Pey...Ton...Man...Ning

Hello, kids, and thank you for all your letters of support.  It's been a rough few decades for me, and the unicorns, and without your unconditional support I don't think we would have made it through to the other side.  But today, I can say for the first time in a long time, is a great day.

I, being in charge of this dump and all, realize that I haven't branched out since November when a terrorist attack rocked the cradle of everything romantic in civilized culture, and the reason for that is because...well...sometimes bad guys win.

But victories are ever fleeting and the games are always starting anew and I just got some really cool knee pads and I'm willing to tap in for a little bit more.

Plus, I'd be absolutely beside myself if I didn't jump on the gigantic celebration that's taking place right now in Denver for the retirement party of Peyton Manning.  The entire world is coming together to reflect, reminisce, and re-purpose my lunch over the epic, position re-defining, and potential global warming causing, career of Pey...Ton...Man...Ning.  I wrote it like that because that's how he says his name. 

I always have these grandeur visions of the end of my enemies and how I'll be standing there, victoriously over them, laughing hysterically, and covered in blood and various animal furs.  It's never my first instinct to envision the bullshit propaganda-led media tour of Mount Olympus.  I'm no expert in Greek mythology but I'm no slouch either so correct me if I'm wrong...exactly when did Zeus teabag Hera?

Look, I'm almost positive that Peyton dropped his nut-sack on a female trainer's face in a completely accidental nature because nobody ever specifically pointed out to him that you shouldn't do such a thing.  You have to be very specific when talking to Peyton.  Run the flat route, Peyton.  Do this commercial, Peyton.  Don't eat the paste, Peyton.  Don't drop your balls on people, Peyton.

I almost side with Peyton because I didn't know that Tennessee law was so progressive on sexual assault charges.  I guess I kind of assumed there was one judge in the entire state and he just sat on a bale of hay and made loud decrees of who played the jug the best.  I'm obviously joking.  I have been to Tennessee and the time I've spent there was nothing but a joyous occasion.  I definitely did not spend my entire stay there counting down to the time I left Tennessee.  That did not happen.  Definitely.

What's to come of these allegations?  Absolutely nothing.  This happened back in the late 90's which might as well be the Bronze Age because we're old now in case you didn't get the Bronze Age joke.  Peyton wins the Super Bowl on marionette strings held by Wade Phillips and the rest of his gang of wily, HGH-using defensive players and the most deserving of the bunch gets the MVP.  Von Miller uses player-enhancing drugs, was suspended for it, then gets crowned the most important player in the most important game the sport has, gives awards away at the Grammys, and then goes on Dancing With The Stars.  What.  The.  Fuck.

Kids!  Do you like to try hard and earn your goals the right way?  Well, sucks to be you!  The new American standard, where our idols truly lie, is that it's really important what your end result is.  Forget about all that bullshit beforehand...we want trophies, dammit!  Learn this line and remember it well, "Well they were doing it too!"  It's iron-clad and it's a ticket to fame on ABC.

I don't fault Peyton Manning for the malefaction of his teammates.  That's only something that the leader of the team would fall on the sword for.  Denouncing PED's and the amount that it has infiltrated your own clubhouse and how it has attributed to your late success is not going to be on the speech given at the retirement press conference.  No, in fact, the great Peyton will stand there in Denver and give the best cookie cutter speech in white American sports legend history. 

I just had that thing happen to me where I used the word 'Peyton' so many times that it has lost all meaning to me.  What's that called?  Oh that's right, I'm smart, it's called semantic saturation.  He's going to stop playing football right now but that's just the gateway drug into something more terrible. 

Speaking of saturation, when I started this blog I did it because I had a love for sports and the inspiring stories they told.  Years later, I'm not so much sure as I don't love it anymore but if in fact I actually hate it.

If you turn on the television today it will be one last moment in the sun for Peyton Manning, born of NFL pedigree, former number one pick in the draft, two time Super Bowl winner, and holder of all the major and most minor passing records for a quarterback.  This won't be so bad.  He'll thank a lot of people, he'll cry a little, he'll attempt to say something inspiring and some idiots will buy stock, but at the end of the day we'll sweep up confetti. 

This is the end of Peyton Manning as it was the end of Anakin Skywalker when Obi-Wan left him burning and amputated next to the lava pool.  I'm not as naive as Obi-Wan.

