Los Delfines Son Malos

 To illicit fear in the heart of your enemies, one must choose a symbol of strength and ferocity.  A symbol so powerful that just upon the very sight of it would speak volumes and send you running with your tail betwixt your legs.  That word of the day is brought to you by Subway.  Eat fresh, douchebags.

My symbol is a dolphin.  An elegant, sophisticated, and incredibly intelligent marine mammal, fair enough, but not exactly the animal you want to strike fear into the hearts of your combatants.  Most people would probably associate the dolphin with balancing a beach ball on it's nose, or whatever the Hell you call a dolphin's nose.  Beak?  Weird protruding mouth with way too many teeth?  But also weird, gummy teeth?  Also, let's not forget the blowhole, my favorite feature of the dolphin.  So how does it breathe?  Oh, there's a hole in the top of it's head that it surfaces from the depths of the water and takes a deep breath from and goes back down into the abyss again.  You see, the dolphin is so smart, that it breathes from a hole in it's head.

Athletically?  Dolphins are incredible!  They swim through the water like a knife through cheese and also jump through hoops just to flaunt their own talent.  When it comes to physical contact though, dolphins are like the poet laureate of the seas.  They'd rather just sit back and talk about how intelligent they are.  Which is fine...for dolphins.  Now when it comes to human Dolphins, specifically from Miami, they're not very athletic at all.  In fact, they also have a blowhole, but it's not for breathing, it's just a giant gaping hole in their brains.  That's it.

Kids, I've been in the Twilight Zone for quite some time now, so I'm not so easily surprised these days.  It's no shock to me that the Miami Dolphins are terrible because that's all I have ever known.  Did you hear me?!  I've only known failure from them and I've been alive...well...a while.  It's coming to the point where I give up on me and just hope the best for the unicorns because those dum dums followed my footsteps and became fans of them too!  If not for me...for the unicorns?!

Miami is crap.  Tua is hurt, our starting quarterback is named 'Jacoby', and the offensive line is made up of whatever was left of the stockpile of Fatheads.  You guys remember Fatheads?  Good concept, but their clientele was very limited.  As a grown ass man, how do you explain to your wife why a life-size sticker of Ray Lewis on your wall is a good idea?  

What does the future hold for my dear Miami Dolphins?  Cheap ticket prices.  There's nothing else.  You know, they say that purgatory is worse than Hell, and I agree.  At least with Hell, you've made it to your destination.  

It's all blowholes, kids.  Take a deep breath.

Ahoy Matey!

 How's everybody doing out there?

Good?  Not so good?  Yeah...it's a struggle, I get it, but at least we don't have scurvy?  I apologize if you do have scurvy, but how hard is it to eat a goddam piece of citrus?  Eat some citrus, goddammit.  There's at least five I know of off the top of my head.  Oranges, limes,  lemons, tangerines, grapefruit, and...well...that's all I've got.  I told you I knew five.  Now personally, I feel like grapefruit was made from the Devil and if that was the only piece of citrus available, I would take my chances with scurvy.  Grapefruit tastes like everyone hates you and your parents still make you go to school.  I bet you Cole Hamels has a grapefruit every morning for "tribute".  We call it breakfast, but Cole calls it "tribute".  It really is a shame that he goes such ape-shit over the Devil's fruit because I would really like him to suffer from scurvy.  And really, it's because one of the symptoms is "change of hair" and I think he would really lose it over that and that would make me really happy.

Sorry, I'm rambling, I'm talking about scurvy for some reason and that's a disease you don't really have to worry about unless you're a pirate and at sea for months at a time.  August does this to me.  I have a real problem with the "herald of my fleeting mortality" that I tend to lash out in random directions.  I understand that time is a human construct and that birthdays don't really matter and all of it is just some sort of weird measuring tool anyways but my number is starting to get higher and I don't like it one bit.  "You're only as old as you feel!"  Yeah, sure, try putting that on your Tinder account.

