Thursday, May 12, 2005
"The Hand"
Due to circumstances beyond my control, TLBR was left fallow for a day while I returned to the Hub to watch the World Champs.
And they did not disappoint. Oh sure, certain key cogs of the Beantown Nine did, cough coughKEITH FOULKEcough cough,but thankfully Captain Tek came up big.
So without further ado, I'll introduce you to "The Hand."
The Hand is my literary invention...my creation...many of the writers/columnists have those kind of quick hitter/one-liner/emptying out the desk of the sportswriters' mind-kind of things.
This is not that. This is better. Why is it better? Because it's mine. I, me, mine (repeat 2X). (thank god I'm the most humble person on Earth.)
The Thumb (Thumbs Up & Thumbs Down): Thumbs up goes to Red Sox captain Jason Varitek for hitting the second walk-off, game-winning home run in as many days for the World Champs. It's the kind of resiliency that this team showed throughout the 2004 season that helped elevate them to that elusive title in October in St. Louis. Or it could've been the inspiration of the love story of Ben Wrightman and Lindsay Meeks.
Maybe it's because my ex - who grew to love the Red Sox (and Shea Hillenbrand) - met another guy, began to date him, thus ending the superfluous vortex of heartbreak that enveloped me, the Red Sox and all who steadfastly stood by them.
Or it was Dave Roberts. I vote for the speedy centerfielder, personally. All those who believe in curses, in the words of the great Melvin Udall, can shampoo my crotch.
Thumbs down goes to John Sanders. Who is this clown, you ask? He is a 33-year old engineer from Rhode Island, who was employed by a temp agency - Olsten Staffing Services. (I got 20 that says he lives in his parents' basement with a poster of Journey's 1983 World Tour hanging above the hi-fi.) His latest gig was at the Texas Instruments plant in Lincoln, RI, and Mr. Sanders took a stroll during his lunch break.
During said stroll, a family of Canada Geese (yes, they're Canada Geese...not Canadian Geese) were also strolling around. They are geese, do not generally hold jobs, and tend to stay around nice grassy areas with lakes so they can walk, poop, swim, poop, and poop.
The mother goose (no, not THE Mother Goose, but rather the matriarch of said gander, but I digress), in Sanders' account "hissed at him and he slipped and fell in the mud." He also mentioned that he felt "threatened" by the goose.
Now, if you're thinking, "what kind of d-bag slips and falls after being hissed at by a two-foot goose?" you're onto something. If you're thinking "what kind of jackass feels threatened by a damned goose," you're really getting warm. Ever been mugged by a goose? Ever have a goose try to carjack you on a side street while you're idling at a red light some late Saturday night? Do rival goose gangs often wound innocent bystanders in fits of goose gangland violence? No, no, and for crying out loud, no.
Well, back to Mr. Sanders. This assclown stomped the mother goose to near-death and then proceeded to completely bludgeon the goslings to sure-death. Luckily, other people saw this scene, called the police, and Sanders was apprehended.
Mother goose was not so lucky. The brute force of the stomping caused so many internal injuries that she was euthanized later that day at a local animal hospital.
I'm not some PETA advocate, running around throwing paint on those who wear fur. I don't choose to wear fur, but darn it, I'll rock a nice leather coat once in a while. I own a baseball glove and a down comforter.
Regardless, if there's such a thing as karma, John Sanders will suffer the same fate.
The Index Finger (We're Number One): This one goes to the City of Boston. Not for any reason like efficient public transportation or anything, but for another one...much more important than crumbling billion-dollar infrastructure or slower-than-pregnant-yak green line trains.
It's for its populi femaleius. (that's as much Latin as "San Diego" is German for "whale's vagina"). I recently spent three weeks in a country with a population of beautiful beer-drinking women. It's a truly amazing thing to behold. No froo-froo Carrie Bradshaw wanna-bes like NYC. Just down-to-earth folks. I didn't want to leave.