The last month was a coronation for Peyton and the next six will be his celebration...and then?
Well, I guess that's up to Ol' Top Heavy himself, but I guarantee that the commissioner views today as "good publicity" and I just sit here in my bunker and gently rock myself back and forth.

Float on, graceful swans, as long as you freakin' can.

The City Of Love

Man, I'm on no sleep.  I was up all night putting each of the unicorns to bed, one by one.

They were very upset.

Their usual regimen of chamomile tea and old episodes of I Love Lucy usually put them right out (they're weirdos, I understand this) but last night they weren't having any of it.  You see, unicorns are mystical creatures and they're very tuned to the state of the world and little things like genocide tend to give them fits.  I had to pull out the whole 'warm washcloth and read portions of the farmer's almanac' routine to finally get them to calm down and get to sleep.  I already told you that they're weirdos.

For me?  A fifth of whiskey usually puts me down for the count but I like to refer to it as 'time-traveling'.  It's more fun to joke about alcoholism than it is to actually confront demons.

I'm kidding.  I don't drink a handle of whiskey every night before bed...that's disgusting.  I drink the handle of whiskey during breakfast because nutritionists say that's the most important meal of the day and who the Hell would I be to argue with a nutritionist?  A jerk, that's whom.  Only jerks argue with nutritionists. 

So I finally get all the horned bastards to sleep, finish off my second handle of whiskey that I just told you I don't do...aaaaaand just stare at the ceiling.  By the way, in the old days, I'm pretty sure that counting sheep would be the most tedious and mind-numbing task that could be given to someone that would also double as a sleep agent but with today's job market I'm too worried about missing a sheep and turning in the wrong numbers to the sheep foreman.  I really need this job and falling asleep is a huge detriment to counting.  The more modern way to help fall asleep is to get elected into congress.  Hah!  Buuuuuurrrrn.  I sure showed those guys.

I couldn't sleep.  Not even a wink.  I blinked a few times but none of those were long enough to be classified into winks.  It was odd, all things considered, because I love sleeping.  It has all the great qualities of life.  You get to relax, recharge, and even pretend that you're doing something completely different from the Hellish facade that you're living.  It's great!

Something kept nagging at me though and wouldn't let me fall asleep and let me escape my life as a unicorn stable master but maybe something exotic like working in a restaurant or the Department of Motor Vehicles.  That's when it occurred to me, dammit, genocide bothers me too!  I guess I spend too much time with the unicorns!

Yesterday, during the friendly match between France and Germany, two very loud and very close explosions were heard on the television broadcast.  By the way, in soccer, a 'friendly' is very much like it sounds.  The match doesn't matter and is used as a way to judge talent, maybe raise money for a cause, or just give the human population entertainment.  It's supposed to be fun.

The explosions were suicide bombers, in a coordinated attack, killing the citizens of Paris.  The bombers didn't make it into the stadium thanks in large part to security but also because if you're a suicide bomber in the first place then your guidance system has already failed you and you probably couldn't find the goddamn entrance.  I'm not going to speculate on what would have happened had they managed to make it inside and instead will just thank the brave security guards for preventing more death and destruction.

At the same time, presumably members of the same terrorist group or the world's biggest coincidence ever, began shooting more citizens of Paris.

They targeted people at restaurants, people at a concert, and people at a sporting event, also known as every regular day people.  I might be a bit off base here but I like to consider myself semi-intelligent.  I know that it's a lot easier to put my pants on before my shoes.  So, tell me, why is it supposed to inflict fear on us because you shot somebody eating a croissant?  Was your message that you can get us at any time and anywhere?  Because you fell waaaaaay, waaaay short of that message.

In the name of whatever it is they were trying to achieve all they managed to do was get a lot of really big powers pissed as all Hell at them.  This isn't even about Obama.  This is about Eisenhower and De Gaulle.  We need to call up Great Britain, tell them we're picking up Canada on the way, ask them to call Germany, tell France we're coming, and we're all going to roll up together and figure out who did this and blast them into a very large crater in the ground.  China?  Japan?  You guys want in on this?  You know the Aussies are coming.  Russia...now's your chance to get back in the cool club!

Shit, call it World War III for all I care.  The third movie is always one where the former enemies come together and fight the new evil anyways.

