; and that's the recent rumbings of Hank Steinbrenner on the subject of acquiring Mr. I-play-hard-if-I-feel-like-it. Which is to say he's definitely interested in Manny. So you gotta figure the guy's gonna end up on a team—like the Yankees, if not the Yankees—where money grows on trees. Which means that you Yankee fans might have to decide, do I wanna make the mortgage payment this month or go see a couple ball games? Especially in that new ballpark. I mean the potential acquisitions of Ramirez and Sabathia (who they'll also try to nab) in combination with the price of the new House That Ruth Didn't Build is gonna be like the financial version of the perfect storm. And right on the heels of all this other crap that Wall Street and all those fine, upstanding, never-knew-a-thing-about-it shysters in Washington just laid on us. Anyway, if there are any fans (besides White Sox fans) I'd like to see pay a higher price for their allegiance to their team, it's New York's. No question.

So I hope Manny gets everything he wants from whoever thinks that gas is worth $25 million a gallon. But whoever that is had better hope that he uses all 4 gears, instead of just first and second like he did in Boston last year.

Joe

Darling, lover, sweetie pie.

2008-10-18T21:34:00.000-05:00

Here's reason number 2,727,891 why I hate the Mets.

So I'm sitting here watching the Sox and Rays in the 4th, when the plate umpire has to punch out because of an injury. So now we got a delay in the game until the crew chief figures out what to do. Alright, but it's not like the guy was carried off on a stretcher. He strolls over to the Rays' dugout on his own power. Just give another ump the gear and let's go already. Nope. Gotta call the blue off the field like the safety of the free world hangs in the balance.

Anyway, while all this is going on, we're treated to the analysis of the TBS announcers. This includes former Met, Ron Darling. (Nice last name, pal.) Well, you know where the conversation goes, right? How it's gonna be really difficult for the pitchers to sit there for an extra 5 minutes while the umpires are grabbing a sandwich or two in the clubhouse and deciding who's gonna call the rest of the game. Of course the resident expert, Darling, chimes in, explaining what a hardship it is for a pitcher in this situation—like the unbearable 5 minutes he's having to endure is gonna totally unravel his mojo.

So Love Muffin (I like that better than Darling) tells about how when he was playing, he was scheduled to pitch one day but it got postponed for one reason or another. But you know, he had to say goodbye to the family and... arrrrgggghhhh... go allllll the way to the ballpark... uuuuggghhhhh... make arrangements for comp tickets and... get this... since he pitched the next day, he had to go through all that TWICE!

Oh my God.

Good thing you could pitch, Darling, cuz if you'd had a real job you wouldn't have lasted 15 minutes. Just the kind of guy you want in a fox hole with you.

When I hear crap like that (in addition to wishing I was within choking distance) I figure it's a window into the world of the person who said it. Like the fact that he didn't get to 'play' when he was expecting to defines adversity for the guy. What happens when he gets a hang nail... 911 and an ambulance to the ER?!

Remember Lou Gehrig, the "luckiest man on the face of the earth" while staring death straight in the eye? (I grant you, he was a Yankee not a Met. But to me, all ballplayers from New York are the same. Which, by the way, explains a lot about the Giants and the Dodgers.) So like I was sayin', New York ballplayers went from playing-everyday-while-dying-of-cancer tough, to Mr. get-me-a-tissue-the-sky-is-falling candy ass. If that doesn't summarize why the Mets suck, I don't know what does.

Joe

Joe the Schlombowski

2008-10-15T23:41:00.000-05:00

Hey there, tool box. So, last night, after the Phillies finished wiping their feet on the Dodgers, I flipped the channel to one of those talking head news things. Well hoo-boy! They've all got their panties in a wad, screaming and cuttin' each other off while reviewing the instant replay of the game I shoulda watched; Obama vs. McCain.

So here's my take.

Obama? He's your Mark Mulder type—smooooooth delivery; deceptive. Plus he's a lawyer (like Scott Boras). I trust him about like Billy Martin trusted Steinbrenner. Then you got McCain. He's like Joe Torre—been around a while; nice guy; spent time in a prison camp which, by all accounts, was almost as bad as working for the aforementioned Yankees owner. I think he's here for the old-timers game, but that's almost over. Anyway, it doesn't really matter what happens, or whether you like one of these guys and hate the other one—or vice versa—you will be disappointed in the end, I guarantee. In 4 years we're all gonna be shakin' our heads wondering what the hell happened. Again. High hopes followed by disappointment: one helluva lot like being a Cubs fan, my friend. Plus, I don't see either one of them getting serious about legislation that would outlaw the designated hitter, which is what America really needs.

