Saturday, September 29, 2007


Post #6 Topic: The Mets Re-Maine in the hunt

Summers are long. With nothing other than baseball going on over the course of the summer, everyone becomes a big fan, so long as their respective team is somewhat competitive. Baseball is by no means my favorite spectator sport, as I stand by my word that nothing quite matches the intensity of a hockey game at Madison Square Garden. IN fact, as a 24 year old, I still get chills down my spine everytime I walk through the Garden atrium; the place truly is special.

But during the summer, I’m one of the millions guilty of hanging onto every pitch. The great thing about baseball is that regardless of how far ahead one team may be, come end of the season there’s almost always some chase going on. Fortunately for me (and unfortunately for my heart/liver), these chases usually involve the Mets.

Three years ago the Mets were in the hunt, only to mortgage the future in exchange for Victor Zambrano. That year the Mets experienced a major collapse and found themselves far on the outside looking in. That summer, Mets fans gasped everytime Braden Looper was handed the ball. EVERY PITCH WAS A NAILBITER. And even as the season unwound, that small inkling in the back of my head that suggests that “there is a chance”, kept me glued to my screen.

Last year the Mets were the odds-on favorite to win their division, and return to the playoffs for the first time since losing to the Yankees in 2001 (I managed to sneak into Shea for game 6 of that series. My seat was the last seat in the last row in the last section, and from my vantage point, Piazza’s modest pop-up seemed destined to be an apple-popper). Nonetheless, I sub-consciously submitted myself to watching the season wind down, as the Phillies made a historic run towards the playoffs. Although the Phils were eventually denied, over the course of several weeks those who for the rest of the summer had been “casual fans” had almost overnight become baseball fan-atics. Baseball truly is the magic of summer.

This year has been no disappointment. Half a month ago the Mets seemed unbeatable. Their offense was clicking, their pitching was coming together, their bullpen was fierce, Billy was throwing heat, Pedro was on the mound in the minors, Alou was showing why he was worth 8 mill. Delgado had regained some pop, and the leadoff combination of Reyes and newly acquired Luis Castillo were scoring runs by the barrel.

A quick sweep against the Mets by the Phils showed some weakness, but the Mets recovered. They swept the next two series and had re-amassed a lead of 7.5 games; things looked peachy. Then in typical end of summer fashion baseball got interesting; my nails got shorter; my beer expenses got higher and my lack of confidence in my team reared its ugly head for the first time in several seasons.

Reyes wasn’t getting on, and when he was, he was being thrown out at 2nd. Delgado got hurt. Duque got hurt. The Mets couldn’t piece any rallies together. The bullpen collapsed taking Billy’s steam with it and the Mets started looking more than beatable. 14 games later, yesterday, the Mets awoke to find themselves tied with the Phillies for that last spot in the playoffs. A 3-0 shutout on behalf of the lowly, division foe Marlins and a 13 K performance by Cole Hamels for the Phillies sent the Mets from the Ritz to the Holiday Inn of the national league. Fortunately for the Mets and Mets fans, it was a holiday inn express, because today, the Mets looked damn Sharp.

Watching the last three games prior to the Mets drubbing of the Marlins (9/29), every pitch was intense. I can not count on my five extremities how many times I thought Beltran was going to bust that game-tying homer; the Lo Duca was going to leg out an infield single with his injured calf; that Reyes was going to turn a 2 out, no men on inning into a great scoring chance by legging a double into a triple; that Billy’s fastball would give the Mets one more chance in the bottom. NONE of these wishes came to fruition.

But there is something magical about baseball at the end of the summer. Until your team is OUT, you simply won’t buy that they’re out. Things can change, momentum can swing, and with every pitch a team has a million chances to change their (mis)fortune in time for the playoffs. Sometimes it takes a special player, sometimes is takes a special play. Today for the Mets it took nothing more than a team doing what it had done all last year and had been expected to do all this year: PLAY FANTASTIC BASEBALL.