I don't have a Tinder account so I'm not exactly sure how it works but I imagine it's mostly people with scurvy trying to convince you they don't have scurvy, then you meet up at a local eatery, and share stories over some grapefruit.

Wow.  I'm a mess.

But at least, at the very least, when I wake up in the morning and present myself to the world, I can proudly say that I'm not Alex Rodriguez.  The reasons are endless but the latest one added to the collection was that he recently said that the Los Angeles Dodgers are the New York Yankees of baseball.

That's a weird connection to make considering that the New York Yankees do, in fact, also play baseball and Alex Rodriguez was a member of their team.  They also play in the same league.

Now, before I continue, I would be a tremendous asshat if I didn't tell you a quick story.  We all know that I'm a huge North Carolina Tar Heels basketball fan.  Well, I was watching the game, one random day, with a girl that could care less about the actual gameplay or results.  She was on her phone the whole time and that was perfectly fine with me.  It just so happened that at halftime of that particular game, Michael Jordan came out and announced some charity or scholarship program he was funding.  Cool.  That's awesome.

He spoke for a little bit and told everyone what he was doing and it was going quite well.

Then he said it.  "The roof is the ceiling!"

I obviously heard it clear as a bell but I was praying to whoever would listen that she didn't hear it.  Then she puts down the phone and says, "Did he just say the roof is the ceiling?"

Dammit.

Now, you know, that I'm a lyrical wordsmith and I talk pretty, but, if you didn't think that I knew MJ said the wrong thing but I still defended him anyways then I don't know what we're really doing around here.  I lawyered the shit out of that and I'm damn proud of it.  I'm sure he meant to say something along the lines of "The sky's the limit" or maybe even "The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire!" but instead he had a little mix-up and just referenced a thesaurus.  We've all done it, just not as the greatest basketball player that ever lived, on national television, in front of his alma mater as he's announcing this great contribution to society.

So, I told you that story to get to my point.  There's a distinction.  Michael Jordan has no business even being mentioned alongside Alex Rodriguez.  The very obvious point I can make is that Jordan is not a broadcaster on basketball.  Alex Rodriguez is a baseball broadcaster, he gets paid for that, yet he said that the Dodgers are the Yankees of baseball.  I'm sure he meant maybe that the Dodgers are the Yankees of the National League, or that he meant the Dodgers are following the blueprint of the early 2000's Yankees, or maybe he's got the mush-brain ever since he lost J-Lo.  I definitely think I would have the mush-brain after losing J-Lo.

Or?  And hear me out, A-Rod has scurvy.  Can somebody get A-Rod a grapefruit?

Float on, graceful swans.  I don't know how much time I have left, but as long as I have time, I think I'll spend it right here with you.

To The Face!

It's the end of May and that means that the 'dog days' of Summer are upon us.

Very soon, basketball and hockey will get out of the way, and all we will be left with is baseball, the so called 'boys of summer', which is also a really good song...which I don't think has to do with baseball?

I'm not sure.  Don Henley was on a lot of drugs, pretty much all the time, so he could have been watching a Phillies game on acid when he wrote that song.  So it could mean that he was really into the lineup that featured Mike Schmidt, Von Hayes, and Steve Carlton.  Or, in the most likely scenario, he's never seen a Phillies game in his life and the "Boys of Summer" is based off of some sort of drug-induced nightmare, despite it's playful beat and hopeful optimistic lyrics.

I don't know and I don't really care, because I used all of that as a literary bridge.  You see, also on the 1984 Philadelphia Phillies was a pitcher named Jerry Koosman.  He spent 12 years with the Mets and won 140 games.  Jerry was no bum, but this story isn't about him.  It's about another Met.

Literary bridge crossed.

This is the story of Kevin Pillar, the Mets outfielder that was hit in the face with a 94 MPH fastball.