Me? I'm gonna cast a write-in vote for Billy Beane, or Theo Epstein, or that toddler running the Rays. Hey, no matter what the situation or how much money they have to spend, they win. I mean comparatively speaking, all those A-holes sitting in Washington couldn't build a 3rd place Little League team. And they're spending trillions! You give Epstein a fraction of that bank roll and he'd have Ted Williams and Babe Ruth in the lineup again. I'm not kidding.

Anyway, I'm just sayin' that picking Obama or McCain isn't gonna make any difference. It's all empty promises, french fry; a lot of I'm gonna do this and he's gonna do that. A pissing match of global economic proportions, and none of it is gonna be good for Joe the voter. Hell, he didn't even get mentioned. They talked about Joe six-pack and Joe the Plumber, but not Joe the voter. Personally, I'd like it a whole lot better if these two guys were a little more concerned with Joe the Schlombowski. How about freezing ticket prices at Wrigley... or making Wrigleyville a tax-free zone... or 50% rebate checks for Cubs fans? You know, something tangible. Plus there's that totally inequitable situation with football having cheerleaders while baseball just has prehistoric ballplayers on the sidelines. That, my town-hall-meeting friend, is what you call discrimination. Has either one of those bozos brought that up?

But more important than all that stuff is what happens tonight between the Rays and Red Sox. I say that because a Series between Tampa Bay and Philadelphia is a tragedy of catastrophic proportions. It'll make the credit crisis seem like you didn't get the prize out of your cereal box in the morning. I mean, the Rays and the Phils?! Who gives a crap?

Go Red Sox.

Joe

The Aftershock

2008-10-08T01:21:00.000-05:00

Alright. So you know how when your team wins the Series (I actually have no first-hand knowledge of this but I've seen it on ESPN) it's expected that the city throws a big party, right? And you gotta have a parade down the biggest street with bands and confetti, and a buncha people screaming like Jesus himself is in the lead car and has just agreed to a 10 year contract for a dollar a year. So I wanna know... where's the other side of that coin, my friend?

Let me explain.

I am—and anyone within a few blocks of my house will confirm this—pretty miffed about what I've been hearing out of a few of the Cubs who allegedly 'played' in the NLDS. Leading off, for example, we have the always eloquent Alfonso Soriano. The other day he says, "We're a good team for [162] games, but we don't do nothing after that. That's the difference. We're not put together for [a short series]."

First off, Mr. 1-for-14, Mr. I-got-one-less-hit-than-I-got-in-last-year's-sweep, Mr. I-make-Mendoza-look-like-Babe-friggin-Ruth, (Sorry, I just gotta say it straight to him) it sounds like you weren't paying much attention in english class with that quote. About as much as you did in gettin' on base class... and in how to be a lead-off hitter class. Second, if you think we're not built for a short series, my friend, how the hell do you think we're gonna get past the first round of the playoffs, let alone win the big one? You think Bud's just gonna give us a free pass? "Yeah, uh, Jim? Selig, here. You can call me Mr. Commissioner. I have it on good authority that you guys are not a short series team. That, and Soriano couldn't hit water if he fell out of a boat. So I'm waving the NLDS and, uh, you know... just take the rest of the week off."

Hang on a second. There's more. Mr. April also said, "I think we had too much time to relax [after clinching the division with 8 games left], and we got a little surprised at how the Dodgers played." .......... Christ.

So riddle me this, batless man, how come it is, then, that the '55 Brooklyn Dodgers clinched the National League pennant earlier than any team in the history of the sport, and then beat the Yanks in the Series? Are you friggin kidding me with this 'too relaxed' thing?! I can't think of anyone with a REAL job who's worse at their job after they've had some time off. It wasn't really time off anyway, but the way you're talkin' about it leads me to believe that it's ok with you to coast. You know when a good time to coast is? AFTER YOU WIN THE WORLD SERIES, pallie. Before that it's just being lazy. And I don't wanna hear anything about an emotional let down either. Thanks to guys like you hittin' .071 in the playoffs, it's us fans that oughta be bringing that up.