John Maine pitched a gem. As well as Pedro has been pitching since his return, this was the single best Mets pitching performance of the year… HANDS DOWN. For a pitcher not known for his fierce power or darling finesse, John Maine pitched circles around what happens to be one of the most talented line-ups in all of baseball (strong but supported statement). Maine threw 7 2/3rd innings without giving up a hit, throwing 14 strikeouts, a number unmatched since Al Leiter threw 15 in ’99. 5 Mets players had two or more hits and 4 more had 1. Carlos Gomez came off the bench to show why he’s projected as an eventual starter/star, (he is no Alex Escobar/Ochoa). Lastings Milledge gave two reasons why we shouldn’t care that he raps about cutting girls during the off-season (or at least should forget about it for the day), with two bombs to opposite field. Strangely, Mr. Reyes was the only met with a below average day, committing another stupid base-running error, and continuing his unprecedented cold-streak. But what Reyes did today is evidence of how good this team can be; when the Gotays and the Greens of the world pick-up their teammates shortcomings.

So now with 1 game to go I resume my position on the edge of my seat, where every pitch can make or break the season, every at bat could signal the beginning of a hot streak, and every substitution could be the one that makes Willie a NY hero…again. And now I’m locked in, and for a few more weeks that which makes our summers away from hockey, basketball and football bearable, resumes centerstage, as my Mets look to show that 9/10 pre-season predictions couldn’t be wrong; that the Mets are the best team in the NL.

Friday, September 28, 2007



Post #5 Topic: I wrote this while on steroids

I was never a star athlete. I was never the smartest child on the playground. Never finished by grey arithmetic books in time for naptime. I was never the gifted musician in the school band or the lead in the school play. My writing was always somewhat more convoluted than my that of my classmates who were fast and efficient in their essay writing. I was CERTAINLY not the best driver (unless by best you mean most appearances on small town upstate court dockets).

In college I didn’t get the most girls, didn’t drink the most beer, wasn’t the most fratty by a longshot (although I drove an SUV, wore polo shirts and yelled at G.D.I.’s and freshmen).

After college I wasn’t the best employee, being fired once for rhyming in my customer service e-mails and scolded another time for calling elementary school children maggots in front of their principle (true story, more hilarious then words can do justice).

In other words, I was never the best at anything. That is until now. About a week ago I came home from a long day of school, having completed nearly 23 boards of Chip’s Challenge and getting 13 balls on my screen in Jezzball. Needless to say I was tired and in need of a release. Not being in Amsterdam, I needed to find something else help me blow off some steam, so I decided to begin a blog discussing the shortcomings of all of those professional athletes of which I am so jealous.

From a young age (like many children) I KNEW I was going to be a baseball player. Who cared that I was afraid of the ball and my doctor father, for the sake of my health, made me wear a helmet with a face guard in the field? Baseball was my calling. A 5”10’ Jewish kid from the most over-protective community outside of that strange town from the Village of the Damned (sweet movie), I was going to pull a Koufax.

“You can take away our dreams, and you can take away our goals. But you can’t take away our dreams”

“YEAH, because we’re like, sleeping when we have them”

“LATER VERY MUCH” (actual dialogue in dispute).

Fast forward to sophomore year of high school during which I was kicked off the tennis team for “soiling” the opposing team’s courts (which was really no more then some choppy concrete). Sitting in front of the school’s fairness committee, attempting to rationalize why peeing that exact minute was so important as to outweigh the option of using the bathrooms 20 yards away, I came to the all to harsh conclusion that my days as an athlete were over. The conversation went something like this,

Principle, tell me, have you ever been to a school baseball game”. Yes “well principle, tell me, have you noticed how often the players leave the dug out during the course of the game?”. No. Well principle, have you ever noticed how much Gatorade those guys drink?”.

I knew I had him. How could he possibly explain why it was acceptable for baseball players to pee on their fields of play, when tennis players couldn’t. Classiness of the sport aside, we had a clear case of a violation of the equal protection clause and I wasn’t going to sit idle. Later that day I was suspended. And although I lost the fight, I realized that law was perhaps a back way in to the world of professional sports, and one which would be worthwhile pursuing.