And it is evil.  They targeted restaurants, music, and sports.  Fairly obvious what they were trying to achieve there.

The Highest Bidder

The unicorns and I usually find ourselves having a lot of free time on our hands/hooves this time of year.  October usually means that most of my favorite sports teams have shit the bed and because of this we usually spend a lot of time trying to preoccupy ourselves with mundane activities.  Myself?  I like the booze so that helps but the damn unicorns might as well be Mormons because they don't drink.  They like puzzles. 

What kind of puzzles?  Any.  kind.  of.  puzzle.  The house is chock full of sudoku, crosswords, Rubiks cubes, straight jackets, mazes, riddles, algebra books, health care forms, things that rhyme with orange, and just regular puzzles.  While this makes Christmas shopping for me easy as pie I can't stand that they insist on never getting rid of the finished puzzles.  It's a puzzle.  You solved it.  It's done.

Nope.  Not them.  They like to hold onto them like little trophies of vindication that they really are that smart.  It's pathetic!  They sleep standing up and let their bowel movements fall wherever they happen to be at that particular time.  Sure, they can do magic and cause rainbows, but they're pretty fucking far from majestic.  They don't see themselves that way, obviously, and that's why the house is filled with finished puzzles.  Every now and then the unicorns will go around and hoist one up and start to bask in all it's glory and I'll walk by and take it from them.  It's not very hard, they have hooves, they can't grip anything.




Speaking of puzzles and holding up bullshit, I think it's time to talk about the NCAA and college basketball.

So a hooker has come out and said that Louisville is trying to recruit basketball players by having sex parties in the athletic dorms and I find that absurd because the sale should be made on making baseball bats and fried chicken.  All kidding aside, has anyone ever done anything with a hooker and been completely mind at ease over the whole thing?  I said 'all kidding aside' but what I really meant was this whole thing is a joke and how the Hell can we take it seriously?

Let me put it this way:  In our nation we have a institution put in place for higher learning called colleges and universities.  It's our way to cultivate and nurture our bright young minds so we can usher in a better quality of life for our children and that's really what we're all here for.  I truly believe all that.  I do.

But the kids, they need to get out and play, and so play we let them.  Sports was introduced into higher learning and things were just dandy until other people were like, "Hey!  Those guys are doing things that might be entertaining to other people!  How do we profit off of this?"  They started out modest enough but they would soon refer to themselves as the National Collection of Assholes Anonymous and their main objective would not be to protect the young, vulnerable minds that our very country depends on but to make sure they made every possible penny they could at any expense of human sacrifice.

You see, what happens when you start thinking about the dolla dolla bills is that you start thinking that all those things that you used to think were important really aren't anymore because it's hindering your ability to get those dolla dolla bills.  You start to look the other way, you encourage competition against those that really shouldn't be competing against each other, and you take any edge you can against everybody else.  Your recruiting pitch goes from "We have a well established institution of learning" to "Go in that room and enjoy the sex party".  What the Hell?  Money is only important as we make it and we've made it higher than our values and our future.  We're recruiting our young, bright minds on the pretense of sex parties.

The NCAA is a pimp, not a professor.  The American youth is vulnerable to the hands of an organization that demands satisfaction now, not later.  This isn't just Louisville.  This is everywhere.  UCF is one of the biggest schools in country...God only knows what closed doors hide there.

So a hooker has come out and said that Louisville is trying to recruit basketball players by having sex parties...and we only know this because she called the NCAA looking for someone to foot the bill and they hung up on her.

By the way, I keep using the term 'hooker' and I mean no disrespect, it's just what the NCAA likes us to refer to ourselves as.

Ding Dong

I woke up this morning in a San Juan prison wearing nothing but a sombrero and several new tattoos.  The taste of scorpion liquor was still on my breath as I rolled myself to the bars and yelled out,  "He's gone!  He's really gone!"

Miami mercifully released Joe Philbin from his duties as head coach and I immediately went on a bender to Puerto Rico to celebrate aaaaaaaand things got out of hand.  There was chickens, guns, I don't know...it got weird.  The unicorns bailed me out this morning and I slept for most of the plane ride so I can't tell you what in-flight movie was playing but I opted for the kosher meal.

