Wednesday, May 31, 2006

LUNCHTIME UPDATE: DIGEST THIS!! - WEDNESDAY

High School Cheerleader Videos Upset Families, Guy Without Copy (NBC)
Duke Lacrosse Dancer Makes Obscene Gesture In Court (WRAL)
Pistons Begin ‘Whine To Win’ Campaign (Brushback)
Black People More Fun Than White People Exhibit#489 (Mr. Irrelevant)
Jacque Jones’ Mother vs. Drunk Cub Fan (WATP via Deadspin)
Barbaro Reported To Be Unresponsive To Fan Mail (Sports Pickle)

SAY "CHEESE!" - TUESDAY


NBA's Attempted Re-Make of Little Big League Falls Short of Success

LADIES LOVE OBSCURE RIVALRIES: BASEBALL PLAYERS v. THE WATER COOLER

by Dan Raspatello, draspate@indiana.edu

Currently, I am stretching for reasons to watch sports. With college athletes enjoying their drug-test free summers and the Cubs unable to shake their losing ways like my brother can’t chase his current herpes outbreak, I am stuck between a rock and a hard place (I still don’t understand what the saying means). I find myself giving gambling advice on the NBA playoffs, jerking off to World Cup commercials, and not turning the channel when SportsCenter shows NASCAR highlights. I was actually watching non fourth quarter NBA basketball for the first time since Michael Jordan posterized Bryon Russel with my friends the other day. Then, however, my friends told me they had that new station, MTV Jams (which they should spell with a “Z� if they want any street cred) so I flipped the channel immediately. So, once again this week I am not going to write about any human-on-human nonsense, but instead write about something that really pisses me off: Baseball players’ mistreatment of water coolers.

This epidemic has been happening for some time, and most of us never think twice about it. And like the rest of you, I never did either, until the Cubs vs. Marlins series earlier this week.

Forty-year-old Greg “The Professor� Maddux had just returned to reality after his obviously too-good-to-be-true April, and was getting roughed up by National League powerhouse Florida Marlins. Dusty removed his toothpick from his mouth, and walked his no-smallball-playin’-ugly-ass out to the mound to bring in some horrible reliever. As The Professor walked back into the dugout, he showed rare signs of emotion (that same “emotion� most skanky sluts beg for more of out of their heterosexual male targets), and picked up a bat and hit the water cooler harder then any Saudi man has ever hit a woman for showing a little too much lower forearm (sluts) . So this got me thinking. If a guy like Maddux is taking out his aggression on the water cooler then what kind of a chance of survival does a water cooler ever have in a Major League ballpark? And since water coolers are incapable of defending themselves, I have taken the responsibility upon myself.

Seriously, have you ever noticed how in all professional sports, baseball is the only one that mistreats their water coolers? In football, the water cooler gets to be part of the celebration (no better way to tell coach you still like him then a refreshing Gatorade shower), and in basketball it is defended courageously by the dorky kid (Team Manager) that loves basketball but was not good enough to make the team. Yet in baseball it stands defenseless. With bats, balls, helmets, and steroids running rampant around the dugout, what sort of a chance does the water cooler have? A water cooler would have a better chance of long-term survival if it took the short bus to school then it would in a dugout.

Considering the physical effort put forth in each sport of note, how come baseball, the least physically demanding sport, gets the right to treat the water cooler like Macaulay Culkin was treated by his father. The water cooler and I had a sit-down, or a powwow for our Native American readers, and here is what we have to say to pro baseball players:


Water/Gatorade Cooler: Hey dicks. Take the needle out of your ass for one second and you and your barbed wire tattoo around your bicep listen up. Oh, I’m sorry! Was your 30-yard dash to first base too exhausting to talk, Pussy? First of all, I want to talk to you pitchers. You guys mistreat us the most. But I guess we understand. I mean your life is so stressful. You only make millions of dollars every year to play f$cking baseball. I know working once every five days is so draining that it gives you the right to treat me like I am Tina Turner and you are her no-talent-ass-clown of an ex-husband, Ike. Oh, and lefty relievers, I’m sorry that you f@cked up your one responsibility of the day to get out a left hander. You’re right, it’s probably my fault, so go ahead and pick up that bat and hit me with it. American League pitchers, I just wanted to point out that when you hit me with a bat, you handle it about as well as the lazy-eyed kid who has to wear a helmet to school. What’s that disease called anyway? Look, Managers, it is not my fault that you are over the age of 50 and still dress up in a full, extra-tight uniform, so stop throwing me at the dorky trainer because he is my only friend. Least you can do is not cause me to alienate my only true Gatorade drinking buddy.

Thus, I propose we go on strike. Because you needle-popping assholes don’t even really need us. You guys stand around 99% of the time anyways, and when you leg out a double you act like you just finished a f#cking marathon. So go put in your huge dip or chew (or a Big League Chew if you want to be a pussy about it), and leave us alone. Oh yeah, go easy on the sunflower seeds because they will make you thirsty and we aren’t going keep coming back to you like a neglected 17-year-old girlfriend.


