Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Break ups are hard to do

What up world,

Tonight begins the T-Wolves' epic quest toward a 2009 lottery pick. They may provide occasional flashes of brilliance throughout the upcoming months where they steal a win away from an actual contender, but when it comes to April we will be watching the NBA playoffs sans our Wolves. Kevin McHale will continue to try and get fired with another awful draft, and we will continue to slowly weep whenever KG appears in Celtics green. It almost makes me want to completely ignore the team this year. Like they are an ex-girlfriend that has broken my heart. I'm considering burning my playoff towels, breaking my KG bobblehead, and throwing darts on the Stephon Marbury birthday card that I received in middle school.

But I can't do any of these things. I have been reading all of the player bios over the past couple weeks, while following each of the preseason games. I even watched one of them on ESPN's gamecast. I'm sick. I just can't get those adorable Wuffies out of my system.

For pretty much my entire conscience life, I've followed the team. From the original Pooh Richardson days to the glories of Garnett, I've watched and attended the games, always thinking, "Next season is going to be a different story. We will eventually be better." Little did I know what was about to occur.

It hurt me when Guggliota left. It hurt worse through the whole Marbury debacle, but nothing will compare to the divorce with Garnett. I would cry myself to sleep after watching the finals last summer. How could he leave us and immediately start dating another team? They were just his rebound right? He would come back to us eventually when he realized how much we loved him. He had to. I wanted to bomb the city of Boston when I saw this commercial.

After a season apart from Garnett, my wounds are slowly starting to heal. Each day gets a little easier, and I think that I could eventually move on from my previous KG relationship. Maybe even love again. I'm not sure that it is going to be the current team, or if there is some other draft pick out there in the future that will rekindle my love affair. Maybe I'll fall for KG-lite, or flirt with Foye, or maybe even start to love Love.

Let's just start with a good first date. Do well tonight boys.

-Sota

Monday, October 27, 2008

Brothers Gotta Share

What up world,

While wandering the hallways of the Vikings practice facility earlier this year, I heard the following conversation.

Kevin Williams: "Pat are you crying?"
Pat Williams (sniffling): "Oh, hey Kevin."
Kev: "What's going on? What's wrong?"
Pat: "Nothing."
Kev: "Come on. You can tell me. I'm your brother."
Pat: "Well, it's just that all of the guys in the locker room keep calling me Fat Pat. People on the radio are saying it too. Even the fans call me fat."
Kev: "Pat, you're just a little bigger than most of the other kids. I wouldn't call you fat. Maybe just a little chunky."
Pat: "I am fat. I know it. My bathroom scale doesn't even register my weight any more. It just says 'Error', like a bad Garfield cartoon. Even Coach said that I wouldn't be able to play if I didn't lose weight."
Kev: "Well then, you and I will hit the weight room and work off some of those pounds this week."
Pat: "I don't think it's going to work. The thing is, when people call me Fat Pat, it just makes me depressed. When I'm depressed, all I want to do is eat. I went to McDonalds before practice this morning."
Kev: "They have a couple of healthy options at McDonalds. What did you get?"
Pat: "When they asked what I wanted, I just said "everything". I got everything Kev. I even supersized my order. I sat in my car in the parking lot and took it all down. When I was done, I went through the drive through and got a milkshake for the road."
Kev: "It's across the street."
Pat (sobbing): "I know."
Kev: "Well, we can work on this together. We'll go see a dietician and get this thing under control."
Pat: "How are you not as fat as I am? We're brothers, and you look anorexic compared to me."
Kev: "Well, I have a little weight loss secret that I haven't told anyone about."
Pat: "What? Tell me. I need help here Kev."
Kev: "Well, it's this little pill called Bumetanide."
Pat: "Bu..me...t..."
Kev: "I just call it a water pill. It helps me keep some of the weight off. I'll let you use some of them for a while if you want. The only thing is, we can't tell anyone about this. If we get caught using these weight loss drugs, someone might think that we were trying to mask steroid use."
Pat: "But we would never EVER use steroids."
Kev: "I know, but you know how people talk."
Pat: "Yeah. Hopefully these water pills do the trick. Pretty soon people will be calling me Phat Pat. Like with a 'ph' phat, not 'f' fat."
Kev: "Nice one. Now lets go put cottage cheese in Jared Allen's cowboy hat. It will be hilarious."

With that they left. I learned a couple of things during the conversation. One, Pat and Kevin Williams really are brothers, even though everyone thinks that they aren't. Two, the water pills were just for weight loss purposes and could not have used to mask steroid use. Three, Jared Allen is a huge hick (I may have already known this). Please Commish, take it easy on the team. I think that Zygi might go on a killing spree if anything else happens to the team this season.

-Sota

Friday, October 24, 2008

Ends are tight

What up world,

I'm a fairly regular reader of other Minnesota sporting blogs and message boards. For the most part it seems that there are quite a number of Minnesota Vikings fans out there that share many of the same sentiments that I do. We are a frustrated bunch of masochists who occasionally say or write some things that might not be all that kind to members of the team or coaching staff. Yet we continue to follow our favorite bunch of purple heathens each weekend, hoping against all logic that they may still turn things around. The Vikes have a bye this weekend, and I'm hoping that Chilly will take the time to revise the game plan a little or that JD Booty will suddenly become bootilicious as our starting quarterback or that the special teams has a group sleepover where they make a blood pact to never F things up again for the rest of season. Anything is possible in the bye week. Changes for the better can happen. I'm convinced of it.

Just look at my boy Visanthe Shiancoe (spelled correctly after four tries). After watching him last season and the beginning of this season, I took a contract out on his life. It was a bit expensive to do, but I was convinced that it was worth it. If I saw him drop another touchdown pass or first down reception, my head was going to explode over the entire living room. And then, somewhere between the Titans game and last week, he suddenly started to improve. I started questioning whether it was really a good idea to have him killed, but I wanted to talk to him before I called it off.

Sota: Yo, Visanthe. What up? It's your boy Sota.
Visanthe Shiancoe: Oh, what up Sota? What's going on?
S: Hey man, I just wanted to call to tell you that I've been impressed by some of the catches that you've made the last couple of weeks.
VS: You know, I'm just doing my job.
S: See that's the funny thing. For over a year you haven't been doing your job very well at all. I mean, you were terrible.
VS: Yeah. True, but...
S: I mean awful. Like make-me-sick-on-myself awful. I can't tell you how many times I tried to curse your name during that time period. I really wasn't sure how to pronounce it, so I just said things like, "F that guy" and pointed at the screen.
VS: Yeah, it's a tough name...
S: And then you actually started catching. Just when I, the Minnesota fan-base, and apparently the entire coaching staff had completely given up on you. What happened?
VS: Well, I didn't really want to tell anyone this, but I underwent surgery at the start of season.
S: Really?
VS: Yeah, I was afflicted with a condition called Magnititus.
S: I've never heard of that before. If would have thought that you're condition would be something more like "sucks-balls-ingus".
VS: Well I have a minor case of that as well. Magnititus is when you're hands are magnetized, but with opposing charges. It's an adult on-set condition that affects something like 10% of all humans.
S: That sounds ridiculous.
VS: No, it's true. Look at this picture.