One of the unicorns, I call him Biscuits, just pointed out that 'scorpion liquor' is traditionally Mexican and I slapped him across the face and told him to never correct me.  It's embarrassing.  By the way, his name isn't really 'Biscuits', I just call him that to be a jerk.  His name is Charles.

If I haven't been abundantly clear by this point that I don't care to talk about Joe Philbin anymore--that's exactly what I'm doing.  He's done.  It's done.  Let's move on.

Let's move right along to...baseball!  Yay, baseball!  That's so much more interesting than any other sport!  Did you know that baseball is considered America's past time?  Yeah, I don't know what it means either but it's got America in the title so you know you have to clap along or else you get the hook from the Sandman.  The same day that Joe Philbin was fired so was Matt Williams, the manager of the Washington Nationals.  He was promptly replaced by Will Matthews, announced by general manager Mitt Wilhelm, accompanied by owner Walt Mayhew.  In all seriousness, you probably can't have a member of your bullpen choke out your best star player on television and expect everything to just blow over like it was no big deal.  Also, you lost thirteen more games than you did last year and you added more firepower!  That's almost like the Dolphins not being able to stop the run despite giving a defensive tackle over a gazillion dollars.  People lose their jobs over that.  It happens.


Around this same time, in the Bermuda Triangle of sports, CC Sabathia announced that he was leaving the New York Yankees, who play in the wild card game against the Houston Astros tonight, because he had to check himself into alcohol rehab.  CC said he had to do right by his family and he was sorry for the timing and abandoning his teammates in this crucial moment.  While I will, with one hand, applaud a man for getting help I will simultaneously await the tell-all story from the hooker.  It's got to be a hooker right?  It was several hookers for Tiger Woods and he's just a golfer!  I can only imagine the amount of hookers being thrown at the feet of a New York Yankee, especially one with a drinking problem...and I'm looking at you, Ruth and Mantle.  I applaud CC's wife for putting the heel to the throat and making him get his shit together and realizing that he's actually not the hot, hot shit he thinks he is and would be nothing but a moldy cardboard box without his family.  I wonder if he had a drinking problem in Cleveland?


Okay, I guess that's enough baseball to fill the quota established by the government.  What's left?  Siiiiiggggghhhhhh.  Okay, okay...football.

I don't know exactly what's happened to the Indianapolis Colts and Andrew Luck but damned if I'm not wearing a dark cloak and saying, "Good....gooooooooood."  This is the price you pay when you make deals with the devil, Indy.  In the bridge between Peyton Manning and Andrew Luck you made blood sacrifices and chalk pentagrams and tried to make last year your year but ol' Bill "I'd kill my own wife to win a football game" Belichick and Tom "I'm just a puppet in a corrupt organization but I'm going to ride it because I get to bang models despite my upbringing" Brady decided to deflate some balls on you.  AND EVERYTHING WENT TO SHIT!

It's unfortunate that people are putting the blame on Andrew Luck when really the blame should be on every other single member of the team.  If your team is losing it's never Andrew Luck's fault.  He's Andrew Luck.  He's from Stanford.  They love trees.


Okay...I think that's it.  Yeah...we've covered just about everything...

Told ya.

The State Of Affairs

Jeeeeesus Christ!  Why do I even bother looking forward to the start of the NFL season again?  Is this early on-set Alzheimer's?  Because if it is just take me out to pasture and end it now because I do NOT want to toil on this way!

Seriously though...Miami barely scrapes by a Washington team in complete turmoil and I laugh nervously but shrug it off because it's a win and I'll setup some elaborate Keyser Soze shit just for a shot at a Dolphins win.  But then they drop a huge steaming shit against the Jacksonville Jaguars?!  What the Hell?!

First of all, the fact that the city of Jacksonville has a professional football team is humorous in itself but then you factor in that they are the jaguars?  If the city of Jacksonville has that many rampant wild cats running through it's limits I think it's time to rethink their infrastructure.

I make fun because I'm bitter and also the greatest joke the Twilight Zone ever pulled was making you think you were out of the Twilight Zone aaaaaaand clearly I'm not.

It's the same!  It's the same again after spending muellliiiioooonns and muelllliiiiiioooons of dollars and...and...it's the same!  Money CAN buy you happiness but you have to have half a brain first and clearly that's lacking in this situation.  This is one of those 'throw some rouge on that pig and put it in a dress' situations.  Miami was adequate last season, like they have been for the last three or four years, and adequacy doesn't exactly exemplify a word I like to call 'winning'.  The Jets and Bills haven't been the best of the best either but I see more effort from them than I do from the Dolphins and that makes me want to throw up out of my ass!