Me:
Hearing what my buddy, the water cooler, had to say inspired me to apologize to somebody as well, my cell phone. Major Leaguers spiking water coolers makes about as much sense as me throwing my phone against a brick wall after losing in a game of Cornhole. Now my screen just has black ink spilled across is, so it is a full mystery to me every time my phone rings and no caller ID information is there to inform me. This is annoying, because you have to explain to your melodramatic friend that you really do have his/her number saved when you start asking who’s on the other end. So cell phone, I am sorry. You are my alarm clock, you tell what time/date it is, you allow me text message girls to avoid awkward conversation (if it was not for text messaging I would never talk to the opposite sex), you have memorized all my phone numbers for me (even the people I don’t like), and most importantly, I can fake like you are vibrating to get me out of a torture-rack conversation. Therefore, loyal readers, next time you are going to take out your anger on your cell phone think about the water cooler, and instead hit a puppy or a small child. They’ll forget by the time you want to be their friend anyway.

Tuesday, May 30, 2006

GHOST OF BABE RUTH MORE CONCERNED WITH WAR IN IRAQ

by Harrison Pak, hp_jobseeker@sbcglobal.net

Gate of Heaven Cemetery, Hawthorne, New York- With Barry Bonds' 715th home run, the calls came steady to The Ghost of Babe Ruth's abode. "I was fielding questions like 'How does it feel?' and 'Does Barry Bonds' infamous reputation tarnish the fact that he’s surpassed you as second place on the home run tally?' Frankly, I knew it was a matter of time before my total would be surpassed, I'm just surprised that more people aren't this interested in Iraq," said Ruth.

"We have close to 2500 dead U.S. personnel there in Iraq and people are more interested in things like 'American Idol' and 'The Da Vinci Code'. That makes me more upset than an alleged steroid abuser taking second place," Ruth stated. “It’s just a f*cking number. I still rogered half of Manhatten and half of his people too.�

Quickly, Stan "The Ghost" Musial came over to calm the beloved Babe.

When asked if he thought if Bonds' reputed action has tarnished the game, Ruth further replied, "Tarnished? I'll tell you tarnished. We have Americans dying because the government lied to us. Iraq had no ties to 9/11. Yet, Cheney and his cohorts felt it was necessary to draw the two together to get public support for the war. And I can't believe that people use the word ‘tarnish’ to describe a guy cheating at a game. I used to wear the STD’s of prostitutes on my cleats and slide into every base. I guess if you want to say that's 'tarnishing,' then we can even say I 'tarnish' things too! We have American blood spilt on a lie and that's what tarnishes the American image."

He continued, "American foreign policy has always been on the wrong side. We supported Bin Laden when he was fighting the Soviets in Afghanistan and we supported Saddam when he was fighting the Iranians. It's clear we have our principles completely out of whack.�

When asked if he thought Bonds deserved to be enshrined in Baseball's Hall of Fame, he simply said, "As long as there's an asterisk next to his name." He winked at The Ghost of Roger Maris as Maris began to laugh over his cigarette and Xanax.

BARRY BONDS: YOU EITHER LOVE HIM OR YOU HATE HIM.....WELL, I THINK HE'S SO-SO

by Scott "Cornelius" Merz, smerz@rivalfish.com

Barry, you’ve passed Babe Ruth with 715. Congrats. But, don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back because you’ve cheated MLB and its fans more than Johnny Damon on his pregnant wife. You took steroids by the bucketful. I don't know if there are still any Bay Area faithful so delusional they still argue he's clean but just in case - stop swinging from his grotesquely shriveled nut sack before they look like two dry Coco Puffs and you fall back to reality.

He shot it up, ate it, rubbed it in, 'dropped' it, huffed it, smoked it, deposited it, drank it, snorted it and probably even used The Cream while watching in wonderment a video of his own in-game swings while performing a 'five knuckle shuffle' on his withered dong. Unfortunately for him it won't "improve his swing" - not that I've tried or anything.

The Giants equipment manager was quoted in a Sports Illustrated article that his hat size grew three sizes since 2000. But, Barry's so egomaniacal it's conceivable that the psychosomatic effects of truly believing he's god's gift to America's Pastime could be the reason his head resembles Bonk's from NEC's TurboGrafx 16.

But, let's all remember this guy was a sure thing to make it to Cooperstown WAY before he started messing with The Stuff and people shouldn’t forget that even if they don’t forgive him.

Barry spent his pre-Hulk-conversion days drawing numbers on tennis balls for batting practice. Sound tame? Well, he only swung at the balls that were odd numbered. This dedication developed his unrivaled eye that no amount of steroids could have improved. His college coach at ASU, Jim Brock, thought that despite Bonds’ unrivaled work ethic Barry's scrawny 165-pound freshman body frame would be bitch slapped by the league's top-flight pitchers. Well, 3 years later in his senior year appearance in the College World Series Barry hit a 455 foot panty-dropping monster to dispel that myth.

Before I lambaste Bonds and expose his lonely and f*cked up world, let's remember a few facts. Only his father, Bobby Bonds, has had as many 30-30 seasons (5), Jimmie Foxx was the only other player to ever hit 30 home runs in 12 consecutive seasons, he’s flirting with a career .300 batting average, and even just a couple seasons ago Barry went 20+ games without swinging at a pitch and missing. Think about that. I can't even piss in my toilet without spraying the seat, a nearby book, or my dog.