VS: Every time a ball was thrown to me, I couldn't close my grip on it. It would either go right through my hands or I would go all dropsie on it.
S: That's pretty much spot on.
VS: I couldn't catch even the easiest of passes.
S: Also correct.
VS: So I had the surgery during training camp, but it's taken a while for my hands to heal up enough to actually hold onto a football.
S: So you are saying that you will never drop a ball again.
VS: That's correct.
S: Okay, well I guess that I won't have you killed then.
VS: What?
S: Nothing. Later Big V.

So that's that. Hopefully we will have the tight end that we thought we were paying for last season. If that's true, I might choose to forgive some of the awful things that he has done over the past year, maybe even learning to pronounce and spell his name correctly.

The biggest lesson here is that if this giant ball of suck can change, so can the rest of the team. Bye weeks are magical times, lets put this one to good use.

-Sota

Thursday, October 23, 2008

Go West Son

What up world,

As my former roommate pointed out recently, it has been a while since my last post. I thought that I would be okay once the Twins season was over, but apparently I'm still not over their loss quite yet. Plus the Vikes continue to play like a collective group of leffers, so it's hard for me to get excited and write about them. However, more than either of these things, I've taken a brief respite from writing due to my move out of the midwest.

I am now officially a resident of a Whale's Vagina, California. Really. I just sent in my change of address form. I've been contemplating the move for quite some time, and it has finally become a reality. I'm excited about being here, but there are certainly some drawbacks that I'm facing. Here is an alternating list.

Plus: I haven't seen a cloud in the sky yet and I've been here for almost a week. It's been in the 70's and absolutely beautiful, while Chicago is starting to turn into a poo storm of sleet and nipple-freezing cold.

Minus: My new roommate has a fake Christmas tree in the closet of the room that I'm staying in. When I saw it, the prospect of not having snow for the holidays hit me for the first time. I've never been in a location that doesn't have distinct seasons, so this could be a bit difficult for me.

Plus: There is a field that is close to my apartment where there are pick-up soccer games on a nightly basis. I will admit that I played soccer throughout high school, and the prospect of playing a pick-up game is very exciting.

Minus: In the same park where the soccer games take place, there are also quite a few gang members that hang out at the benches nearby. At least they look like gang members to me, and while they all look younger than I, they still scare the poop out of me.

Plus: I live in a city where there isn't a sports team that is a direct rival of the teams for which I cheer. I lived in Wisconsin during the Favre era and Chicago during the Bitch Sox World Series. It is nice to live in an area where I don't automatically hate a portion of the population.

Minus: I have lost God's gift to football fans in that I no longer have my roommates NFL ticket to watch every Sunday. I spent last weekend constantly checking scores on-line. I didn't get to see the feeding frenzy that was the Bears-Vikings game, which may have been a good thing. If I had watched the game, I may have broken the television, cut my roommate, and strangled a baby. I guess, in the end, I will give this a half negative point.

Plus: I have had the pleasure of stuffing my face with In-N-Out Burger and the most delicious burrito I have ever tasted since I made the move. The Mexican food is like an orgasm on a Styrofoam plate.

Minus: I will no longer be able to enjoy a steady diet of Vines or Ian's Pizza. I'm entering into withdrawal just thinking about it.

Plus: I will no longer have to smell my former roommates feet.

Minus: I will no longer get to smell my former roommates feet.

Final tally: Pluses 5; Minuses 4 1/2. It looks like I made the correct choice to make the move. Now, if I can somehow convince my new roommate to get the NFL, NBA, and MLB packages, the move will be ideal.

I will attempt to write something a little more sports-specific tomorrow. For my three regular readers, I will be better.

-Sota

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Antoine is a Ninja

What up world,

On Monday night, I settled down on my roommates couch and watched the Vikings bumble their way toward a victory against the New Orleans Saints. It was absolutely god awful to watch. If I were a Saints fan, I would have wanted to stab bunnies after seeing my team give that game away. The Vikings offense looked like they had been kicked in the balls prior to each play from scrimmage. Each time the ball was snapped, they would immediately fall to the ground and writhe in agony. It burned my eye-balls to watch it.

I needed four fantasy points out of Purple Jesus in order to win for the week. Four points, that was it. I understand that the Saints were putting their entire defense, several members of the coaching staff, a couple of fans, and the entire referee crew into the box, but Peterson could get four fantasy points if he were running without a foot, both arms, and carrying his mother on his back. I'm going to chalk this up to Purple Jesus spending his entire weekend rebuilding the remaining homes of New Orleans. Instead of renting those 'wide load' trucks, the city asked Adrian to lift and move the rebuilt houses on his shoulders. He was a little tired from the heavy lifting. I get that, but I need you AP. No more charity work while the fantasy football season is going, okay? Alright, we're cool.

The real key to victory for us, more than Bernard Berrian's big day, or the fairly solid performance of the defense, or Grundy Undies somewhat accurate throws , was the play of my boy Antoine Winfield. He was all over the place, single handily winning the game for the Purple. I don't know much about Antoine, other than the fact that he is tiny and awesome. I caught up with him after the game. Here's a quick recap of our conversation.

Sota: What it is Antoine? Great game on Monday.
Antoine Winfield: Thanks Sota. I was just doing my job.
S: Yeah right. I think you far exceeded your job expectations. Unless your defined role is to make quarterbacks wet themselves, or to look extra sexy scoring defensive touchdowns, or to be a little, stealth ninja out on the field.
AW: What? Who told you that?
S: What?
AW: That I was a ninja?
S: Nobody. I was just making things up. I was just trying to tell you that you had a great game, and that I plan on putting a life-size poster of you on my wall and having frequent conversations with it.
AW: Oh good, because if word got out there that I was a ninja, I would have to start killing people.
S: So you are telling me that you are an actual ninja?
AW: Yes, but that has to be our little secret. Nobody can know about this.

S: Okay, I understand. It's probably against ninja code to show your face right?
AW: Exactly. The Ninja Alliance, of which I am a co-founder, would not look too kindly on me revealing myself to millions of people each week. Plus, other quarterbacks would probably say that it's unfair for a ninja to be playing against them.
S: Well yeah.
AW: But if the Vikings didn't have a ninja on their roster, with a head coach as awful as ours, we would be the worst team in the NFL. It would be like a drunk house cat named Fluffles trying to teach the Ninja Turtles to fight, instead of Splinter.
S: Right. Good analogy. Well, I look forward to more of your ninja ways in the upcoming weeks. Maybe you can start your own Dojo in the caverns of the metrodome and secretly teach T-Jack to be a ninja of his own?
AW: I'm already working on it. We're also working on a secret plan to assassinate Chilli Willi with some of our throwing stars.
S: Nice, I'm on board. I'll keep your secret safe.