So how does that relate to this post? Well it mostly doesn’t but was an interesting tangent and one I’m sure that some of you reading this appreciated.

Back to the point. I sat down to write this blog, and here is the first thing that came out on my scrap paper. “I love Hockey. The guys skate so fast, and score goals, but the goalies are good, unless they’re old, then sometimes they’re not so flexible. Then its important to have a good defense. But defense needs to be good at offense… BLAH BLAH BLAH. You see dad, Doug, is like a fax machine. If you don’t have a title page, people don’t know where its going. And sometimes you get a busy signal, but that’s why you have a redial button, but I never use it…”

I was going nowhere. I needed some creative juice flowing. I thought about college and what used to get me motivated to write my Bullshit marketing papers, but unfortunately, given my career choice, I now have to abide by the law. I thought about going for a run to get my heart rate going, but that thought made me tired. I thought about calling one of my old friends and seeing what stupid stories they had heard (created) that week and perhaps writing about them, but he was too busy trying to figure out how he woke up in bed with three chicks from the midget KISS cover band to be concerned with my selfish needs.

So I thought, WWBD? What would Barry do? So I quickly ran to the local equinox gym, flirted with a couple of the juicers in the locker room, and the next thing I knew I was flying high (Danny Bonaduce really is a generous guy). Everything I was writing was fire, the best thing to hit paper since scissors. On steroids, I could not be defeated. I knew that what I was writing was the best thing to ever be written, and I owe it all to the steroids. (Editor’s note: these posts are not the aforementioned posts, these are only a tribute to the best posts in the world. It’s a matter of opinion.)

So here I am apologizing to all of those other video game bloggers, fashion bloggers, and bloggers who write about how stupid blogging is. Yes my writing is better than yours, but I did it unnaturally. But I’m turning myself in. I’m coming clean. Starting tomorrow my posts will all be clean. No more f-ing around with the emotions of my readers, I want you all to appreciate me for my true talent, or not at all. I’m Sorry

Other notes:

Islanders-Rangers games are going to be great this year, you can tell that the Isles realize how bad they are already and are going to be looking to make up for it in the illegal penalty department

Polish food is delicious, especially when you don’t know what it is that you’re eating, which after finding out what it was that I read, I believe was for the better.

I want to play Halo 3 (don’t tell anybody).

Why do ribs wait until they get to your table to fall off the bone? It truly is genius.

Thursday, September 27, 2007

Fourth Post


Post #4 Topic: A simple case of bad play calling

Ever since Michael Vick entered the NFL, his harshest critics have been nothing more than echoes of one another. “All Michael can do is run, he can’t pass”. Unfortunately for Michael, he waited for the wrong scenario to prove them wrong.

A month (or less) before September 13th, Michael Vick had the perfect opportunity to run. And run he should have. Michael should have run farther and faster than he ever has before. Michael should have run down main street, hooked a left on rte. 1 and just kept on running. But no. Michael, a guy who is notorious for his poor decision making decided to pass. Ironically, in what was the most certain, unhindered, unequivocated pass of his young (but finished) career, this pass was not to sure-handed tight end Alge Crumpler. This was not a screen pass to Warrick Dunn. This wasn’t even Michael passing on a team meeting. Instead this was that type of pass which we as fans can assume that a large number of athletes make on a regular basis, but do a phenomenal job hiding. (I went to Syracuse with Carmelo and I swear it was me who accidentally left my weed in his suitcase!!).

More likely than not the man on the other end of Michael’s pass was equally retarded brother Marcus. Tsk Tsk Michael, we all know that the dutchie is meant to be passed on the LEFT HAND SIDE (unless of course the man directly to your left is Ricky Williams, who more likely than not has his own stash and isn’t interested in “getting in touch with his soul” courtesy of that brick weed you picked up in Washington Square Park in the East Village (imagine that, drugs for sale in a park, wouldn’t that be something)).