But, let's briefly investigate Barry's 45 home run barrier because his only admission of guilt were his career statistics. It took Barry until his eighth season in the majors to jack 45 home runs in 1993. He didn't accomplish this feat again until 2000 at the ripe age of 36 and then went on to hit 45 or more home runs four years in a row, including the ridiculous 73 in 2001. C'mon Barry, ever heard of subtlety? Nobody hits their prime at that age - not even Angela Lansbury.

The reason? BALCO. Refusing to take the inevitable downward slide on life’s bell-curve, Barry was quoted as saying, "I try to keep up with many of the high-tech companies to find out what's going to happen, what's being developed." Well, he did. Bonds physical conversion was the real life equivalent to Popeye’s after choking down spinach. To Bonds, BALCO stood for Barry’s Absolute Last Chance to be Outstanding (a anagramatical stretch, I know). Apparently a Neil Young fan, Bonds heeded the words of the stellar “My My, Hey Hey� and refused to fade away. But instead of burning out, he blew up.

Why? Pressure and ego.

“Eat shit you aloof and cripplingly-sympathetic Rival Room writer� you say? Was your godfather Willie Mays, father Bobby Bonds, aunt a 1964 Olympian, and distant cousin Reggie Jackson? Me neither. But, even more than genetic pressures, it was Barry’s well-documented ego that drove him to steroid (ab)use. His classy godfather said, “Sometimes he says things before he thinks. That’s why I’m here—to remind him other people have feelings, too.� Teammate Jeff Kent also called him out for a “complete lack of team spirit.�

And that’s just it – team spirit. Baseball is a team game. For all the records Bonds breaks, asterisked or not, the only true prize in baseball has eluded him – a World Series ring. This is not coincidence. 21 baseball seasons have come and gone and not 1 ring. He’s recently talked about a ring being exponentially more important to him than any home run records. But, he wants the ring to complete his legacy, to covet, cherish and selfishly obsess over the ring like Gollum. But unless he takes a DH spot on a contending AL team next year he’s never going to get one. For all eternity all of his accomplishments will only amount to personal achievements. And if there’s one guy that’s ok with that, it’s Barry.

[Danny Tanner speech music begins] Barry, you never needed steroids to be great. You always were. You were born with a gift so prodigious it needed no artificial enhancement. A single pube plucked from your loins contains more talent than a small-market team. So why did you need to rape, pillage and donkey-punch the sanctity of baseball? You could have had America’s collective love and respect. But you don’t, you won’t, and you shouldn’t. Not anymore.

And stop making this home run chase a racial issue and quit trying to deflect the attention away from yourself and onto the deserving Albert Pujols. America sees through that ploy like Alexandra Kerry’s dress. You made this scandal, now face it.

"I'm not afraid to be lonely at the top� you’ve been quoted as saying. Well, I hope you feel the same when you hit rock-bottom, just don’t expect any sympathy.

LUNCHTIME UPDATE: DIGEST THIS!! - TUESDAY

Shaq Arrests Perverts By The Dozen (Superficial)
Alyssa Milano’s Boobs At Baseball Game (Yeeeah!)
Cuban To Buy Chicago Cubs? Aka. I Still Hate Mariotti (Sun-Times)
The Shot Heard ‘Round The Broadcast Booth (Deadspin)
Could The Chicago Bulls Trade Down For Marion? (CSTB)
Virginia Lacrosse Team Rapes Competition (Chron)
Senator Harry Reid (Not A Pornstar) Accepts Free Boxing Tix (Wash Post)

OUT OF HIS LEAGUE - WEEKLY AWARDS

by Tello Reál, mraspatello@rivalfish.com

"Each Monday, Rivalfish's Rival Room awards two athletes from the previous week that have performed 'out of their league,' for better or worse. As the Jersey Chasers of the land open their mouths and aim for the midsections of anyone wearing a jersey, we at Rivalfish help them navigate the VIP room waters with precision and class" - Rival Room Editor

jer·sey cha·ser, n, A person who only pursues, or is receptive to, the advances of athletes. Most commonly women, and most commonly found on or around college campuses or professional sporting contests.

PSYCH! Ahh, got yo ass! Jersey Chasers, please don't panic after I say what I'm about say. Thing are about to get a little crazy and unfocused in your taint-tracking efforts. The Rival Room award machine that is Tello Reál is taking the week off. There's just too many promising new contributors looking to take my job! I can't concentrate. I can't even put on underwear I'm so frazzled. My precious tushy is sticking to my linoleum desk chair like one of you floozies to Ron Artest and Larry Hughes at the Urban Beach Ass Bonanza, or whatever they call it down there in Cuba.

So this week, spread the wealth. Maybe non-athletes for once? Ever have a creepy uncle or cousin that you secretly thought was attractive and wished was only related through marriage? Well maybe there's a family secret that you don't know about, and maybe they are in actuality not blood-relatives. Bet you didn't think of that, girls. See, here I am helping you during my week off, just like I told myself I wouldn't do! So venture off ladies into the sea of nobodies, and make them feel like stars.

P.S. If you happen to be in the general Vietnam area, look for the above-pictured character. He's the suspected author of our Among the Hmong features. I think he could use a hand (job).