"The Ninja Alliance"

I couldn't help myself. I had to tell someone, but I'm asking you, the reader, to keep this secret as well. Here is a quick video of our favorite secret assassin while acting as commissioner of the Ninja Alliance.

-Sota

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Recovery

What up world,

It has taken some time for me to get over the loss that the Twins suffered last week. Last Tuesday night, as I was driving to the bar in Bloomington, I began thinking about the Twins season. At the beginning of the year, I thought that we would have a better team than many of the experts were saying, but I never thought that we would be in contention for a playoff spot. I thought that we would be better than the Royalty of Kansas City and better than the Sux of Chicago, but I didn't think that we could compete with the line-up of Detroit and the pitching of Cleveland. I would have never predicted that J-Ma would win another batting title, or that J-Mo would be in contention for another MVP, or Lil' Nicky would be more 2006 rather than 2007, or the pitching staff of younguns would be solid throughout the year, or that the bust known as Denard would transition to a fearsome beast known as Keiunta.

There were so many improbable things that happened throughout the year, that in the 20 minutes that it took me to get to the bar, I convinced myself that the Twins were capable of pulling off one more upset. Our little team that could was going to show the Sox that you didn't have to go yard in order to score runs. We don't need a ridiculous gimmick like a "black out" in order to win a game. We were going to show them how baseball is supposed to be played, with solid pitching, timely hitting, and mini superheroes.

I sat through nine innings, holding out hope that my pre-game pep-talk to myself would hold true. I had convinced myself that the team was just trying to build drama throughout the game before coming back to win. We were going to propel ourselves into the playoffs with a huge home run from the Canadian Mountee or a series of bloop singles from Team Scrappy. I kept telling myself this as the Twins continued to strike out and hit ground balls. We were going to win! I just knew it.......

Ugghhh. It still hurts to think about it. Looking back on it now, I recognize that I was lost amid the Kubler-Ross stages of grief in the days that followed the game. I went through a stage per day. Here is the breakdown.

Wednesday (Denial)

I spent the majority of the day trying to convince myself that it was better that the Twins were not in the playoffs and trying to convince others that I was doing okay. The following are actual quotes.

"At least now I won't have to spend so much time focusing on the team."
"I didn't cry last night. It was hot in the bar, and my cheeks were sweating."
"I'm fine. If I choose to drink myself into a stupor, it has nothing to do with how the Twins played."

Thursday (Anger)

I recognized that things were not okay on Thursday. Throughout the summer, I could always look forward to a game being played at least every other day. Thursday was the first time that it really hit me that the season was over, and I was pissed. I checked the baseball schedule in the morning and was consumed by rage. Instead of watching the Twins play that night, I was going to have to watch Chicago play in our place. Coupling the hatred of the White Sox that I already possessed with this newfound anger made my head explode into small pieces all over my parent's kitchen. I spent at least an hour of the day drawing profane pictures of AJ Pierzynski, which only caused me to become more irritated. I'm not proud of this:

Friday (Bargaining)

Watching the White Sox lose on Thursday made me feel a little better on Friday. I found myself starting to think about the offseason and coming to grips with what had happened. If the Twins, both players and front office personnel, take the season as a learning and growing experience, I will be okay with how it ended. If Go Go learns a little plate dicipline, Delmon learns how to field, and Billy the Kid doesn't throw mid-level contracts at mediocre talent, I might be able to recover from this dissappointment.

Saturday (Depression)

Utter sadness hit me on Saturday. It took the mediocre play of the Vikings, the performance of my college football team, and the prospect of another dismal Timberwolves season for me to realize what I was facing for the next 6 months. I have no hope of cheering for a team that has the possibility of success. I sucked my thumb for the majority of the day.

Sunday (Acceptance)

I arrived back in Chicago on Sunday. My fantasy football team failed to live up to my expectations yet again, but for the first time in over a week, I didn't let it affect my mood. A friend of mine told me a few weeks ago that he wasn't going to let sports dictate how he felt any longer. This was after watching our college football team lose and the Twins blow another game against Kansas City. I continued to drink myself into a blackout at the time, but I decided on Sunday to listen to his advice.

One cannot follow Minnesota sports without setting themselves up for an eventual, horrible dissappointment. We will always cheer for our teams, only to have our hearts ripped out in the end. It's like the scene from Temple of Doom. The White Sox, or the Packers, or the Spurs will always take their turn as the High Priest of Kali, holding our still beating hearts in front of our faces, while our team concludes yet another unsuccessful season.

So no longer will I live and die with the success of my teams. I will try and appreciate the wins, and let the losses slide. I will enjoy the journey, rather than the destination. I will try and recognize that there is more to life than following sports.

The Twins season is over. Onto the Vikings and T-Wolves. The Vikings take on Detroit next week. If they don't win and Purple Jesus doesn't have 850 yards rushing, I just might have to kill myself. Wait, killing myself might be a little extreme. Have I not learned anything from what I just wrote? I won't kill myself if the Vikings don't win, maybe just cut myself a little. Baby steps right?

-Sota

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

OMG

What up world,

I can't believe that it has come to this. I feel like a 13-year-old girl at a Jonas Brothers concert. I'm excited, I feel the need to pee myself, and there is a good chance that I'll pass out. After reading through several blogs and the Strib, it doesn't seem like anyone is giving us a chance to win. It seems like we are making up excuses before the first pitch is even thrown. I would like to say that I have multiple reasons for optimism and that we can go out there and dominate the Sox, but I'm going to have to side with every writer out there. I'm scared of the south side of Chicago, and the people that call themselves White Sox fans. I think they could rip Lil Nicky Punto limb from limb, and then they'd probably feast on his delicious lil remains. All we can do is hope that Blackburn channels his best Joe Mauer, that the ass-bats are burned prior to the game, and that we leave Chicago on a plane to Florida rather than back to Minny. Stay away Twins. We don't want you back here unless it's a playoff performance.

The game is going to start in a few minutes. My plans are to craddle myself and slowly rock back and forth while quietly humming, "We're going to win Twins, we're going to score" over and over again. And try not to throw up.