Miami looks like they are playing in pudding and that's never a place you want to be unless you really fucking love pudding.



And on top of all that good news is that the Rays are currently in a dog-fight with the Red Sox to see who finishes in LAST PLACE.  That's odd, because all things considered, the Rays were in prime position to at least challenge a wild card sport no more than a month ago.  What, in the holy Hell, could have transpired that the team would fall so far?  Hmmmmm...maybe, just maybe, that our manager is a rookie manager and he was only ever a backup catcher in the league and WHAT THE THE HELL DOES HE KNOW ABOUT THE STRETCH?!  This, kids, is where you tighten your boots and your belt and you go to work.  If you want to be a big boy in this league now is the time you bring your stuff.  Apparently, and unfortunately, we have no stuff.

We have no stuff to bring.  We're going to a party and we're the weird ones standing on the outskirts not really talking to anybody because WE HAVE NOTHING TO CONTRIBUTE TO THE CONVERSATION!!!

And it's sad...it really is.  I would not be surprised at this point that the Rays final record is 81-81.  Dead even.  Hell, that's pretty adequate.



And on top of all that good news is that the UCF Knights are 0-TBD.  This normally wouldn't be such a huge issue for me because they've always been the little brother that has had some sort of deficiency so you root for them nevertheless...but they just lost to Furman.

Look, I don't even know what Furman is.  Is that just one person?!  Is that a technical school?  I honestly have no idea and don't care to look it up because whatever the answer is doesn't matter.  We should have beaten them.  Correction:  we should have destroyed their integrity.  They shouldn't exist anymore.  They should have been so disheartened by the beating that they say, "Well, that's it guys, pack it in.  Furman is no more."

Instead I'm telling you that UCF lost to Furman.  I can't even believe I just said that.



I'm 30 now and I think it's time to start getting my priorities in order.  My mother once referred to me as the 'Charlie Brown' of sports fans in that I never get the satisfaction of kicking that goddamn ball just once.  And she's right.

How weird is it that where my greatest passions lie are completely out of my hands and always a complete letdown?

Go ahead and marinate on that a little bit, kids, I'll be back.

Water Cooler, Asseeeeemblllleeeeeee!

Ah, August, the herald of my fleeting mortality!

The unicorns are whispering to each other and I can only assume it's because they're planning some sort of special hullabaloo for my birthday and it's frustrating because they think they're so damn sneaky but they can't whisper for shit.  Plus, whatever they end up doing, they'll just muck it up anyways.  They have hooves for Christ sakes.

The unicorns have magical powers but they insist on wrapping the gifts themselves and it just ends up looking like a box that's been bludgeoned by a bunch of hammers.  Then I have to put on this big production about how 'surprised' I am and it's...it's just awful.  They mean well though and I do appreciate the effort...you know...considering the hooves.

In essence I think August is my time for reflection.  What better way to reflect...than a water cooler!



WHAT THE HELL?: Today's 'What the Hell?' is brought to you in large part by Canada.  Kids, David Price is now Canadian.  In the latest twist in the Twilight Zone, David is back in the AL East and he's playing for the godforsaken Blue Jays.  Look, Toronto is a storied franchise with a long history of success and...oh who the Hell am I kidding...this is just ridiculous.  I'm almost positive that most casual baseball fans had no idea that there was even a MLB team in Canada and now one of the premier pitchers in baseball is playing there.

I'm sure Toronto is a nice enough place for anybody born there and doesn't know anything different but let's cut the shit here.  David Price isn't a Blue Jay.  John Olerud was a Blue Jay and he would wear his batting helmet on the base path.  That's a Blue Jay.  David Price has style...he has finesse...and he's also a free agent after this season.  We already ripped my heart out last year when the Rays traded him to Detroit in the Zero Hour of the trade deadline so why not finish the job?  Why must we prolong the inevitable?  Canada might think that they are sparing me with this trade but the fact is that I've been on borrowed time since last year.  Just put him in pinstripes already.