SAY "CHEESE!" - TUESDAY

After Sharing Sideline Oxygen Tank With Shady New Teammate, Entire Argonauts Roster and Support Staff Immediately Purchase Bonnaroo Tickets

TOP TEN PEOPLE MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOU THAT ALSO DON'T CARE ABOUT THE NBA PLAYOFFS

by Adam Briner, adamcbriner@yahoo.com

The NBA finals are in the midst of the most exciting playoffs in the last 20 years, but no one cares. Did you know there have been more OT games in this playoffs than any other in history? Of course you did, at least at one point. However, your brain probably sorted the information the same way it sorted all the names of your favorite bands’ bass players. It tried to remember it, but in the end it just wasn’t important enough.

Fear not, though, loyal sports fans. There are people more important and closer to the NBA game than you who also didn’t care! The following is the list of top ten people more important than you who didn’t care about this year’s playoffs.


10. The Kitchooto Eskimo Tribe of Northeast Albania


They certainly don’t care about the playoffs, so the question is whether they are more important than you. It largely depends on the criteria used to judge “importance,� but I’m going to give it to the Eskimos because they’re a whole culture of people. It’s only a slight edge. I’d be willing to accept e-mails that argue the point.



9. Kobe Bryant


“But, Adam, he was in the playoffs,� you say. Well, actually, no you wouldn’t because you’d have to know who was in the playoffs to say that. Assuming someone said that, my argument has to be, “so what? Who says he cared about something other than keeping track of his own stats, and the age and vulnerability of the check-out girl at the local Howard Johnson?�

In game seven, second half, Kobe showed he didn’t care. He walked. He made out with his wife and his girlfriend. He took a nap on the half court line. He did everything except score points. Why? He didn’t care.



8. The New York Knicks


They didn’t make the playoffs and the most intimidating person on their team is Spike Lee, who sucks at basketball. Not to mention, their number 2 pick goes to the Bulls, so they won’t be able to dip into the talentless talent pool of this year’s draft. Don’t count on them caring about the playoffs for many years to come.



7. NBA Fans


I’ll tell you a secret. NBA fans are only fans for the retro jerseys and EA Sports videogame offerings. Sure, the ratings are way up, but I have a theory that, due to a major magnetic influx, every remote’s batteries went dead on TNT during the games.

Are you going to get off the couch to change the channel? Most likely not.



6. Ashley Judd


She’s a huge basketball fan, but – oops – it’s for the Kentucky Wildcats. Sure, they pay players, but they aren’t considered pro. For a split second I thought I would have someone who was practiced at showing fake enthusiasm for a terrible sport.

Considering her suspect choices of movie roles, you’d think she could get behind a sport that consistently turns out poor product. Hypocrite. And she is married to some non-NASCAR race car driver. Not even Americans with broken remotes watch that shit.



5. Orphans


For F*ck’s sake – I think they have bigger problems to think about.



4. The Referees


They actually care so little that they don’t even watch the games, and that’s their job. I don’t blame them really. Based on any criteria I can come up with, they’ve got one of the top five least tolerable jobs on the planet. Sure they get paid well, but at what cost? The mind-numbing boredom of the NBA stretched over 82 games and the playoffs – hell, I’d take a nap on the job as well.



3. Me


Oh come on, you’re actually going to argue that I’m not more important than you? I’m a f*cking blogger, bitch. What’d you ever do with your life?



2. Fans of Sports That Have Rules That Actually Get Followed…

I believe this one speaks for itself.



1. Eva Longoria


This may be the one good thing that NBA has going for it. However, it’s deceiving. She may look like it by going to the games and wearing jerseys, but Eva is not a fan of the NBA. If you’ve ever heard an interview with her, you know she knows nothing about the NBA. In her defense though, that is still more than most anyone else.

Listen, just because she uses Tony Parker’s genitals as a delicious and nutritious chew toy, does not make her a fan. She may care about the French, but she doesn’t care about the NBA. That makes her American and un-American at the same time. Impressive. Hot. Excuse me for a second. I need to do some internet research.

Monday, May 29, 2006

SAY "CHEESE!" - MONDAY


Despite Eventual Veto of Marijuana-Legalization Bill, Canada Continuing to Harbor America's Drug Criminals

AMONG THE HMONG - KILLING HENDRY IS THE RIGHT MOVE


"A dear friend of Rivalfish was decidedly asked by the powers that be to vacate the premises of the Western Hemisphere. Long Story. Something about an overdue videotape. So he begged for a plane ticket from a family friend with an "in." Now he's among the Hmong people of Vietnam teaching our fine language. Or he's sitting in the woods with his laptop and lying to us all. He faxes us these letters about what's going on in OUR sporting scene, signing them with a different assumed name each time. But we all know it's Josh. He's probably just trying to show off that he still knows the most about sports, even when exiled. It's really pretty impressive, so we're going to post his letters without his permission!"- Rival Room Editor

Jim Hendry, clean out your desk and be out of the building by noon.