-Sota

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Dolla Bills

What up world,

Holy balls y'alls. An entire season comes to a close and the Twins are not in the playoffs, yet their season is not over. I will be thinking loving thoughts about the entire Tigers lineup today, hoping that their hatred of the White Sox is as strong as mine. I'll even be cheering for Magglio, who I have wanted to punch in the nose for 10+ years. The last thing that I want to do is head to Chicago for a tie-breaking game. My nerves can't take it. I will be peeing my pants a little with each pitch if it happens, culminating in my head exploding if the Sox win.

I went to the game last Wednesday night for game 2 of the Sox series and barely made it out alive. Through a mixture of dome dogs, alcohol, and Joe Nathan's ninth inning, my heart shut down for at least a 20 minute period. I attended the game with the one and only Justin Lorang, sitting in the cheap seats behind the baggie in right field. He and I discussed catching foul balls and home runs, and I informed him that it was one of my life goals to make a catch one of my own. I don't want the ball to bobble around among the fans and eventually end up in my hands either. I want to reach out my bare hand and nab the ball, and then just pose with it, like the statue of liberty. I have dreams about it.

In the fourth inning of Wednesday night's game I was watching Ken Griffey Jr at bat. All of a sudden, with one sweet swing, the ball was headed directly to my section. It was a monster shot that was arcing beautifully toward me. I stood up, reaching out my hand in anticipation of my statuesque pose. My dreams were coming true, and I chose to ignore the fact the score was now going to be 3-2, as I stretched for the ball.

My dreams came crashing down as the ball suddenly dropped off a ledge and landed four rows in front of me. There was a middle aged guy that performed the exact catch that I had been hoping for. He simply reached out and snagged the ball bare handed, while still maintaining a phone conversation with his other hand. I was amazed. I stood there with my mouth open for a couple of seconds. On one hand, I was very impressed with his performance, but on the other hand, my jealousy of what had happened was causing me to want to murder him.

I eventually settled down, drowning my sorrow in multiple dollar dogs and beer. With that night's win, and the following nights amazing comeback, the Twins were in first place. Even with the weekend's terrible games against the Royals, the team enters today a half game up. Less than a week ago, I was writing the season off, and now we are in the drivers seat. All of the pressure is on the Ozzie and his team of assiness.

So let's go Tigers. Take all of your frustration of your horrible season out on this team. Magglio, you're my boy. Sheff, you scare the shit out of me. Cabrera, you are big boned, not fat. Bring it home for your favorite little scrappy team. Redmond told me that he would buy you a round of beers and several prostitutes if you can pull this out.

-Sota

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Kubel says Grrrrr

What up world,

What a start to the series. The first part of my three part fantasy dream sequence came true last night. Scottie Baker, our 12 year old ace, drank an extra big glass of milk before taking the mound last night. The White Sox had been taking his lunch money for most of the season, and he decided that last night's game was his moment of revenge. He told me that he even saw a couple of whiskers on his chin after the game. You are becoming a man Scottie!

The question was, with Scottie pitching well, would the lineup pull through with some run support? The answer came in the bottom of the second, when an angry grizzly bear approached the plate. Javy Vazquez, the White Sox pitcher, had stolen meals from the grizzly for years. This was his chance to maul him, take a couple of nibbles of his arm, maybe even throw some bear scat on his face. The Ku-bear let out a mighty roar and went deep on Javy, driving in the Canadian and taking a lead that the Twin would not give back for the rest of the game.

Ku-bear was still angry however and decided that the only way to get back at the White Sox would be to go deep again and throw in a triple for good measure. Throw in a couple of other timely hits, a homer by a Young-un, even a squeeze play and a dive into first by the littlest of superheroes, and the Twins come out as winners.

I'm headed to the game tonight, and a little nervous about the matchup between Joe Mauer lookalike Nick Blackburn and the evil lefty Mark Buehrle. I think that it's going to make the win that much more amazing. Don't dissappoint boys.

-Sota

Monday, September 22, 2008

G.U.S.

What up world,

I have some mixed emotions on the Vikings game yesterday. I really like the Carolina Panthers. I like that Jake Delhomme gets fired up on the field and shoots flames from his nostrils. I like that Steve Smith has a huge Napoleon complex and will eventually dominate fantasy football stats for the rest of the season (I need you Steve. Go crazy. Not like, punch a teammate crazy, like touchdown crazy). I like that Julius Peppers could sack a quarterback, save a child from a burning building, and impregnant an entire section of a football stadium in one quarter of a game.

Also, I'm not thrilled with the selection of Gus Frerotte as our quarterback of the future. He did look a lot better than a certain T-Jack quarterback, but he's just so old. His Bradke grease hair has started to show a little gray around the edges. He was born in 1971, and I still can't get past the name. Gus is the kid that picks his nose and wears suspenders, not the heroic leader of a football team.

Last night, as I watched the Cowboys sexually assualt the Packers, I asked whether anyone knew Gus' full name. There was a myriad of suggestions, my favorite being an acronym of Grundy Underwear Sweat, but no one seemed to know exactly what it was. Through the magic of the internets, I found his full name was Gustave Joseph Frerotte. I'm a little dissappointed that it wasn't Grundy Undies, but as long as he continues to lead the Vikes to victory, I'm willing to let it pass.

In the end, a win is still a win. I thought that the defense looked really good, and I'm even starting to like EJ Henderson. This is a big move for me, as I've wanted to murder him in his sleep for several years prior to this. Purple Jesus did not dominate like I expected him to, but I'm pretty sure that he was playing with only one hamstring yesterday. He told me that he just tied the other in a knot prior to heading onto the field. After the game, I saw him walking around the field turf piece that covers the pitcher's mound. He told me that he was blessing it in anticipation of the Twins series this week. I asked him if he could predict what was going to happen. He smiled at me and simply said, "Sweep" before ascending into the heavens.

-Sota

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Back to the Homeland

What up world,

I'm back in Minnesota for a couple of weeks. The fact that it coincides with the pennant run in not a coincidence. I'm putting everything into getting the Twins into the postseason. I'm convinced that without my presence in this state, the Twins will crumble and fall.

Okay, it is a coincidence. And my presence here doesn't seem to have helped the Twins or the Vikings for that matter. My return has only brought destruction and ruin upon the home teams. The Twins have lost three in a row with ass-bats and bullpen full of poop. The culmination of which was Horse-Face Nathan being extra horsey last night in the 12th. Believe me when I say that the hurt is that much worse when watching the action on tv rather than on-line.

In addition to their play, the Twins made the decision to go with Target as their new ballpark namesake. I've got no problem with Target as a corporation or a store. I've walked into Target several times with plans to buy a tube of toothpaste or a pair of socks and walked out with hundreds of dollars of merchandise. I can't help myself.

It's just that Target Field just doesn't sound quite right in my head. You can't say, "I'm headed to Target for the game tonight." It sounds like you are going to spend the evening in the electronics department, playing Xbox games and perusing the movie section. You can abbreviate other AL Central ballparks names. "I'm going to the Jake" or "I'm headed to the Cell" sound much better than "I'm on my way to Target". At what point will Target be allowed their own freestanding army that takes over the state with lethal force?