Picture this: You're in the great state of New York, more specifically in the city of Kingston.  You decide you want to get away for the weekend, maybe just get a breath of fresh air, but whatever you do...you're just getting away.  It's important.  It's healthy.  It's mental healthy.

You decide to go to the city of Massapequa.  Small, quiet hamlet, on Long Island.  It's the perfect getaway for the constant grind you face in Kingston.  Kingston is always go, go, go, and this is Massapequa...slow, slow, slow.  A guy can really get some thinking done around here.  There's a lot of history there, as well.  The Massapequa people spoke Algonquian, which is a real cool party trick these days.  Also, Jerry Seinfeld is from there!

Anyways, you are leaving from Kingston to spend your wellness time away in Massapequa, and you're in a hurry.  There's not a time limit on working on yourself but nevertheless, you've got to get there.  You'll get there as fast as you can...say...like within an hour.

Kingston is 90.4 miles away from Massapequa.  You could go 90 MPH in a Volvo to get from Kingston to Massapequa and still not be faster than the baseball that hit Kevin Pillar in the face a few days ago.

Kevin Pillar got hit, in the face, with a baseball, traveling faster than you could get from Kingston to Massapequa in an hour.  A baseball.  To the face.

A Major League baseball is comprised of cork, rubber, cotton, wool, and cowhide.  I don't know how many of you have been smacked in the face with cow-skin that has a cork and rubber core, but I can't imagine it feels good, let alone at a speed that's faster than you can drive from Peekskill to Baldwin and back again.

Well, Kevin Pillar took that super fast cow-skin to the face and was upset he had to leave the game!  What an absolute beast.  I've got to be honest here, maybe I'm soft, but a 94 MPH to the face sounds like a sweet retirement insurance plan.  I mean, 94 to the face?!  I thought I played baseball and wasn't an UFC fighter!  Diamond, right?  Not Octagon?

I'm better than that joke, but I'm letting it ride for the new readership.

Look, it's rare when you love your job so much that you're willing to take a 94 MPH fastball to the face.  I guess there's always the possibility that he didn't see it coming or also could react in a way to shield himself.  It would be weird if I got hit with a 94 MPH baseball.  That would be a story.  Guy walking across the street gets hit in face with fastball from Major League player.  That's enticing.  But only because I'm not a baseball player.

As a baseball player there's an inherent risk that you could get hit in the face with a ball made of cow, traveling faster than northern New Yorkers on vacation.  I'm pretty sure that's in the contract.

As for Kevin?  He went to the press conference after the game.

He. Went. To. The. Press. Conference.

I'm not saying that Kevin Pillar is impervious to fast cow because it definitely jacked up his face...a lot.  Like how you would expect...it was gross.

But he went and spoke to the media!  Looking like Quasimodo!

I talked about how it would be weird if I got hit in the face with a baseball going 94 MPH, because I'm just a civilian.  I've played co-ed softball and got plunked on the square of the back.  I only got hit because I saw it coming high and inside and I turned in time, you know, for the team.  It stung for a hot minute.  I also learned that getting hit by the softball doesn't grant you first base like it does in real sports and I felt really ashamed.  I was ashamed because what kind of screwball rules are we doing here?!  God forbid I took a softball to the face!

I didn't.  Even still, it would have been at a cool 35 MPH, which could maybe give a toddler a few stitches and also amnesia...for a little bit.

Kevin Pillar took an '84 Volvo to the face and then described it at the press conference following the game.  Kudos to you, sir!

Float on, graceful swans!

Bad Taste

 Sorry, I know I've been gone for a hot minute, I was busy making sure the damned unicorns didn't catch Covid.  I spent months showering them down with special shampoo, making them eat out of food bags instead of troughs which takes way more time to do, and also sanitizing their hooves every time they leave the barn.  

They let me do this for months until just the other day I caught them snickering and asked what was so funny and come to find out that unicorns are immune to all viruses and infectious diseases.  Good one, you horned bastards.  I revoked their internet time for a week, that will teach them.