After this season, and free agency begins, and David inevitably and officially becomes a Yankee I'll probably vomit multiple times.  And it's not exactly a picnic right now.  Having this fear in the pit of my bowels (I didn't put it there, it just sort of happened) is like knowing ahead of time that Anakin is about to take his talents to South Beach and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.

I'm getting all jumbled here...you see what this shit does to me?!  Do you see?!!



HAH!: Today's 'Hah!' is brought to you in large part by the great state of Texas.  Texas, what can I say, you really know how to mix things up at a singles party.  When the rumors were flying around that Cole Hamels was headed to Los Angeles, Texas swooped in and said "Hey! We're in.  How much?"

Now I don't know the GM of the Philadelphia Phillies but he's probably a sad sonuvabitch and he probably wakes up each morning saying to himself, "I gave up the family hotdog cart for this?"  But not even he could contain his laughter when he picked up the phone and it was Texas on the other end.  In fact I'm pretty sure he answered, "Texas, whom?"

Sometimes in the world of baseball, especially at the trade deadline, lines get muddled and teams aren't exactly sure if they should be buyers or sellers.  The Rangers took a page from the book of their previous owner, George W. Bush, and decided that they would do the exact opposite of what they should.  So they traded for Cole Hamels, a guy that's just gonna smoke all their weed and eat all of their chips.  When Arlington burns to the ground at least now we'll know it's because Hamels tried to drunkenly light all of his farts on fire.

Be forewarned, Texas, you are now in the rough, manicured hands of the Devil.  Well, you probably were before, but now you definitely are.



THAT'S ENOUGH BASEBALL: Today's 'That's Enough Baseball' is brought to you in large part by the disillusioned states that make up New England.

Arrogance.  Entitlement.  Extraction from reality.  God syndrome.  Douchebags.  These are just a handful of terms that can be used to describe the New England Patriots, specifically their owner, coach, and quarterback... or as they are colloquially known, "The Holy Trinity of Smug Assholes".

Roger Goodell recently upheld Tom Brady's suspension of four games for deliberately deflating footballs in the AFC Championship game and it was in large part due to Brady destroying evidence, a move that Brady picked up from his old pal, Aaron Hernandez.  The guilty party then went on the offensive and Tom Brady posted to Facebook to confirm that's how big of a douchebag he is.  He thought that the best way to proclaim his innocence was to make a Facebook post.  I'd like to think that right after he posted it, he liked it, shared it, and then went and stared at himself in the mirror for six hours.

Instead, Tom said that he switches phones every four months (because those FBI taps are ruthless on the drug trade) and that he gave the NFLPA permission to seek a federal court ruling on the decision to uphold the appeal of the initial four game suspension.  I agree, wholeheartedly with this, because if there's one thing that tax money needs to go to it's proving whether or not some air was released from some footballs and whether or not a man is lying about it.  Weak infrastructure?  Not in the good ol' US of A!

FEDERAL COURT to determine the air pressure of footballs.  Tom Brady has become the quintessential 'It's the principal that matters to me' when really he's become the guy that's guilty in the public court.  Tom said that neither he nor the Patriots did no wrong.  So why the suspension of the two ball boys that Tom was texting?  Why the sudden destroyed cell phone on the day that he was to meet the investigator?  I know cell phone contracts can be a bitch but there's easier ways around that, Tom.

At least some things never change in the Twilight Zone.  New England has no chance to turn back now.  They've lied, they've been caught in the lie, and have lied to cover up being caught in the lie.  The only logical choice from here is to keep lying.  Deny till you die.

By the way, the unicorns say you aren't invited to my birthday party, so take that, Tom Brady.

Float on, graceful swans.

21.

Tricking The Devil

After I posted my last piece to the Studly Pastures, my girlfriend promptly came downstairs and pointed out all the mistakes that I made, including the most glaring that I repeatedly (and by repeatedly I mean each and every time) misspelled Caitlyn Jenner's name.  I spelled it with a K because I went ahead and assumed that like EVERYBODY else in the family whose name starts with K that she would follow suit.

Well, kids, just like the old saying goes "When you assume you make an ass out of yourself for misspelling a transgender's name over and over again throughout a blog post."

An hour later she asked me if I had any intentions of changing it and I sat there and thought about it for about three seconds and then promptly said, "Nahhhhhh."  Let it be.  Maybe the good people will think it's some sort of weird intentional joke.  It could be funny...right?  Besides...what's the worst that could happen?