Oh sure, these lovelies got gussied up and all and were the picture of beauty and refinement, but it was jeans, flip-flops, and a cold pint...or schooner...or what have you. Nothing fruity, nothing served in Frank Lloyd Wright-designed glass, nothing with a name that rhymed or sounded like a popular magazine. A beer. Lovely.
Riding the red line into the Hub yesterday, there were no less than 100% of the people wearing Sox gear. Beautiful women (and men, hey, I'm comfortable enough in my own domain to admit if a fella is handsome) wearing Trot Nixon tee-shirts, Jason Varitek jerseys, and pink hats with the forked "B." It's a wonderful thing.
I'm of the (recent) belief that people need to stop taking themselves so seriously. Well, amend that...take yourself seriously, but devalue the menial shit that surrounds you. Or else that glacier of menial shit will slice right through you and take you with it.
In the meantime, pony up to the bar and order a beer. That's one to grow on.
The Middle Finger (we all know what this means): To the Senate for letting John Bolton through to the nomination phase. Now, I rarely get political around people I don't know. Politics and religion are just not things to discuss, no matter if it's with friend, family or acquaintance. There's never a gray area to it, so leave it be.
But like I said earlier, I just traveled abroad. And I'm of the firm belief that America, who has a Q-rating somewhere south of Antarctica at this point, needs to do something other than be short-sighted, closed-minded, and stubborn. We've had all that since 2000 and look where it's gotten us.
So why send a fucking asshole to the U.N.? Why send a socially reprehensible fellow to a place where you're supposed to be socially proper? Would you let Pat O'Brien (before the rehab) be the White House press secretary? "Helen Thomas...you're so hot...blah blah blah blah..." Can we take a bigger dump on the term "protocol?"
And a special frown to R.I. Senator Lincoln Chafee, who did enough drugs in the 70's to kill a small pony, for rubber-stamping his vote for Bolton. Chafee, who is a republican, has gone against the GOP grain numerous times and should be commended for standing up for whatever it is he believes in. And Chafee makes a good point, that a President should be allowed to pick his own team, but c'mon... The only lineup more bloated, elderly, and costly than the U.S Government and Presidential Cabinet is the New York Yankees.
Hell, send Goldie Hawn. I liked the movie "Protocol." She was great in it, as well as "Laugh-In," and could make the U.N. into something more relevant: a kick-ass variety show. Tell me that wouldn't be a hoot? Have a karaoke night or something...get the Baltic states to sing their rendition of the Beatles' "I Saw Her Standing There." Get the Jamaicans to get a limbo line going and have the Netherlands bring some bud.
Wha' happened? Just a thought.
The Ring Finger (I love you, dream girl): One word: Portman.
Many of the great ones made it one-name status: Pedro. Jordan. Sting. Pele. Prince. Screech.
She is of greatness. Can't wait for Star Wars III. However, I don't plan on dressing up like an imperial Stormtrooper and sleeping on the street six days in advance. I did read that some folks are doing it for charity - and fair play to them - but if you own a Stormtrooper suit (um, mines is in storage at the, um, the cleaners) or duct tape two Dunkin Donuts' coffee buns on your ears to look like Princess Leia, please don't. Please? Don't?
The Pinky (freestyle, anything goes): I started this blog because I need to write more, for a multitude of reasons. It helps pass the time, it serves as a nice outlet, and who knows, it could take off...
Someone could read it, a la Bill Simmons when he was (...good? whoops, that was a low-blow), er, the Boston Sports Guy. Now he's dropping B-list actresses' names and getting credentialed to just about every major sporting event he wants. Pretty good gig for a fellow Jesuit-educated fellow.
Or, no one could read any of it and it'll turn into the biggest inside joke for all eight of my friends on this planet.
Either way, I hope you enjoy it. There are links and stuff on the page for comments, as well as an email address if you want to write full-on prose and tell me stuff. Use them. That's why they're there. (I just set a world record for most pronouns in a sentence under 20 letters.)