I can live with the Twins not playing well. I was reminded last night by a friend that we didn't expect anything out of the Twins this season. They are a young team that is supposed to be gearing up for the 2010 season. We have a pitching staff that just finished up puberty and an outfield full of guys that can't get into an R-rated movie. So I'm okay with them at least being close. Some magic still might happen by the end of the season. I can even deal with Target Field mainly because it's not the Metrodome. Outdoor baseball at long last. Praise Purple Jesus. The thing that I find the most dissappointing, the thing that makes me want to punt small children and punch my grandmother, is the play of the Vikings.

I had such high expectations going into the season. Everything seemed to be falling in place perfectly. A defense full of thugs and hicks (Jared and Chad I'm looking in your direction), an offensive line that could feed a third of Africa with their man-meat, and a running back that decended from the heavens to save our purple-clad heathens. The only question was whether our quarterback could deliver a pass downfield every once in a while.

From all offseason reports, Tavaris Jackson was looking good. Much better than the inconsistent player from last season. Maybe with a play every now and again, he could back that extra defensive guy out of the box. I had so much hope for my boy T-Jack. There are so many cool ways that you can say his name. T-Jack, Tav Jackson, T, T-bone, TJ, Tav Jacks. He wears sweet necklaces. I wanted to be cheering for him for the whole season and for seasons to come.

I'm choosing to focus more of my blame on Chilli Willi, his mustache in particular. I think that his infamous quarterback development and "kick-ass" offensive gameplan have failed the team more than Jackson's errant throws, but I'll leave that for another day. Now we have to turn to Gus Frerotte, maybe the least cool name in the NFL. How could the name Gus strike fear in other teams? I don't see Julius Peppers saying, "Oh my God, we have to face Gus this week!"

Regardless of what has happened so far, we are stuck with G-Frer going forward. I will be convincing myself for the rest of the week that his cagey veteran leadership will steer the offense in a new direction. Purple Jesus will bless him with 1,000 yards on the ground, and Berrian will stop complaining about his biggest piggy. There's still hope left.

A Vikings win this weekend, some scrappy play by the Twins, and someone breaking Aaron Rodger's huge nose would be an awfully nice homecoming present. Let's make this happen.

-Sota

Thursday, September 11, 2008

So Much Pain

What up world,

I have posted anything for a couple of days because I couldn't bring myself to face the pain of the weekend. I woke up last Saturday and checked to see what time the Twins played, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that they were going to be shown on Fox here in Chicago. It was going to be a weekend of unparalleled sports watching. College football and the Twins all day on Saturday, a Sunday of NFL action, and a Monday night of raping and pillaging by my purple homeboys. If I had a gauge on me to assess my excitement, it would have been past full.

Everything was going perfectly according to plan. The White Sox were losing to the Angels, the Twins were winning against Detroit, Notre Dame was losing to San Diego State, all at the same time. I had just eaten a ridiculous amount of fried food. I was lying on my roommates couch in perfect harmony with the world, thinking about how amazingly everything was working out, but it must have been too much gluttony. God began raining down fire and brimstone on my state of bliss. The Twins bullpen resume their hatred for being good, the White Sox tied it up in the 9th, and Notre Dame caused a fumbled at their own goaline to save the game.

I was crushed. Everything was going so perfectly. Due to my gluttonous ways, God had turned against the teams of Minnesota. I was even cheering against Touchdown Jesus. Why was I living in such sin? Why didn't I see this and immediately go to church to repent?

Sunday came, and I still didn't realize what I was doing. I got rather excited when Tom Brady went down with a knee injury for fantasy football reasons. I sat on the same couch eating nachos and wearing Zubaz. I didn't even shower the entire day. The gluttony had returned in full form.

Then Monday arrived. Even if the Twins were behind by 2 1/2 games, the Vikings beating the Packers would make everything alright for me. I proudly put on my Purple Jesus shirt, went to Taco Bell for dinner, and settled in to watch my boys take out the cheese in Lambeau. I was resuming my gluttony, worshiping a false idol, and openly dishonoring my mother and father (who are Packer fans). God was pissed at me, and decided to crush my spirits with a punt return by the Pack, a Lambeau leap by Aaron Rodgers, and a game ending interception by the Vikes.

I'm sorry for all of my actions. I finally realized what I had done on Tuesday morning, promptly going for a run and eating healthier. I said a thousand hail mary's and even tried whipping myself like that guy in the DaVinci Code. All of a sudden the White Sox had lost two on Tuesday and the Twins were within one. Paul Konerko gets hurt and there are reports that Dallas Clark might not be able to play next weekend. I promise that I will not defy God for the rest of the season, and we can all enjoy a World Series and Super Bowl run.

-Sota

Saturday, September 6, 2008

Liriano is a Full Time Man

What up world,

To think that we went through 4 months of Livan the Hutt instead of Saint Francisco boggles my mind. We have gone from a heart attack per inning with the Hutt to delicious strikeouts and very few runs per game with the Saint. Every time I see that he's on the mound, this is what I envision.

I don't think that I've ever seen a more heavenly roster photo.


But I imagine that other teams see a different pitcher entirely. According to a few of the players that I spoke with, there was a ferocious beast on the hill that threw nasty sliders and wicked changeups throughout the evening. Through several of their accounts, I was able to put together a composite of the vision that sat the majority of the lineup on their asses last night.



I love you Saint. Keep being your nasty self.

-Sota

Friday, September 5, 2008

A Very Naughty Child

What up world,

Breaking news out of Chicago today. Carlos Quentin, the man-child that has been cranking the piss out of balls on the south side, may be out for the rest of the season due to a broken wrist. Quentin says that the injury was incurred on Monday night when he fouled off a pitch against Cliff Lee, but I found out some startling details from some of my sources here.

The White Sox had just completed their series against Boston, and had flown into Cleveland on Sunday night. Apparently his parents were visiting relatives in the Cleveland area for the weekend, and decided to surprise their baby Carlos at his hotel room when he arrived in town. They carried this picture with them, as they always do, reminding themselves how proud they are of their son.


As they entered the lobby of the team hotel, they showed the desk girl the picture and asked if she could give them their son's room number. The desk girl could see the pride beaming from their faces. She gave them his room number and even an extra key so that they could surprise him with a little visit.

The Quentin's arrived at room 302, inserted the card into the card slot, and entered Carlos' room. As they opened the door, they didn't initially see their baby boy. He wasn't on the bed, or typing homesick emails at the desk. A bit confused, they turned to their right to the open bathroom door. Mrs. Quentin shrieked and immediately fainted. Mr. Quentin yelled out a series of curses and stood aghast as he stared at the following image.