If the Cubs are to finally ditch the still-longest-running-championship-drought in sports, the team needs a wake up call, starting with the dismissal of Hendry. If there is anything that I am sicker of than the Cubs losing, it is the people who continuously describe Hendry as a “Great Baseball Guy.� Pardon my French, but what the f*ck does that actually mean? It certainly can’t mean that he makes good baseball decisions, as someone who did that could certainly turn a team with the NL’s second highest payroll into better than fifth place in the NL Central. It can’t mean that he was a great player, as in the statement “Bob Eucker was a great baseball guy.� Maybe it has to do with the fact that other “Great Baseball Guys� aka “other assholes with silver GM spoons in their incompetent mouths� think that Hendry can hold down his shit during the 2:00 AM “I Never� drinking game at the Winter Meetings. Or it could be that his face looks like a baseball I used to have that had gone through three seasons of little league practice and fetch with my old mongrel.

Everyone says that when a team is losing, you can’t blame the manager, and that the onus should be on the players to perform up to their expectations. I don’t think that Baker can be totally exonerated, but maybe they have a point. Is there really anyone in America, besideds Jim Hendry and Dusty Baker, who don’t think the Cubs are performing as expected this year? A roster full of offensive holes last year got worse, and now they act surprised when the team loses games. I would have loved to have been there at the meeting when Hendry decided to sign Jacque Jones, it would rank right up there with “Crystal Pepsi can’t miss!� and the Waterworld pitch meeting as the worst meetings ever. What makes this season especially hard to take, is that there were several moves that could have been made over the offseason to improve the Cubs chances at winning, moves that for one reason or another were not made by Hendry.


Non-Move #1: Trade Miguel Tejada for Mark Prior.

Sportswriters now like to say that in retrospect, this move should have been made. Retrospect my ass, this move just should have been made. When the opportunity came about that Miguel Tejada was displeased with his team over its inability to spend money and compete with the other powerhouses in the AL East, we should have sent everyone but Derrek Lee to Camden Yards. But the Orioles were pitching-hungry, and as the Cubs endlessly pondered the possibility of letting Mark Prior go, the window finally closed and Tejada reneged on his trade request. The Cubs missed the opportunity to add the best shortstop in baseball, because they didn’t want to part with the third guy in our rotation, an injury prone she-male, who “big shocker� hasn’t played baseball this year. This trade should have been made, and it is all Hendry’s fault for not making it happen. Or maybe it was the right move, as the Cubs ranking last in baseball in average with runners in scoring position can’t really be the reason that we are losing so many ballgames, can it?


Non-Move #2: Not going all-out to sign Brian Giles to a nice, long juicy contract.

This really pisses me off. Not only is Brian Giles exactly the kind of left-handed, power-hitting right fielder the Cubs needed who not on the team right now, he was never even mentioned as a possibility during the offseason. His power struggles in the extended right-field porch of Petco Park were well documented the last couple of years, but the Padres were somehow able to convince him to re-up. I guess at least he didn’t end up with the Cardinals, who were the other team that were targeting him. This guy would have been such a perfect fit for this team it makes me sick. He is an All-Star, with experience playing in the NL Central. If there is anything that the General Manager of the Cubs should know, is that the right field bleacher bums of Wrigley Field get drunker and rowdier than any other fans in baseball. In previous years, we have had Andre Dawson out there, and even with ten Courage Beers to fuel your heckling powers, any idiot knows that you don’t f*ck with The Hawk. Sammy Sosa was the face of the Cubs for the years since then, and even towards the end, the ire he received was mostly in the clubhouse. The right-field fans still loved to see his pregame sprints and opposite field “Jomers.� Now you put that washed up Twinkie, Jones, out there, and he is nearly sent into a coma by an errant ball sent back by a drunk woman, errant only in the fact that it didn’t hit him. Just like you need a groundball inducing pitcher in Coors Field, you need a strong right fielder to succeed in Wrigley.


Non-Move #3: Not Getting a Frontline Starter This Offseason

Mark Prior, Kerry Wood. In Hendry’s mind this is the 1-2 punch that will win playoff series, when in actuality Zambrano is better than both of them. Both of these dopes were out until June, which means they won’t be the least bit effective until mid-June/July at the earliest. In response to this obvious need Hendry bravely went out and picked up Wade Miller, who won’t be ready until mid-August. Sweet. You know, the Cubs could alleviate all this concern if they would let the fans know that their plan all along was to win every single game they play in August and September to make the playoffs. Which, at this point, is probably what they will have to do. So instead we had starts by Jerome “Where the f*ck am I now� Williams, Glendon “I suck at pitching, batting, and every other aspect of the game of baseball� Rusch, and brought up highly touted farmhand Rich Hill just long enough to get punked out by the White Sox and shatter his fragile confidence, adding another name to the “He might be successful someday, just not with the Cubs� list of recent system departures.

Oh sure, you might say, “It isn’t Hendry’s fault, he can’t predict injuries to Derek Lee, Mark Prior, and Kerry Wood.� First of all, even Ms. Cleo could have predicted the injuries to Prior and Wood. Secondly, the job of a GM is to provide talented players to allow the manager a chance to win. His job is not to say to himself, “Man I sure hope Derek Lee doesn’t get injured, then we are totally screwed.� Injuries happen, and the GM has to prepare for every contingency, especially one as devastating to your offense and defense as losing Lee. Gee, maybe we could have even signed Nomar, who had offered to move to left field to stay with the Cubs. But Hendry said, “We don’t have room for a Nomar Garciaparra on this roster.� Is that right Jimbo? What about now, do you think we could use Nomar, his positional versatility, and his 30 RBIs and .365 average? No, let’s sign Neifi Perez to a two year deal instead.