Until later...one.
And they did not disappoint. Oh sure, certain key cogs of the Beantown Nine did, cough coughKEITH FOULKEcough cough,but thankfully Captain Tek came up big.
So without further ado, I'll introduce you to "The Hand."
The Hand is my literary invention...my creation...many of the writers/columnists have those kind of quick hitter/one-liner/emptying out the desk of the sportswriters' mind-kind of things.
This is not that. This is better. Why is it better? Because it's mine. I, me, mine (repeat 2X). (thank god I'm the most humble person on Earth.)
The Thumb (Thumbs Up & Thumbs Down): Thumbs up goes to Red Sox captain Jason Varitek for hitting the second walk-off, game-winning home run in as many days for the World Champs. It's the kind of resiliency that this team showed throughout the 2004 season that helped elevate them to that elusive title in October in St. Louis. Or it could've been the inspiration of the love story of Ben Wrightman and Lindsay Meeks.
Maybe it's because my ex - who grew to love the Red Sox (and Shea Hillenbrand) - met another guy, began to date him, thus ending the superfluous vortex of heartbreak that enveloped me, the Red Sox and all who steadfastly stood by them.
Or it was Dave Roberts. I vote for the speedy centerfielder, personally. All those who believe in curses, in the words of the great Melvin Udall, can shampoo my crotch.
Thumbs down goes to John Sanders. Who is this clown, you ask? He is a 33-year old engineer from Rhode Island, who was employed by a temp agency - Olsten Staffing Services. (I got 20 that says he lives in his parents' basement with a poster of Journey's 1983 World Tour hanging above the hi-fi.) His latest gig was at the Texas Instruments plant in Lincoln, RI, and Mr. Sanders took a stroll during his lunch break.
During said stroll, a family of Canada Geese (yes, they're Canada Geese...not Canadian Geese) were also strolling around. They are geese, do not generally hold jobs, and tend to stay around nice grassy areas with lakes so they can walk, poop, swim, poop, and poop.
The mother goose (no, not THE Mother Goose, but rather the matriarch of said gander, but I digress), in Sanders' account "hissed at him and he slipped and fell in the mud." He also mentioned that he felt "threatened" by the goose.
Now, if you're thinking, "what kind of d-bag slips and falls after being hissed at by a two-foot goose?" you're onto something. If you're thinking "what kind of jackass feels threatened by a damned goose," you're really getting warm. Ever been mugged by a goose? Ever have a goose try to carjack you on a side street while you're idling at a red light some late Saturday night? Do rival goose gangs often wound innocent bystanders in fits of goose gangland violence? No, no, and for crying out loud, no.
Well, back to Mr. Sanders. This assclown stomped the mother goose to near-death and then proceeded to completely bludgeon the goslings to sure-death. Luckily, other people saw this scene, called the police, and Sanders was apprehended.
Mother goose was not so lucky. The brute force of the stomping caused so many internal injuries that she was euthanized later that day at a local animal hospital.
I'm not some PETA advocate, running around throwing paint on those who wear fur. I don't choose to wear fur, but darn it, I'll rock a nice leather coat once in a while. I own a baseball glove and a down comforter.
Regardless, if there's such a thing as karma, John Sanders will suffer the same fate.
The Index Finger (We're Number One): This one goes to the City of Boston. Not for any reason like efficient public transportation or anything, but for another one...much more important than crumbling billion-dollar infrastructure or slower-than-pregnant-yak green line trains.
It's for its populi femaleius. (that's as much Latin as "San Diego" is German for "whale's vagina"). I recently spent three weeks in a country with a population of beautiful beer-drinking women. It's a truly amazing thing to behold. No froo-froo Carrie Bradshaw wanna-bes like NYC. Just down-to-earth folks. I didn't want to leave.