What did I miss?

Oh.  I see Tom Brady won another Super Bowl.

I could easily take the approach of how much I hate Tom Brady and how most of his Super Bowl rings are centered around some sort of cheating but I would be wasting my time.  I told you all, long ago, that Bill Belichick was a Sith lord and he alone was responsible for the Patriots success...because he did it out of pure evil.  Tom Brady was Belichick's Darth Vader.  With him gone, there was no immediate apprentice, and the empire crumbles.  For the first year, in about twenty, I didn't have to assume the Patriots were going to win the division.  In fact, they only didn't finish last because the Jets shouldn't even play football.  They're more of a lacrosse team.  It's kind of like why all great classical music comes from Germans, you have to be evil to produce the absolute greatness.  If that starts World War III, I apologize.

To be honest, this is the first year that I didn't hate Tom Brady.  How could I hate him, you ask?  He has chiseled good looks, married to a model, and has had nothing but great success in the NFL and maybe has earned him self the title of the best to do it ever.

That last sentence was from his publicist.  I could never write that.  I would vomit, and then vomit again, upon seeing and smelling the vomit.  It's a terrible cycle.

I hated Tom Brady because in the first year he took over because Drew Bledsoe got hit so hard he had a ruptured spleen.  A ruptured spleen spawned the birth of Darth Vader of the New England area.  The Patriots lost that game by a huge margin and that only stirred the hate in Palpatine.  They made it all the way to the Super Bowl that year and, as underdogs, beat the Greatest Show On Turf, the at the time, St.Louis Rams.

It should go without saying, but I'm going to say it anyways, that Dan Marino is the greatest quarterback of all time.  He never won a Super Bowl, in his last game he lost 63-7, to the fucking Jacksonville Jaguars, and still, I think he's the best.

And, in his first year, because of a ruptured spleen, Tom Brady has a ring.

What the fuck does the spleen even do?  Do we need it?  Why would that sideline a professional athlete?

A goddamn spleen.  That's how we got Tom Brady.

And I immediately hated him for a few reasons.  One, he's already accomplished the highest goal in football, which my idol never did, and he played for the Patriots.  Kids, keep in mind, this was 2001 when the Patriots won the Super Bowl for the first time.  Before that?  They were an absolute joke.  Again, think of the Jets of today and you get the Patriots before this.  It was a dumpster fire from bad grease removal, and they kept throwing water on it instead of flour because what the Hell do they know about grease fires? 

The Patriots were never supposed to happen.  They weren't supposed to have this much success.  I believe that Bill Belichick used his time as a horrible coach in Cleveland to figure out the secrets of how to win, unlawfully, in the NFL.  The guy came from Bill Parcells, come on!  If you are so star-spangled brilliant then why cheat your way to the top?

So Tom, Darth Vader, becomes the bane of my existence the next twenty years or so, and then jumps ship to Tampa Bay.

And I was immediately happier for two reasons: one, he left the evil empire, and two, I don't give a flying fuck about the Bucs.

Good for him, he's clearly retiring into the sun and great weather we have here and that's finally that.

Nope.

They surround him with great talent and he has that fuck you mentality against Palpatine that propels them enough to win the goddamn Super Bowl...and they do it in their own stadium.  First time that's ever happened.

So, I started about how this is the first year I didn't hate Tom Brady, despite all my rambling, I should probably address that point.

First of all, I liked that he didn't play for the Patriots anymore which was always a huge detriment to the Miami Dolphins, a team that I love, despite their continual misgivings.  Second of all, I took it as a huge slap in the disgruntled face of Belichick/Palpatine.  I would akin it to finding out an ex got engaged to someone else.  It's all terrible.

In essence, I've hated Tom Brady for twenty years.  Now that he's in Tampa, I don't give a shit.  But never forget, you got here because of a ruptured spleen, you smug asshole.

Float on, graceful swans.