Oh yeah, and let's be surprised at how the Dodgers played. Cuz they ended the season like a Saturn V rocket-equipped freight train. Yeah, I totally get it. Shocker. With Torre at the helm? Manny? Ethier? You oughta be surprised at how you played, my friend. Disappointed, even. Embarrassed. Sick to your stomach. Awash in self-loathing. Maybe standing on Chicago street corners apologizing to everybody (at least those who don't take a swing at you) until it's time to report to Mesa. Oh, and for those that do take a shot, go ahead and swing back. You'll probably miss.

Finally, in the spirit of 'anything you say can and will be used against you', I quote Alfonso once more: "2008 is over. 2009 is coming." Well, Mr. who-gives-a-crap, it ain't over for the fans. We gotta listen to our buddies around the country dish it to us for the next 6 months. And I'm pretty sure if I try whistling that Alibi Ike tune of yours, I'd be kicked out of my fantasy league. So, alright, 2008 is over and 2009 is coming. But unless you can motivate yourself to play more than 162 games, I hope 2009 is coming with a new left fielder.

Ok, it's Howry's turn. I'll make this one quick. The other day Howry says, "It's all who plays good at the right time." No caca. You think he figured that one out all by himself, or did he have to look in the back of the book? If the playoffs aren't the right time, pal, when is the right time? You know one of the things that gets under my Cubbie blue skin is that a guy with that kind of electrical activity between the ears is makin' four and a half million bucks.

Then there's Dempster. When asked if he'd like to return next year for a 6th season, he said, "I love the city. I love playing here. Hopefully, everything works out. For right now, I'm worried about making a tee-off time somewhere." Well that's nice. Now this is gonna sound cruel, and I have loved Ryan all season long. I mean he was tough. We could count on him. But in the playoffs (when great teams distinguish themselves) he's looking for the strike zone with a white cane. I think if he worried as much about getting the ball over the plate in Game 1 as he does about a friggin tee-time, we might possibly still be in this thing. Then again, maybe not, right Alfonso?

I could go on, but I think my medication is finally kicking in. In time the obvious frustration will pass. Maybe. Someday. I'm really not sure. And, the truth is that some of our guys looked pretty darn good. And some who didn't sound contrite almost, and personally sad that they let us down. Which brings me back to the beginning of this whole long-winded thing, where I'm wondering why is a city expected to treat these guys like war heros when they win the Series, if they can't be stand up guys when they eff up? Personally, I'd like to see something other than a bead to the links.

A personalized, written apology would be nice.

Like that's gonna happen. But wouldn't it be great—even just good manners—if they at least acted like there's a difference between a good performance and the one they gave against the Dodgers, which totally and completely and entirely sucked. The first two games, anyway. Wouldn't it be nice if it even sounded like the fans mattered? I'm telling you, I get another 'whatever' attitude from these guys and I could become a Sox fan.

Did I just say that?

Joe

Monica, Babe...

2008-10-06T22:41:00.000-05:00

I got this nice pep talk email from a woman in California, today. I know, I know. Left coasters—besides rooting for the likes of the Giants and Dodgers and stuff—are generally, you know, genuine whackos. Usually you're just rolling your eyes when they're lips are moving, while you listen intently for anything of substance that falls between the word 'dude' and the next use of the word 'dude.'

So little surfer girl was wondering if I'm gonna keep writing the blog now that the Cubs are out of it, as though the previous 47 years of misery hadn't taught me what rooting for the Cubs means. (See? Left coast.) I mean, it's not like the Cubbies ever really had a chance after friggin Sports Illustrated started writing about our chances like the Series was a foregone conclusion. That brain trust has never picked a winner, so as soon as the first kind word appeared, Lou shoulda just had them clean out their lockers and hit the links. The season was over.

Anyway, it's baseball, right? Somebody is always doing something great—or stupid—to talk about. And there's never a day when something can't be made out of nothing. For instance, the Red Sox just won the ALDS, like 30 seconds ago. Again. For something like the 5th or 6th time in recent years. Now this is a team who traded Babe Ruth; who has choked more times than Linda Lovelace. I mean what's worse, telegraphing the end of the season with a 34 and 56 record by the All Star break, or takin' your fans down to the wire—even the playoffs—before proving to the Yankees that they are the better team? For me, I'd rather know where I stand early. Seriously.