But who in this prescription pill dependant nation can’t sympathize with Michael. Several months back I lost my dog of 14 years and was extremely distraught. Imagine how Michael feels. He’s been losing dogs at least once a week since he was a little kid. Plus he had to watch all of his friends lose their dogs and his family lose his dogs. Can you really blame him for seeking some herbal healing, as a way to feel comfortable, just him and his dawgs? I certainly can’t

You holden? Is William Holden here? Holden Caufield? OHH MY PROBE… Ha ha, party probe.

Plus, its hard to get weed in prison (again, based entirely on assumption). Michael considered this final (if you count every day of his professional career as final) sesh as a “last meal” of sorts. But let us not be so quick to convict what I see as an innocent man. According to the Model Penal Code, in order to be convicted of a crime the actor must possess the requisite Mens Rea. In simple English terms, this means some intent. Often times (as for Marijuana charges I’m not certain), this Mens Rea standard requires the actor to realize that what he is doing is wrong, known commonly amongst those trapped in the glass mime box that is the legal profession as “knowingly or purposely”. What does all this mean? Simple; Michael Vick is innocent.

Based on what we know about Michael, we can assume that he does not subscribe to Lexis-Nexis. Afterall, how else can we explain his belief that killing dogs was totally morally and legally acceptable? Given that information, we can logically infer that Michael was unaware of the laws in all 50 states making possession of Marijuana illegal as well (perhaps he only knows that you can’t carry it on airplanes in secret compartments in your water bottle… which is MPC 203.45) Thus, without notice (knowledge of the law governing him) he could not purposely have violated the relevant statute, and thus the glove (and the whizzinator) simply DO NOT FIT!

So here’s your plea bargain Michael. Come on TV. Tell us how awful you feel about the kids. The kids who looked up to you; the kids who waited on line for 5 hrs to get on the Michael Vick Experience only to find out that it wasn’t actually a real ride somewhere; the kids who started smoking weed because Michael Vick was doing it, and as Michael Vick once said when first accused of killing dogs… and I quote “it don’t matter what Michael Vick do, cause wherever Michael Vick go, MICHAEL VICK A HERO”. Whatever you say Maestro.

Then tell us that you’ll be back in five years. Bigger and badder and better then ever before, like a dog trained to sic’em on command. But while you whither away in your cell (and the Falcons wither away in the NFC South), you better quietly pray that Vince McMahon’s new all-convict league lasts longer than his all NFL Castaway league. Because quite frankly, should the league ever let you back in an NFL stadium again, the only running you’ll be doing is to and from the concession stands getting my popcorn and soda pop.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Other notes:

Name something that tastes bad with bacon. I dare you.

How the hell is Chinese delivery so fast and when are they going to teach us how to read minds?

Maybe Britney Spears was right when she sang that she was Toxic. Because she’s barely holding on. Now I’m not big into celebrity gossip (other than US Weekly which is gods gift to anyone on the toilet), but in her pictures she really looks like something out of a George Romero film. Finally directors have a screenplay worth of defaming the original exorcist for a 4th time.

Somebody in NYC stole my bike. I had it for 3 days, and had ridden it twice. Then I locked it up outside of my school, only to find it missing when I left the library. Note to all. If I see you riding my bike around the city I will jump kick you into the middle of traffic, even if doing so ruins my bike.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Third Post


Post #3 Topic: Kobe to…. SHAWN MARION?

Nothing irks me quite as much as mosquitoes. However, after mosquitoes, NBA players demanding to be traded is a close 2nd.

Shouldn’t these players agents be instructing them not to issue any public trade demands? Especially on ESPN which due to the advent of the internet has become nothing more than a gossip journalism channel, distinguished from Entertainment Tonight and Access Hollywood only by its double digit channel location. History shows that players demanding to be traded typically DON’T GET TRADED. Given that these mindless behemoths are more often than not smaller in the part of the brain that does arithmetic, but there is a lot more that goes into trades, especially those involving big name players, then where so and so wants to play.

This is not third grade kickball, where if I wanted to play on Pat’s team I would scream and stomp my feet until everyone else gave in. Nor is this fantasy basketball, where the Dwayne wades and the Joe Johnson’s of our world see themselves shifting rosters thousands of times each day.