Shocked to see his parents, Carlos immediately tried to cover himself. While reaching for his jeans, his wrist snagged awkwardly on his waistband. He was left with the decision of either trying to pull up his pants, and furthering injuring himself, or exposing his fully erect boner to his father's eyes. He made the correct choice and yanked up his waistband, cracking his wrist in the process.

They sat together in several hours of silence. The only sounds that could be heard were the air conditioner and his mother muttering prayers to herself. He and his father decided that in order to protect himself and the family from media shame, he would have to pretend to hurt it in the next day's game.

And so, on Monday evening, we saw Quentin take an at bit against Lee. He claims that after fouling off a pitch he hit the bat with his right hand and broke his wrist. Please. We can all see through this bold faced lie. The truth will set you free Carlos.

Regardless of how it occurred, whether it was from hitting the bat or from one of his masturbatory excursions, he's out for the year. Maybe the Twins can stop smelling like my roommates feet and pick up some ground over the next month. Maybe even take the division? We can dream can't we?

-Sota

Thursday, September 4, 2008

Hating the Twins???

What up world,

During the 7th inning last night, I left my house and headed to a local Jimmy John's for dinner. I was feeling pretty good at that point. Not only was I headed toward a delicious ham sandwich, but the Twins had just taken the lead and had forced AJ Burnett out of the game. We needed this game desperately bad, because the White Sox had won earlier in the day. I was reminded of this fact as I walked past this shady Mexican restaurant/bar. There was a Cubs game going on at the time, and someone had rolled down their window and yelled an obligatory "Go Cubs" to a couple of bouncers that were standing outside the bar. The bouncers responded with a "Go Sox". Here is a recap of the conversation between the drunk car guy and the scary looking bouncers.

Drunk guy: "Are the Sox in first?"
Scary bouncer: "Yeah. They won today, and the Twins are tied in the seventh and about to lose."
Me (in my own thoughts): "What? We were ahead two seconds ago. What happened?"
Scary bouncer: "Even if the Twins win, the Sox are still going to win the division. The Twins suck."
Me (in my own thoughts): "I hate Sox fans. If you weren't so god-awfully scary, and if the Twins weren't playing like a pile of cow manure, I would totally say something hilarious and derogatory about the Sox."
Drunk guy: "I'll give you a 'Go Sox' if you give me a 'Go Cubs'."
Scary bouncer: "F your Cubs. The only team that I hate worse than the Cubs is the Twins."

How could you hate the Twins? They're so cuddly and innocent. He must not have seen Scottie Baker.

Or maybe it's because with the exception of the year that I like to forget (2005), the Twins have always been better than the Sux, with teams that are put together with younguns and scotch tape. Maybe because we find ways to score runs without just hitting home runs.

Side note: How does Alexei Ramirez continue to jack HR's? He looks like Jack from the Nightmare Before Christmas.

For some reason, I think that every baseball fan out there is secretly a little bit of a Twins fan. If not a full-fledged fan, at least an admirer. Like straight guys out there admitting that Brad Pitt is a sexy man. And then a scary bouncer says that he hates them and my perception comes crashing down.

I'm okay with this. Not everyone is going to like what I like. I realize this. Even I hate certain aspects of the Twins right now. Their bullpen for example. Errors. Ass-bats. But still, there is so much to love.

Don't make my hatred increase any more guys. Let's get at least one from these bitches and come back to home sweet dome for the weekend.

-Sota

Monday, September 1, 2008

Morneau Goes Boom

What up world,

Why can't we spread some of these runs out? I enjoy tasty eight run victories and especially delicious five run innings just as much as the next guy, but why not disperse some of these runs into some of our other games? We had thirty runs in four games against the A's, leading to two victories. Two victories. Against the A's. I know that when we are on the road you guys like to stay up late building forts and telling ghost stories, but we shouldn't be splitting series against these teams. The White Sox are telling us to step up and take first, but we continue to play this little game of leap frog with them. Let's stop fu$@ing messing around.

Ok, I'm sorry. I used some strong language there. Scottie Baker, stop crying. I think what we need in these circumstances is a strong, whiskey swilling, red-clad individual to lead the way for the rest of the team.

The Royal Canadian Mounted Morneau continued his quest of domination last night going boom all over a ball in the sixth. He reached 500 delcious rbi's in his career, which he has been feeding to the young and needy for five years. I talked to him briefly after the game.

Sota: What up J-Mo?
Morneau: Hello
Sota: Any plans for your off-day tomorrow?
JM: I'm planning on spear fishing for a while, and then probably wrestling a bear for most of the afternoon.
Sota: Oh really. Well that sounds like fun.
JM: Mainly it's to show Ontario how a man is supposed to act.
Sota: So it's to intimidate the Blue Jays?
JM: What a bunch of ninnies. I get furious every time I see them play. Canada's baseball team? What a joke. I'm going to give them a BC beatdown.
Sota: So you're guaranteeing a sweep then?
JM: I told the rest of the boys that we are going to force feed AJ Burnett some prairie oysters before the game. That should take care of things.

Morneau ended the conversation by yelling, "Suck my balls Chicago", and promptly hung up the phone. Let's hope that the Canadian's fury lasts for the next couple of days. Make things go boom J-Mo.


-Sota

Sunday, August 31, 2008

Throwing to Third

What up world,

As I watched the game last night, surrounded by tissues and sudafed, I saw some glimpses of hope. The Sux had thoroughly been pounded by the Sawx yet again and Keiunta Denard Span was quickly becoming my man-crush. I was all ready to write about being in first place, Saint Francisco's domination, and how I was going to dream about a sexy man from right field. As the ninth inning arrived and Joe Nathan approached the mound, I was ready to start blogging. Who cares about a single? A hit batter? Nathan was just sending a message right? Our ninth inning work horse was going to just keep us on edge for a little bit before slapping the A's across the mouth.

Joe Nathan team picture

Then Ryan Sweeny, knowing that there was no possible way that he could get a hit off of Nathan, tried to lay down a sac bunt. There was no issue here. Get the first out, possibly walk the next guy, and throw your slider for a nice little double play to end the game. Twins are in first and I go to sleep dreaming of Span.

Our closer has different ideas however and decides that he wants to relive his shortstop days. A little toss to Harris at third, a little ball rolling into left, and a little two runs come across the plate to score.

My view of Joe after last night.

What?? Joe, you are our bedrock. If the bullpen can somehow manage to get a game to you, you are always there for us to shut things down. If I can't sleep at night, I always know that a cup of hot chocolate will put me out. You are my hot chocolate Joe. Let's agree that if this is the last time that you do something like this, I will forgive you. Maybe next time you are on the mound, you can throw an extra scoop of chocolate powder in, and shut some bitches down. A marshmallow maybe? Agreed?