Hendry has been as impotent as Sir Smoke-A-Lot in the trade and free agent market, trying to offset the loss of Lee. His recent franchise-saving move? Signing and promoting Tony Womack. I guess his theory is to fool other teams into thinking that the Cubs have an identical player in Jerry Hairston, Neifi Perez, and Tony Womack. In actuality, Perez is a slap hitter, Hairston is a push hitter, and Womack is at his best when hitting off a tee.

Okay, once we fire Jim Hendry, now what? Don’t stop there I say, get rid of the guy that is in charge of this circus, Andy McPhail, another one of those “Great Baseball Guys.� Once he is gone, we must initiate step two of the Heath Shuler Fixes the Cubs miracle program. Hire me as Team President and General Manager, not as your Congressman, as I don’t want anyone second guessing my decrees. I will take care of the rest and deliver the Cubs to the Promised Land.

Love,
Heath

Sunday, May 28, 2006

SAY "CHEESE!" - SUNDAY


Ironhead Heyward's Death Exposes Health Risks of Male Louffa





Editor's Note: In memorium, enjoy this Ode to Ironhead we found YouTube





Saturday, May 27, 2006

DOWN WITH THE DOGS!


By Laura Onstot, l-onstot@northwestern.edu

Executives of worldwide corporations are like baseball players. We root for their stock prices and earned run averages, we take what they sell us, no questions asked, and we fervently believe they will never let us down.

We are suckers.

But the march of our disillusionment is well under way.

Yesterday, a jury of their peers convicted Enron executives Kenneth Lay and Jeffrey Skilling of fraud, insider trading, lying through their teeth and screwing their employees (as they say in the legal world.)

I wasn’t surprised. It takes a certain kind of person to make it to the top in the corporate world. You must be talented, motivated, have great training, and above all, be cold and ruthless. The faint-of-heart need not apply for positions in big business.

And when you’ve built a career by stepping on toes, stabbing friends in the back, and climbing that ladder with single-minded determination, can we really expect you to stop at the call of ethics? Probably not.

There are few similarities between Sosa and the Enron execs. Lay and Skilling have been privy to the benefits of high-priced educations and wear suits. Sosa used an interpreter during the senate hearings on steroid use and wears funny little pants.

But there are more similarities than differences. Like the Enron guys, Sosa denied any wrong doing when other men in suits asked questions. Unlike the Enron guys, Sosa won’t likely go to trial, but if he did, it’s easy to imagine the jury not believing him. Just like they didn’t believe those liars at Enron.

In 1990, I was a fourth-grader in jelly shoes and Sosa was a rookie in south Chicago. Few remember the days when the former Cubbie hitting phenomenon played for the White Sox, but I do. I saw the Mariners lose to the Sox in the Kingdome that year. My sense of defeat that night was lifted temporarily when someone dropped a whole box of new baseball cards. I picked up a few for my collection. I placed the card in the holographic pink binder, in alphabetical order to satisfy my type-A personality, then forgot all about it.

A few years ago, I was watching Sosa bat for the Cubs against the White Sox at Wrigley. It was a game to remember for several reasons (games in the standing room section always are) but half-way through, the card, preserved in the pink binder, came to mind.

I looked at the man swinging a bat, looking like a toothpick in his massive arms, and realized why it took me five innings to remember that card. In 1990, he was a good player, but much thinner, trim, athletic even. As I looked at the hulking mass below me, I thought: “His head is HUGE!�

I’ve been a baseball fan all my life, but in that moment I realized something. I just take these guys for granted. I believe that they are the boys of summer, the heroes of America’s favorite pastime. I believe they won’t let me down. And I am a sucker for it.

Sosa may never be convicted by a jury, but like becoming the head of a major corporation, making the All-Star team repeatedly based on hitting statistics requires absolute determination. That kind of determination does not leave room for ethics, morality, or even good decision making. So when the team doctor tells you he can get you more homeruns this season, you don’t even stop to think, you just do.

All this has given me second thoughts about my love of baseball. But I’m not ready to give it up. Maybe the answer, like the answer to corruption in corporate America is not sports celibacy, but buying local. We can make ourselves less likely to be hurt by the Lays and Skillings of the world by supporting smaller enterprise where community-mindedness is part of the business plan.

Let the big companies and the big teams have their greed and corruption. I’m going back to the minors. Baseball never should have left Brooklyn so you know what? Screw you Enron, and the Cubs, and all the other greedy assholes that have let me down.

Go Cyclones!