Oh sure, these lovelies got gussied up and all and were the picture of beauty and refinement, but it was jeans, flip-flops, and a cold pint...or schooner...or what have you. Nothing fruity, nothing served in Frank Lloyd Wright-designed glass, nothing with a name that rhymed or sounded like a popular magazine. A beer. Lovely.
Riding the red line into the Hub yesterday, there were no less than 100% of the people wearing Sox gear. Beautiful women (and men, hey, I'm comfortable enough in my own domain to admit if a fella is handsome) wearing Trot Nixon tee-shirts, Jason Varitek jerseys, and pink hats with the forked "B." It's a wonderful thing.
I'm of the (recent) belief that people need to stop taking themselves so seriously. Well, amend that...take yourself seriously, but devalue the menial shit that surrounds you. Or else that glacier of menial shit will slice right through you and take you with it.
In the meantime, pony up to the bar and order a beer. That's one to grow on.
The Middle Finger (we all know what this means): To the Senate for letting John Bolton through to the nomination phase. Now, I rarely get political around people I don't know. Politics and religion are just not things to discuss, no matter if it's with friend, family or acquaintance. There's never a gray area to it, so leave it be.
But like I said earlier, I just traveled abroad. And I'm of the firm belief that America, who has a Q-rating somewhere south of Antarctica at this point, needs to do something other than be short-sighted, closed-minded, and stubborn. We've had all that since 2000 and look where it's gotten us.
So why send a fucking asshole to the U.N.? Why send a socially reprehensible fellow to a place where you're supposed to be socially proper? Would you let Pat O'Brien (before the rehab) be the White House press secretary? "Helen Thomas...you're so hot...blah blah blah blah..." Can we take a bigger dump on the term "protocol?"
And a special frown to R.I. Senator Lincoln Chafee, who did enough drugs in the 70's to kill a small pony, for rubber-stamping his vote for Bolton. Chafee, who is a republican, has gone against the GOP grain numerous times and should be commended for standing up for whatever it is he believes in. And Chafee makes a good point, that a President should be allowed to pick his own team, but c'mon... The only lineup more bloated, elderly, and costly than the U.S Government and Presidential Cabinet is the New York Yankees.
Hell, send Goldie Hawn. I liked the movie "Protocol." She was great in it, as well as "Laugh-In," and could make the U.N. into something more relevant: a kick-ass variety show. Tell me that wouldn't be a hoot? Have a karaoke night or something...get the Baltic states to sing their rendition of the Beatles' "I Saw Her Standing There." Get the Jamaicans to get a limbo line going and have the Netherlands bring some bud.
Wha' happened? Just a thought.
The Ring Finger (I love you, dream girl): One word: Portman.
Many of the great ones made it one-name status: Pedro. Jordan. Sting. Pele. Prince. Screech.
She is of greatness. Can't wait for Star Wars III. However, I don't plan on dressing up like an imperial Stormtrooper and sleeping on the street six days in advance. I did read that some folks are doing it for charity - and fair play to them - but if you own a Stormtrooper suit (um, mines is in storage at the, um, the cleaners) or duct tape two Dunkin Donuts' coffee buns on your ears to look like Princess Leia, please don't. Please? Don't?
The Pinky (freestyle, anything goes): I started this blog because I need to write more, for a multitude of reasons. It helps pass the time, it serves as a nice outlet, and who knows, it could take off...
Someone could read it, a la Bill Simmons when he was (...good? whoops, that was a low-blow), er, the Boston Sports Guy. Now he's dropping B-list actresses' names and getting credentialed to just about every major sporting event he wants. Pretty good gig for a fellow Jesuit-educated fellow.
Or, no one could read any of it and it'll turn into the biggest inside joke for all eight of my friends on this planet.
Either way, I hope you enjoy it. There are links and stuff on the page for comments, as well as an email address if you want to write full-on prose and tell me stuff. Use them. That's why they're there. (I just set a world record for most pronouns in a sentence under 20 letters.)
Until later...one.