Okay we're good. Let's get things together for the rest of the trip.

-Sota

Saturday, August 30, 2008

Hits are Delicious

What up world,

For the last week I have worried myself sick (literally) over the Twins complete assbatiness. My head is now filled with snot and I can hear the fluid in my lungs with every move that I make. Some may say that the cause of this cold was not sleeping last weekend or going out until the very late hours of Thursday night. While this may have been a contributing factor, I'm pretty sure that the fumes from the Twins assbats is directly responsible. Clouds of ass-bat smog has been floating from the west coast directly to Chicago, causing everyone that comes in contact with it to come down with this illness.

Last night I tried to stay awake long enough to see if the assbat epidemic would continue, but failed miserably. The clock hit eight and I was out for the night. I woke up this morning feeling a little better than last night, not knowing exactly why. I checked the scoreboard from last night and had to double check to make sure that ESPN hadn't totaled the Twins hits for the entire week. 20 hits? In one game? That can't be correct.

I went outside of my apartment and saw nothing but blue sky. The ass-bat smog was gone. I'm still feeling a little under the weather, but with a couple more games like this I'll be back to 100%. Please Twins, help me get better. A first place team at the end of the night is just as good as chicken noodle soup.

-Sota

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Seattle!!!!!

What up world,

How can our bats be so assy? I have stayed up late two nights in a row, only to watch two games that we have given away late. Seattle!!! Why?? Why couldn't we follow the White Sox lead and destroy this team? Babies in the Twin Cities are furious with the performance of not only the bullpen, but also the Twins lineup. With Lexi back, and cutting ties with the wolfman, our offense was supposed to pick up a little right? Explain yourselves.


The only positive note that I can find in this series debacle is that Everyday Eddie is back in the mix. Hopefully we will have a little more depth in our bullpen and he will be more of this bellowing beast man,

then this grimmacing beast man for us.

Unfortunately the Twins gave up a pitching prospect for Eddie that was really intriguing to me. His name is Mark Hamburger, is from Minnesota, and was given a contract after having an open tryout with the team. He was doing pretty well in the minors, and may have a chance at the majors eventually. Here is the team photo.

Even more dissapointed than I that the team traded away the Hamburger is Randy Ruiz. Randy loves hamburgers as is evident in his 250 pound frame. When food is brought into the clubhouse, Randy is the first to find any and all hamburgers that are available. Many of his teammates have noticed this hamburger love and have nicknamed him The Hamburglar.

Randy had heard legend of this pitcher made of hamburgers in the minors. He was having dreams of this hamburger pitcher. Playing with him, celebrating victories, and eventually eating him as part of the postseason celebration.

When Randy heard of the news that the pitcher had been traded, he was devastated. Over the course of the day, this devastation turned to anger, which culminated in a booming homerun last night. I'm hoping that the rest of the team will see what the Hamburglar is like when he is angry and continue to steal his hamburgers. Otherwise, we can try and tip Officer Big Mac as to where the Hamburglar hangs out. I don't think that there would be anything that would anger him more.

Seriously boys, get rid of the ass-bats and salvage something out of this series.

-Sota

Monday, August 25, 2008

Ginger Attack

What up world,

I was out of the loop for most of the weekend, but managed to follow the games through various cellular devices. I was fairly excited after Thursday and Friday's games. The Twins were back in first, winning against a good team. The White Sux were not playing particularly well against another good team. I decided to have a few scotchs to celebrate on Friday night, which lead to a bit of a hangover on Saturday for myself and for the Twins. After Saturday night's game, I was still alright. I was in the midst of a wedding reception, I had drunk off my hangover, and the Twins were still in first with the Chicago loss. Waking up on Sunday I had visions of watching the Twins winning the four game series while I contemplated throwing up for most of the afternoon.

Things were going exactly according to plan. The Twins were up for most of the game, the Sox were losing, and my stomach was rejecting almost everything that I ate. All of a sudden, things went completely craptastic with another bullpen meltdown, Vlad impaling, and AJ being his utmost bitchfull. At the end of the day, here were the standings.

White Sox: 74-55
Twins: 74-56
Games Back: 1/2
Number of times I threw up: 2

This got me to thinking, why can't the Twins get into first and just stay there? Can they ever build a bigger lead than a 1/2 game on the White Sox? Why do the Twins keep teasing us with spectacular play one day and descend into complete assiness the next? I dug in and did some research to answer some of these questions. Since August 12th, the Twins have never been more than a game ahead or behind the White Sox. They have played with our emotions, testing the very fiber of our soul. What happened on August 12th that would cause the Twins to do this? What could it be?

Oh my God. There is a ginger that has embedded itself into the Twin's organization. I thought that we had rid the Twins of this creature years ago. On August 12th, the Twins signed this ginger to a minor league contract, in hope that he will be able to provide some hitting against left-handed pitchers. This couldn't be farther from the truth. For those that are unaware of the danger that gingers present, here is a brief presentation by a well respected gingerologist.

Gingers require souls to compensate them for the lack of their own. Obviously this ginger (who we will refer to as Bobby Kielty) has begun to work on the souls of the Twins bullpen. He knows that there is nothing worse than losing in the late innings of a game. If he can successfully steal the souls of the bullpen, he knows that the souls of the Twin's batting order and pitching lineup will soon follow.

He is setting up the end of the season perfectly. I can already envision the White Sox coming to town for the final series of the year. All the Twins will have to do is win the series and they will advance to the postseason. We will have brought Kielty up from the minors to pinch hit against Buehrle or Danks or even Ramirez. Bases will be loaded and the ginger approaches the plate. After several fouls, he will hit into a double play and the end the Twins' chances to advance, thus stealing the souls of the entire organization as well as all of its fans.

He will be rich in souls, causing even more freckles and a further reddening of his hair. I'm not sure that the Twins will be able to recover from this. Please Bill Smith, don't let this happen. Follow the Cubs lead in the expulsion of redheads. They cut Matt "Captain Ginger" Murton early in the season, and look what has happened since then. The Cubs are the best team in the National League and are completely gingervitus free.

As a warning the following images may not be suitable for young children. Gingers have been known to haunt dreams.


-Sota

Thursday, August 21, 2008

The Republicans are Coming!!!

What up world,

Fear has struck the Twin Cities as reports of khaki-wearing middle-aged men, elderly curmudgeons with fists full of money, and jewelry laden housewives are descending upon the state. Fearing for their lives, the Twins are headed on the road for a 14 game stint. We need these games boys. Get your road game together.

I have to head out of town for a roomie wedding this weekend, so the posts are going to be on hold until Monday.