SAY "CHEESE!" - SATURDAY




Cubs Go From 'No-No' to 'Oh No!'
And Embarrass Their 12 Remaining Fans

Friday, May 26, 2006

SAY "CHEESE!" - FRIDAY


Coach Sampson to Lecture HS Cheerleaders on Subtleties of Good Booty Call

Thursday, May 25, 2006

LUNCHTIME UPDATE: DIGEST THIS!! - THURSDAY

Kournikova Picture Link Horribly Veiled As Sports Related News (B&S)
ESPN’s “Bonds On Bonds� Runs Out Of Juice (Chicago Tribune)
Borat Has Nothing To Do With Sports & Rivalfish Doesn’t Care (Popoholic)
The Onion Takes On Bonds*#!F (Onion)
Ohio State Fan Caught Doing 5-Knuckle Shuffle (Deadspin)
Notre Dame Loses Faith In Christ After Seeing Da Vinci Code (Brushback)

SAY "CHEESE!" - THURSDAY

MAJOR LEAGUE BASEBALL ALL-TIME TOKIN' TEAM

Pictured above: Team Captains Bill "Spaceman" Lee (left) and Darren "Dutchie" Dalton enjoying some of the Spaceman's finest dank.


By Andy Kerns aka Writeasaurus Rex aka Streakasaurus Rex aka Stalkasaurus Rex, kerns333@aol.com



When cool-as-vanilla-pudding pitcher Freddy Garcia showed up at the World Baseball Classic this past March–playing for his native Venezuela–a chubby, sun-baked face and long, bleached locks hardly roused much serious attention. But his puss-filled fastball sure did. Known as a power pitcher with a sinker in the low-to-mid-nineties, Freddy surprised everyone with an impromptu Greg Maddux impersonation, rarely bothering to "oompf" a fastball over eighty-four miles an hour. Though most people were quick to point out how early it was in the year, the table was set with suspicion and skepticism. And rightly so.

This past April, it was revealed that Freddy Garcia tested positive for marijuana during the World Baseball Classic. In honor of Freddy getting caught with his hand in the Devil’s cookie jar, Rivalfish will mark this development along baseball’s storied drug landscape by presenting Major League Baseball’s All-Time Tokin’ Team, a team comprised of the game’s most notable chink-eyed cheeba mongers.

Co-captaining this crack squad of totally righteous mongoids are none other than Darren "Dutchie" Daulton and Bill "Spaceman" Lee.

Darren “Dutchie� Daulton, Catcher: Daulton, a former All-Star catcher with the Phillies, recently claimed that he "skips through time" and engages in "astral travel." Take a moment and let that sink in: this grown man thinks he flies around the universe visiting planets at night. When asked to comment on his struggles with estranged wife, Nicole, Dutchie had this to say: "I’ve been thrown in jail five or six times. Nicole thinks I’m crazy. She blames everything on drugs and drinking. But I don’t take drugs and I’m not a drunk. Nicole just doesn’t understand metaphysics." Geez Nicole, it sounds like you’re not even making an effort.



Bill “Spaceman� Lee, Starting Pitcher: When asked once about drug testing, Red Sox starter Bill "Spaceman" Lee said, "I believed in drug testing a long time ago. All through the Sixties I tested everything." Known for writing the name of a planet and the year (i.e. Pluto, ‘73) next to his autograph, Lee also once told reporters that he sprinkled marijuana on his pancakes as part of a pre-game ritual.




Jackie “Go Go Get Me Some Ganja� Robinson, Second Base: During his campaign to outlaw marijuana in the 1930s, federal official Henry Anslinger argued that "Reefer makes darkies think they’re as good as white men." Or in the case of our second baseman, Jackie Robinson, it made them think they’re better. Which he was. Just think though, if Go Go Jackie hadn’t been moonlighting as Puff Puff Robinson, who’s to say whether he’d have had the courage to light up those base paths and raise the game of baseball to a higher level?



Ozzie “The Wizard� Smith, Shortstop: Ozzie "The Wizard" Smith was known for regularly performing cart wheels, round-offs, and back-flips on the way out to his position before the start of a game. For me, nothing screams "drug abuse" like a bearded man doing gymnastics tricks for no particular reason at all. Interestingly, Ozzie’s "Wizard" nickname has nothing to do with "The Wizard of Oz," or the short-stop’s acrobatic play. It stems from Ozzie’s tradition of wearing a Merlin-style sorcerer hat whenever hot-boxing his eight car garage with friends. Go figure.



Ken “Gene-O� Caminiti, Third Base: God bless his soul, Kenneth Gene Caminiti lost his life on October 10th, 2004 to acute intoxication due to the combined effects of cocaine and opiates. While it was his unfortunate career-long battle with steroids, cocaine, and alcohol that kept Kenny down and often incarcerated, it was his late-in-life foray into a derivative of the poppy seed that helped lift him on his way to heaven. After his career had waned, and his adult-acne ridden homers were a distant memory, Caminiti took a job as San Diego’s Spring Training instructor. By the start of the season, his players had developed into formidable big-leaguers and seasoned Tijuanan drug-traffickers. “Stick to the hippie drugs, and you’ll be alright,� he often instructed his up-and-comers. Sadly, Kenny the Ketamine Cooker didn’t heed his own advice.



Orlando “Cha Cha� Cepeda, First Base: Of our next player, Willie Mays once said, "He is annoying every pitcher in the league. He is strong, he hits to all fields, and he makes all the plays. He’s the most relaxed first-year man I ever saw." Uhh, bingo? Orlando "Cha Cha" Cepeda was famously arrested in 1975, a year after he retired, for attempting to transport over 150 pounds of marijuana through an airport in San Juan, Puerto Rico. Very subtle, Cha Cha, very subtle indeed.