WHAT'S THE WORST THAT COULD HAPPEN?!

I must be losing it in my old age because I forgot for just a split second that I lived in the Twilight Zone and there would be consequences and repercussions to my actions.  I had upset the balance of the force and tilted it ever so slightly in favor of the Dark Side.  I never thought that an old foe, long cast into obscurity, would take the small window of opportunity to rise to power yet again.

I've become as power blind as Yoda.

If you've read this blog, on at least the two occasions I've mentioned it prior, then you are already privy to this information:  I despise Cole Hamels.  Back in 2008 he sold his soul to the Devil to rise up and smite my Tampa Bay Rays in their one and only World Series visit.  I slunk back into the darkness and began my elaborate plans to make sure Hamels lost his arms in a tragic wheat-thresher 'accident' but then I remembered...you don't sell your soul to the Devil without him collecting payment at some point.

Sure enough, enter 2015, and Cole Hamels is still toiling away with the Philadelphia Phillies only now they're phucking terrible and the worst team in baseball.  Before yesterday, Hamels was 0-4 in his last 9...9! starts and had an ERA over five!  The writing powers that be said that Hamels looked "disinterested" on the mound.  Hah!  It was done.  Back in 2008 I really really wanted Hamels' career in baseball to end with an Arby's franchise that he would have to eventually work at to keep it from going bankrupt.  I guess I really wanted to one day be in the position to say to Cole Hamels, "I said Horsey sauce, you moron!  How hard is your job really?"  I feel like that would crush him.

But I guess the next best thing would be for him to have to be stuck with his beloved Phillies only no matter what he did--no matter how he pitched--he would always lose.  You lose!  You get nothing!  GOOD DAY SIR!

Then the whispers started and wouldn't fate have it...Cole Hamels popped up as a trade deadline name.

What?  Cole Hamels?  Don't these people know you can only sell your soul once to the Devil?  How in the Hell is his name popping up as a hot commodity at the trade deadline SEVEN years after he was last relevant?  There are baseball players that disappear into obscurity every single day and it's only years later that we ask ourselves in passing "Hey, whatever happened to so and so?" and why can't that happen to Cole Hamels?  The ONE guy (other than Alex Rodriguez) who I want to disappear and he's the chosen one to be resurrected? 

Then I thought about it and realized it wasn't that big of a deal.  So what if he gets traded?  He's still Cole Hamels.  If the Phillies want to release him from perdition and get a ham sandwich in return, who I am to deny them?  That's roughly what I equate his worth to anyways...a ham sandwich.  And not even a good ham sandwich.  So there.

Then yesterday happened and Cole Hamels threw a no-hitter against the Cubs.  You know what probably raises your stock a helluva lot right before the trade deadline?  A goddamned no-hitter.

The best part, the quintessential moment that really makes you remember where you are, came in the ninth with two outs.  Hamels was one out away from his no-hitter when rookie phenom Kris Bryant blasted a pitch to dead center.  The Phillies center fielder, whose name will not sully my unicorn stables, misplayed the ball horribly.  It was as if he was expecting the ball to just clear the fence and he was going to go for a heroic jump-up-the-wall and save the day maneuver.  The only problem was that the ball was not going to clear the fence and would fall feet short on the warning track.  He realized this about a fraction of a second before the inevitable, went to make the adjustment, and slipped on the dirt that makes up the warning track.  When he slipped, he fell forward, and just managed to get his glove out in time to snag the ball before it hit the ground and Cole Hamels secured his legacy as the only man to sell his soul to the Devil twice.

Damn you, Twilight Zone...damn you to Hell.

Don't think it's lost on me that he did it against the Cubs.  My favorite player to hate no-hit my favorite team to hate and that's such a weird flux of emotions that I'm not sure what to do.  Cry and pee?

All those years when Tampa was the worst team in baseball and the best thing we got to celebrate was losing to Cole Hamels in the World Series.

Sigggghhhhhhhhh.

The only solace I can take is that maybe this is a blessing in disguise.  Maybe his once again fame will lead him to a lady of the night and they will spend the night together only the lady is really three raccoons in disguise and they'll chew his face off in the morning.  At least Hamels can never take my dreams!

Float on, graceful swans...except you Hamels...stop floating.

27.