Go Twins

-Sota

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Photo Hunt

What up world,

Minnesota Twins pitcher Kevin Slowey has one of the most appropriate surnames in baseball. He doesn't necessarily throw the baseball fast, although his fastball does have considerably more speed than my 60 mph lob-ball. He picks locations, nibbles corners and such. He has said that while he was moving up through the Twins organization that he admired the way that former Twin Brad "Hunk of Burning Man-Love" Radke threw the ball. Many writers have said that watching Slowey throw is very similar to watching Bradke a couple of years ago.

Slowey sat down 12 Athletics last night, so I thought that in his honor, we would play a little Photo/Video Hunt with our man. For those of you that have not played Photohunt, let me explain the rules. Typically, one would be at a bar, heavily inebriated, while playing the game. Two photos are shown side-by-side, with five differences between the pictures. You have to pick out the differences to advance to the next picture.

Due to some technological constraints, we won't be able to play the game in the same way here. But, we will do what we can. The first photos are below. Can you spot the differences?

If you said that the person on the left was Kevin Slowey, and Bradke was on the right, you are correct. Congratulations. Also, if you said that there is a black border around the photo on the right, you get bonus points.

Here's the next round.

This one is a little tougher. If you said that the guy on the left is Sean Gallagher, pitcher for the Oakland Athletics (he was traded from the Cubs this season), and that the guy on the right is Gallagher, famous comedian, then you are correct. Gallagher, the pitcher, was torched by the Twins last night for 10 runs. Gallagher, the comedian, probably spent last night crying while eating broken pieces of smashed watermelon. Bonus points for noticing that Sean's goatee was flipped upside down and put on Gallagher's upper lip.

For the next round, we are going to change things up a bit. This is a video hunt, with three different videos. Can you spot the differences between the three?



If you said that the first video was an intimidating ground hog, that the second was a cat that was intimidating, and that the third was a pitcher that intimidated the Athletics last night, then you are correct. Bonus points for not criticizing my video editing capabilities.

Here's the fourth round. This is the trickiest of all of them, because we are comparing a picture to a video. See if you can figure this one out.



If you said that the picture is of the Oakland Athletics prior to last nights game, and that the video was the Oakland Athletics as they were facing an intimidating Kevin Slowey last night, then you are correct. Bonus points for being a little frightened by the lemur in the video. It is the size of a house cat, but man, it gives me chills every time I see it. Anyway, that was a tough round of Photohunt, and you passed with flying colors. Very impressive.

The Twins play Oakland this afternoon. Chicago is playing Seattle this afternoon as well. Saint Francisco is pitching, so let's all pray and hope for the best. Let's get back to being in first Twins.

-Sota

Monday, August 18, 2008

Purple Jesus

What up world,

I'm watching the Twins play on-line right now, and too disgusted with the assiness of the bats to make any comment. 10 hits and 2 runs? Gross. The Sux are going boom all over the Mariners also, so it looks like our brief ride at top is coming to a close. Do the Sux ever score other than home runs? Ughh.

Instead of discussing these topics, I would like to talk to you about my fantasies. It's time to get real up close and personal. I have this recurring dream involving Jesus, Sharpie markers, an airplane, and monkeys. It's a complicated dream, but the first portion came to fruition on Sunday night. With the number two pick in my fantasy football draft I selected my boy, Purple Jesus. I'm hoping that he will be the savior of my miserable fantasy football team this year and I can finally fulfill my quest of winning the league.


I have been the commissioner of the league for four years and the closest that I've come to winning has been a third place finish. Other years I haven't even made the playoffs, and unless Purple Jesus brings God's wrath upon every team the Vikings face this year (I would suggest fire and brimstone), I may be headed for a very similar finish. I don't feel like the poor showings can be attributed to a lack of trying either. I put a ridiculous amount of time into research each year. A ridiculous amount of time into an activity that is completely based in fantasy.

I'm not saying that fantasy football isn't fun. It makes me far more entertained on Sundays, and it provides ample opportunity to talk trash to your friends. Why would I be interested in the Colts and Steelers game? There is no impact on the Vikings, but I do have Peyton Manning and the Steelers defense, so I'm locked to the television and drooling over every touchdown pass and fumble recovery for three hours. Under normal circumstances, why would I tell my friend that I'm going to throw monkey feces at Tony Romo? Fantasy football provides a perfect format for this type of discussion.

So Purple Jesus, put the healing touch to your quarterback's knee, demand that he throws multiple swing passes to you, request clean hand-offs, and to never, ever look to someone else in the red zone. Tell Childress that it's God's will for you to have 2,000 yards rushing, with something like 60 combined touchdowns. That should do nicely.

The Vikings and my fantasy team are your sheep Purple Jesus. Shepard us to the postseason, and if you feel like releasing locusts on the Packers along the way, that would be welcomed.

-Sota

Saturday, August 16, 2008

Champions

What up world,

As I write this, the Twins are giving the game away against Seattle. 6 runs in the 6th? Really? 6 runs? Scottie Baker obviously didn't drink his full glass of milk this morning, and the Twins bullpen makes me want to kill bunnies and small children. I do enjoy late inning comebacks, so I'm hoping that's what the team has in order for this afternoon.

Last night, one of the big three off-season deserters returned to the Dome, with promises of groundballs and mound visits from God. That's right, The Jackal was back. He lasted three and a third, running into an angry grizzly bear, a little superhero, and an awfully mousy shortstop along the way.

In addition, the Saint was throwing God's fury at the heathenish Mariner's lineup. He pitched 7 innings of heavenly work, turned the dugout Gatorade to wine, and helped a crippled man walk again. After the game, the Saint said that he was inspired to pitch so well after watching the JPLMC dodgeball team's championship run on Thursday night.

Yes, you did read that correctly. After four summers of coming close, the Joe Perillo Lethal Mustache Coallition is the champion of summer league dodgeball. An undefeated season, a dominant playoff run, a keg/cup trophy, a life-long dream realized. It feels so much better after the bitter defeat that we suffered last summer, and the post-season party definitely reflected that. The winner each week during the regular season receives $50 in coupons to a bar (Duffy's) that sponsors the league. We accumulated $500 of these Duffy Dollars throughout the season and put them to good use on Thursday night. By the end of the evening we had successfully tagged every member of the team, various bar patrons, our server, our dodgeball, and the cashier at a late-night pizza place with lethal mustaches.

I have to thank JPLMC and Kochasaurus for providing endless amounts of smashing throughout the last couple of years in Chicago. It feels great to be a champion. I plan on having a sit down with the entire Twins roster to explain how good it feels to be in first place. Hopefully then they won't continue to have this see-saw battle with the Sux for the next two months.

As I write this, Captain Busch just hit a walk-off sac fly. Not exactly the walk-off that I was hoping for, but exciting nontheless. Go Twins.

JPLMC fo' life.

-Sota