A trade is not easy to make. Often times it involves more than one team. And if you’re the Boston Celtics trying to salvage what for the past five years has been a wreck of Lusitaniaesque proportions, maybe more than 10 players.

So now Shawn Marion wants to be traded to the Lakers. The way I see it, one of two things can happen.

1. Shawn Marion is traded nowhere. He remains in Phoenix on a team one Bruce Bowen away from a legitimate shot at a championship. However, given the presence of Amare, the emergence of Boris and the reclamation project of Mr. 1996 Co-rookie of the year (the other being former Sun, Jason Kidd), Shawn finds himself getting less touches than he did last year. And thus the song remains the same. Shawn once again makes it public that he wants out. The fans go against him. He gets benched. His numbers and productivity go down (assuming an injury isn’t a foregone conclusion). His trade value plummets farther than Isiah Thomas’s credibility (otherwise known as the Journey to the Center of the Earth by Jules Verne), and he winds up where???? STUCK ON THE SUNS. Afterall, the Lakers only have one valuable asset not named Andrew Bynum, and the Zen-Master is too busy practicing his PICK AND ROLL on owner Jerry Buss’s daughter to be interested in relocating to retirement land (although retirement might be in his best interest given the poor mismanagement of the Lakers). Not to mention that without Jerry Colangelo manning the ship, the chances of the Suns stealing another Boris Diaw are slim to none. Then Shawn he plays out his remaining time in Phoenix and signs elsewhere in a few years, carrying a bad reputation for not being a “team guy”, one of the most abused clichés in professional anything.

2. Instead, Shawn winds up being traded to the Philadelphia 76’ers in exchange for defensive (and at times offensive) center Samuel “Je suis tres large mais Je ne peux (thanks JC) pas prendre le charge” Dalembert, where the combination of A.I. II (Igoudala) and Mr. Marion reinvigorate the only city more accustomed to losing than Chicago, and wins a string of championships behind Mo Cheeks. Too bad he can’t suit up for the woeful Phillies, maybe take Grandpa Jamie Moyer’s spot in the rotation.

So be smarter Shawn. If all goes well, the Suns come out of the recently depleted Western Conference (although the Spurs might just be entitled to a rule 12(b)(6) motion given the strength of their “all-world” roster). Then, assuming the baby Bulls still can’t get their acts together, maybe you get a weak Cavalier team in the finals and pull off a championship. You’re applauded as a key contributor, and suddenly become the object of every team’s, looking for some “championship experience” affection.

If not Mr. Marion, take heed to a warning crooned by The Animals in 1964: There is a house in New Orleans, where you may be headed you once Rising Sun, and its been the ruin of many young ballers, and god, pray you don’t become one.

Other Notes:

Drinking a pitcher of Margaritas on a Tuesday may sound like a festive idea, but feeling like ass on a Wednesday is no Beef Chimichanga with no cheese, with Guacamole and Sour Cream on top, with a side of rice and refried beans, and three baskets of chips to the dome.

Its no problem baby I still got em, this just a victory lap baby im just joggin – Weezie

Tomorrow I’m going to Boston. Nothing good ever happens to me when I go to Boston. I guess that’s why they call me whiskers.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007



Post #2 Topic: Fighting in the NHL

As a Rangers fan, this posting is bound to be slightly biased, but nonetheless, the point made is an important one.

What do Todd Bertuzzi, Marty McSorley, and amongst many others and the latest to be added to this infamous group of thugs ‘n goons, Chris Simon have in common? Well I guess I gave it away, they are all thugs and goons. Unfortunately, according to Mr. Bettman’s new NHL by-laws, more specifically: Paragraph 42, Clause 8 Line 3, one can not be both an NHL player and a thug n’ goon at the same time. Just as an uninvited guest can’t be both symbiotic and parasitic to its host at the same time (that is unreferenced and my own belief).

These guys are single-handedly ruining the NHL. Because of them Hockey is cast in a negative light. Who cares that half of the NFL are criminals, half of MLB is on the juice (steroids, not the O.J. watch ((see tomorrow’s post))) and half of the NBA’s audience each year is made up of the human seed machine, Shawn Kemp’s children. In none of those sports, even football which by its nature is more violent than hockey, do fans witness acts even nearly as malicious as that which has been growing ever more common in the frozen ponds scattered across our country.