Manny “ROOR� Ramirez, Left Field: Meandering around left field, trying to catch butterflies, and daydreaming about ripping massive tubes, is Manny Ramirez. This goes way beyond the dreads, people. Manny Ramirez, Boston’s cloud-gazing extraordinaire, acts like a clown on the field and off. He also manages to look sloppier in his uniform than "The Dude" looked in a flannel robe and White Russian-soaked beater. Best of all though, when Manny goes yard, he runs the bases in a manner that epitomizes what it means to be ... a professional ... gentleman ... of leisure.



“Gorgeous� George Sisler, Centerfield: Patrolling center is "Gorgeous" George Sisler. Simple. Never heard of him? Neither have we. He played from 1915-1930, and in 1922 he finished the season with a .420 batting average. Only time it’s ever happened in history. Legend even has it, the dedicated wake n’ baker was hitting .421 going into the final game of the season and he whiffed three times on purpose just to drag the average down. Gorgeous move George.




Johnnie B. “Dusty� Baker, Jr., Right Field: Names just don’t get phiner than Johnnie B. Baker, Jr. And cats don’t get cooler than this one, known better as "Dusty." Johnnie B Bake Man was born in Riverside Cali, baby, and he’ll play right field for the Tokers, if that’s alright with you Daddy-O. As a manager, Dusty has exhibited an uncanny ability to maintain loose, friendly, and relaxed clubhouse atmospheres. Uhh, like pass the hookah, bra. Dusty also has quite a resinated tongue; he is physically incapable of delivering a sentence without book-ending it with at least one "man," ya know man?



In closing, it must be noted that Darryl Strawberry "Fields Forever" was a serious candidate for the third and final outfield spot, as his association with drug abuse trumps even that of Barry Bonds. During our intense brainstorming efforts, we at the Fish were very weary of overlooking his outstanding efforts to just "get elevated." The problem is, Darryl always seemed to prefer carving the powdery slopes rather than ditching the skis and sitting by the fire in the cabin, playing guitar, wiggling his toes around in his wool socks, and passing around a reddish-orange bong named, "Trey." Ganj is certainly a gateway drug, and it therefore stands to reason that Darryl often likes to go where "nothing is real and there’s nothing to get hung about," but with his "bitch-slap rappin’ and a cocaine tongue," Daryll just wouldn’t get anything done amidst that Toker clubhouse vibe. Ya dig?


Wednesday, May 24, 2006

LUNCHTIME UPDATE: DIGEST THIS!! - WEDNESDAY

RIVALFISH FOUND SAMMY SOSA IN TULSA!!! (Local 6)
Marge Schott’s Confusion Of NBA Players & Rappers Justified (NBA Draft)
Little Man Avery Johnson Tugs Josh Howard’s “Little Man� (Deadspin)
Nike + iPod = Cross-Marketing Hell (Reuters)
Jeb Bush Offered NFL's Commish Job, Goal #1 To Wipeout Redskins (SFSS)
Heat 91, Pistons 86: A Jew’s Perspective (Sun-Sentinel)
IFOCE’s Competitive Eating Highlight Reel. Yes, This Is A Sport. (IFOCE)

SAY "CHEESE!" - WEDNESDAY

MY DAD CAN BEAT UP YOUR DAD


By Ross Frank DiMarco III, rfdimar@pointpark.edu

Hello all! I know most of you were deeply saddened by my absence last week and I understand. When you are on a weekly diet of Ross (and/or Methadone), it is extremely difficult to go without it. Some say that my roommate is the luckiest human being on the planet, and honestly, I have to agree. He sees me in the morning giving the "male salute" when I am constantly looking for my wallet.

Now this week is going to be a little different. I received special permission from Rival Room Editor Tello Reál to give a synopsis of the weekend I just spent at the Rival Fish Headquarters. First and foremost, let me give two brief warnings to all of those people under the age of 14: 1) this would be a good time to read another Rival Fish article and, 2) don't ever go to the Rival Fish Headquarters (the neurological damage would be irreparable).


DAY 1

No, the frugal AND unattractive RivalFishers did not pay for my flight (I just had to get that out of the way, because they really are grotesque human beings). Anyway, when I met Ronald Jickstoom's son, Chris, I was surprised to find that he was a lot shorter than I bet Ronny J had wished his only son to be. I am a towering six-footer and this diminutive "man-boy" only stood about 5' 6", and that was with the designer tennis shoes he sported all weekend.

We went to a local pub to watch the Pistons beat the Cavs in Game 6 and Chris celebrated by taking a page from his high school cheerleader days. He performed three toe-touches and a back flip in addition to giving the all-too-familiar fist pumps. He then informed me that he originally learned it from Ronny J, but perfected it on the Livonia, Michigan cheerleading squad (on a side note, LIVONIA + HAIR = LIVONIA FADES).

After the Pistons sealed the victory, we began to wash away our dignity with booze. I was surprised and honored when Tello Reál presented me with a special gift from RivalFish for all of my hard work I have given this site: some Mad Dog 20/20 (please go to bumwine.com to learn more about this priceless liquor). I began to feel the diabetes kick in as soon as I took my first sip. The amount of sugar in the "wine" was excruciating and my good-eye was starting to become lazy (quite a comp