Yeah, yeah, I know the Sox have been better recently. I'm just making the point that dragging your fans to the brink of a championship before saying, "just kidding," is the baseball equivalent of waterboarding. After years of that kinda thing, how is it the Red Sox now get to shower in Champaign all the time? Where's the karma in that? The Cubbies on the other hand, when we are still actually in it at the end of the season, we deserve to shake ourselves free of the goat cuz it's such a rare occurrence. It oughta be marked by a national friggin holiday. And the trophy.

Anyway, Gidget, I'll be blogging just the same. And I will try to forget the fact that having the season we did this year, then letting the Dodgers mop up the field with us, I know has taken 5 or 10 years off my liver—because of the extra celebrations during the season, sure. But mostly because of the unbelievable disappointment during the playoffs.

Joe

Just a thought...

2008-10-06T16:28:00.000-05:00

What we need now.

2008-10-05T15:08:00.000-05:00

Hey, there peanut gallery. Joe Schlombowski here.

Not to beat a dead horse or anything (although that would give me a world of satisfaction right now)... not really, I'm just sayin'. But I gotta be honest... we sucked. We redefined 'suck.' We should change our name to the Chicago Electrolux, or the Hoovers, or see if that Dyson dude wants to buy us we sucked so bad. Maybe we should move to Eureka.

Not everybody stunk it up, but as a team—and this is a team sport last I checked—we definitely smelled things up in a great big, holy-cats!-who-cut-the-cheese? way.

I quote Bull Durham again: "This is a simple game. You throw the ball, you catch the ball, you hit the ball." Apparently, that's true for some, not so much for us. At least in the playoffs. I mean the numbers are pathetic. If you haven't seen them you can look 'em up. I'm only gonna talk about one. And that number is one hundred. One hundred friggin years. A century of misery that couldn't be stopped by a team that kicked ass all season long.

Think about everything that's happened in the last 100 years.

You got your automobile, your airplane, TV, phones, computers, the General and Special Theories of Relativity. Dove Bars and air conditioning have been invented; the assembly line and the bikini (my personal favorite, especially on the missus, who is totally hot). In the last hundred years the Sears Tower went up. They put a bunch of satellites in orbit so now it's possible to watch WGN when I'm at a sausage convention in Boise. How about penicillin, which has spared a number of team's fans from the side effects of a particular morally casual attitude? There's the heart transplant (that I now need after having mine ripped out again) and there's the Playstation and hitting golf balls on the moon and the fall of the Berlin Wall. And let's not forget the La-Z-Boy. What the hell would football be without that, pal?! Point is, the entire friggin world has changed in the past 100 years except for the fortunes of Cubs fans. What the hell is up with that?

Hell, Halley's Comet comes around more often!

So, Lou, if you are reading this (and I hope that you are) I would love it if next year is exactly the same as this year, right up until the playoffs when—and I know you will agree with this—it has to be a whole helluva lot different. From where I'm sitting I gotta think a little bit of that guy you've been trying to downplay might help to motivate guys hittin' below the Mendoza line in the playoffs. (SEE THE VIDEO I ATTACHED TO THIS BLOG ENTRY. THAT'S THE GUY I'M TALKING ABOUT.) I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job or anything. I think you're the best. I just think that it's time to kick some ass.

So 100 years has come and gone. We win next year and it stops there. We don't, we're into the second century. I don't think anybody wants that. Except maybe St. Louis and the White Sox. And perhaps a few others.

Wait 'til next year.

Joe

Face it Cubs Fans...

2008-10-05T13:11:00.000-05:00

Click to hear what Joe Sez.

It Could Happen

2008-10-04T09:50:00.000-05:00

Alright. I've had time to cool down, repair the hole in the drywall, and get a new TV. And I have a new way of looking at the horrible (some would say pathetic) loss in Game 2.

Remember, in 2002, and 2003, the Red Sox made it past the Indians and then the A's only to get eliminated by the Yankees. In each case, they were down 0 - 2 and came back to win the ALDS 3 - 2. So it is possible that we will now give the Dodgers a big helping of Second City bitters.