For a sport that is trying to regain its one time immense popularity, the NHL is certainly doing a sub-par job of glorifying how poetic the game is. At a time when we as NHL fans (meaning me and three other people) are poised to witness the rising of a new era. Where young stars slowly begin to chip away at professional sports BEST RECORD, and yes, Wayne Gretzky having more assists than any other player has points deserves that label, our great sport, which lays claim to the most historically relevant trophy outside of Pakistan’s famed national cricket Chalice, is being tarnished like a Barry Bonds world’s strongest man victory. And Chris… EVEN ARRAN ASHAM THINKS YOU’RE A THUG, or maybe he just left the islanders because they’re the Islanders, hockey’s version of a cemetary, where careers literally go to die (Captain Bill Guerin), hence the nickname Mausoleum.

Unfortunately for the NHL, Sidney, Alex and the rest of the new guys can’t defend helm’s deep on their own, its going to take a little something from the supporting cast of characters.

Allow me to clarify my point.

The NHL is nothing without fighting. Nothing at all. It adds an element to the game that is absent in any other professional sport. It gives the fans another reason to come, gives players another dimension by which to get into the league, and gives fans of the Columbus Blue Jackets and Phoenix Coyotes something to cheer for once in a blue moon. And now these assholes are ruining it.

Last season Mr. Simon took a stick to the head of one Ryan Hollweg, the foremost agitator and aggressor for a formerly otherwise soft, Europeanesque Rangers squad. Despite a suspension that still hadn’t elapsed, he was permitted to play in 9/24’s pre-season game against the Rangers. Guess what he did. After an apology so well-rehearsed that it almost seemed sincere, HE WENT AFTER HOLLWEG AGAIN. Now I, just as much as the next guy am all for NHL players getting their inflated salaries beaten out of them. But as our nation’s constitution (and Canada’s horse-back police squadrons) command, one must have the right to a fair and proper defense. Attacking these guys from behind, with sticks, with more viciousness then a Chris Benoit imitation contest deprives the Ryan Hollwegs and the Greg Moore’s and the Donald Brashears a chance to retaliate with what a lot of fans really want to see… fisticuffs. Mono e mono, un battle avec les mains, etc, etc, etc…

So wise up Chris Simon. Lets not forget, you have no hockey talent. For a guy that’s career best was 49 pts, playing on a line with the one time formidable Washington Capitols, on a line with the “Slovakian Sniper” Peter Bondra, and second best was 39 pts playing on the Stanley Cup Champion Avalanche (Peter Forsberg, Joe Sakic, Patrick Roy…), you’re paycheck is earned with your fists. If you keep acting up, youre going to slowly deplete your ability to practice your trade, which unfortunately, is no longer constitutionally protected (See Lochner).

What is your job? To make sure assholes such as yourself don’t go after the young talent that is in a position to save a dying art. To make sure that the Chris Simon’s of the world don’t go head-hunting on Alex the Great, or cross checking King Henrik, or spearing Evgeny “Czar” Malkin (made that one up) or any of the rest of the NHL’s recently inaugurated royal family. Until they do, just be happy that your foolishness hasn’t forced the NHL’s hand in banning fighting. After all, where would we be without a Gordie Howe Hat Trick (

Oh, and Ted Nolan. STFU. Seriously, Not even Islander fans condone Chris’ acts. Just look at your attendance… oh wait, no one ever goes to Islander games. But still, STFU anyway.

Other notes:

Reading makes you dumber. How so? People write to make money. People who are reading are too busy reading to write. Given that our society is entirely economically based, it follows that readers are stupid, except YOU!!!!!

Don't put lemon on curried chicken kabobs. Just don't.

Popeye was an evil conspirator. Spinach is really delicious. Popeye was aware that all parents of young children try to get their children to eat shitty food by telling them how good it is for them. So, in all of his Pavlovian genius, Popeye started telling kids that spinach was good for you, when really he just valued it for its crack-like tendencies. Result: Less children eating Spinach, more fixes for sailor man. Asshole.

