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
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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