But the Sox LOST each year. Couldn't get past the friggin Yankees. And yet, that was the beginning of the new regime... the new Larry Lucchino and John Henry brains and money trust. It took a few years for the Red Sox, and THEN they busted through. It's possible that's what the Cubs are gong through right now. We got the farm system, so as long as we know when to spend (Harden, Sorianno, Edmonds) and when to fold (Fukudome), we will keep knocking at the door. And one of these days, Heidi Klum will answer that door wearing a gossamer camisole from Victoria's Secret.

But maybe not this year.

I could be wrong. But I'm not.

Joe

NLDS 2008 Game 2

2008-10-03T00:06:00.000-05:00

Anybody still wondering if there is a God? I didn't think so.

And I'll tell you another thing... if that guy on the corner last night was right, and Jesus does save, he might want to insert himself in the Cubs lineup Saturday, because it doesn't look like they're gonna be able to save themselves.

At least I didn't have to witness it from section 304 this time; thank you Katie Couric. Instead, I had to watch the debate on account of Sarah Palin sounding like a complete cinder block with Couric the other day. And because of that, the whole friggin country, including the Mrs, was tuning in to see if she needed to ask the wizard for a brain.

Nope.

Oh, and for those of you disagree with my read on that, there's a good chance you could get a job as a Major League umpire. I mean in the 9th, Jerry Davis watched a ball off the bat of DeRosa hit the line right in front of his face, and he called it foul. So... I mean... you know... are you serious?!

Anyway, I turn the game on after, see the score is 5 zip, and turn it off. That lasted for about 20 minutes before I had to see what was going on. A disaster, that's what, pal.

Hey, Lou, maybe you oughta sign Palin for the duration of the series. She was totally embarrassed in her last outing (sound familiar?) but did she roll over and let Biden steam roll her? Naw, she went back out there and took her cuts. You guys? 4 errors. It's the baseball equivalent of "What the hell is the Bush doctrine?"

Of course I could be wrong. But I'm not.

Joe

NLDS 2008 Game 1

2008-10-02T17:58:00.001-05:00

Let me start this by saying that probably the best movie ever made (that you don't have to be in a hotel room to watch) is Bull Durham. Just so you know.

So yesterday I walk out of Wrigley and, across from Murphy's, there's this guy with a Jesus sign going on and on about how Jesus saves, and this and that. So I'm thinking, well we got Kerry Wood, pal. (Not that he got a chance to save jack in game 1.) Anyway he's looking right at me, so I say, "Oh, yeah, where?" So he says "In heaven, son, in heaven. You just gotta belieeeeeeve." You know, like one of those white suit-wearing TV evangelist dudes, all in a rapture, waving his arms and throwing his head back like he's Tim Lincecum.

Right about then I realize it was a big mistake making eye contact with this whacko, cuz he points right at me and says, "Do ya belieeeeeve, son, do ya belieeeeeeeeeeeeeve?!" even more agitated than the first time. So I just go off on him. "I believe in the brat. The day game. The temperature of Zambrano's heater. I believe the only juice players should be on is orange, apple or kiwi grape. I believe the Yankees don't have a monopoly on pinstripes, great fans, or championship rings. I believe beer in a plastic cup is better than beer in a glass. I believe chin music oughta be played more often, that anyone not running out a weak grounder should be sent down, and that instant replay belongs on a grid iron, not a diamond. I believe that the DH is an abomination second only to the Astros uniforms of the 70's. I believe there's nothing in the art world (except for those Picasso women with 3 or 4 boobs) quite so beautiful as a well-executed hook slide, or a right fielder laying the guns of Navarone on some pinhead trying to score from second. I believe that the yay-hoos who think there'll be lap dances in the Sistine Chapel before the Cubs win the Series happen to be the same yay-hoos that like to parade around the house in their wive's underwear, have iPods with multiple Boy George playlists, and stand on corners with cardboard signs about God, when I just had 9 innings of proof that there isn't one!" I'm starting to scare this guy now. "And, my friend, I believe when you serve up 8 walks, 2 to the friggin pitcher, 3 dingers and 1 error to anybody, you just ain't gonna win!!!"

I love Bull Durham. I hate the Dodgers.

Joe

PS. I also believe in that three-day-long, slow, deep wet kisses thing, but I left it out because I didn't want him to think I was a Dodger fan.