Monday, September 24, 2007

First Post


First Post hey? Yeah that's right, first post. The first in a string of posts that will take me to the top of the world of pessimistic sports analysis. Oh you haven't heard of PSA? Well I would not feel so alone, everybody must get... to know PSA (thanks Bob).

Truth is I'm not a true pessimist. Its more imagery, meant to coax your minds into thinking that my unique and often times far-fetched perspectives on that which entertains me is correct.

Nonetheless, this is my blog.

Topic #1: Sexy Rexy or Ano-Rex-Ic Grossman?

Has this guy ever had any talent? Some (from chicago) would say yes. Others (from every place not called chicago, and others based in the windy city) would laugh. Runner up to the heisman trophy? Guess that would make him next in line to be the second best grocery-bagger at my local stop & shop behind the eventual heisman winner, Eric Crouch. Sure, anybody succeeding Jesse Palmer taking snaps is bound to look good doing so, but at this point, can anyone truly say they would rather be Rex over Jesse. Jesse played backup on a Giants team that never gave him the opportunity to show how bad he truly was. Rex, at the forefront of an anemic Chicago offense not lead, but followed his team to the superbowl on behalf of the 3rd all-convict team behind the 2003 Trail-Blazers and the 1999 Dallas Stars (who collectively conspired to STEAL the Stanley Cup for the BUffalo Sabres, which albeit on a tangent i must mention have not recovered since, even if you consider last year a success, there is no recipe that can on its own maintain the attractiveness of a team and a city, similar to that of hoisting your respective sport's championship trophy, ... just ask Daniel Briere, Chris Drury, and Louise Duffney. Who is Louise Duffney? The original founder of Duff's famous Buffalo wings, who, in her state of immeasurable furiousity (made up word), moved the famous franchise to Toronto. The significance? The Leafs haven't won the cup since 66, yet still as all Buffalo wings do, Mrs. Duffney decided to pack it in and head for a more sports-friendly city ((((((The Rochester Americans and Syracuse Nationals no longer count, and frankly aren't that close)))) and yes, i stick to my guns that Chris Drury is a true wing and will return to that position once the likes of Brandon Dubinsky and Artem Anisimov have developed NHL compatible muscle...

Back to the Palmer v. Grossman comparison (apologize for the law school-influenced method of writing versus). Palmer was on the bachelor while counterpart Rex??? Well he was runner up for the Heisman.

And now, even the Soldier field faithul are chanting "Griese, Griese". Keep in mind that if not for a gift from the Blazers (Jordan), one near perfect season from Ditka's Bears (1985), and a recent White Sox team that simply capitalized on the rest of the competition's deadly combination of mediocrity and complacency, Chicago would still be hanging on to hopes for the first Cubs world Series since..

When did god say let there be light? CORRECT! Alex i'll take... you get the point.

Yet the Cubs are still the heart and soul of that city (Hot Dogs were disqualified because Hot Dogs kill your heart and consequently your soul). Meanwhile, Big Sexy leads his team to a Superbowl one year, and essentially three weeks later starts hearing calls for his head. Long live the queen.

Moosh-in-tofu Muhammed has been invisible. Had to get that out of the way


Before this past Monday's (9/23) football game, the last time you heard Griese's name was when he retired after losing the starting job to... JAKE PLUMMER. Seems as if Rex is slowly burying himself beneath a mountain of NFL names synonymous with disappointment.

Suddenly being Jesse Palmer isn't looking half bad is it?

Advantage Jesse Palmer

Disadvantage Chicago Bears.

Other Notes:

3:10 to Yuma is a great movie. Luke Wilson should be shot and killed quickly in movies more often. And Peter Fonda looks like he just finished Bogarting George Hanson's (Jack Nicholson's) joint, my friend.

Shrimp Dumplings are really delicious

Its starting to get cold... quick, burn more gasoline.

You know what really makes a party? Fluffy whip. But not when you put it on stuff.