Before I tackle today’s big story, I’d be remiss in not offering my most sincere congratulations to the Boston Red Sox on their recent World Series triumph. Some of my colleagues in the corridors of the New Stadium have suggested that between whatever goo was resting in Jon Lester’s glove during Game One and David Ortiz’ most suspicious late-career revival, this 3rd Boston title in 9 years is every bit as legitimate as Konrad Kujau’s Hitler diaries ; it’s a rather unflattering analogy, sure, but no matter which side you’re on, there’s no denying that my staff are very well read.
OK, are we all set? I am addressing a normal human being who finds threatening, abusive, racially-charged voicemail and text messages completely unacceptable in the workplace? Good — tell the so-called editor to take his time buying organic dog food. It’s good to be amongst likeminded, reasonable people for a change, though I doubt any of you would be surprised to learn the sort of actions Richie Incognito is accused of would buy him a one-way ticket out Yankee Universe if for instance, he was 100 pounds lighter and had any sort of athletic ability besides shoving smaller people out of the way at Golden Corral.
It’s a shameful, embarrassing situation for Dolphins head coach Joe Philbin and owner Steve Ross, though to be perfectly fair, I should admit that we at one time contended with our own “hazing” rituals in the Bronx. A number of years ago, the boys took a rather extreme dislike to a newly arrived free agent, who despite his gaudy statistics, managed to alienate the entire clubhouse with his preening mannerisms and Eddie Haskell-like behavior.
This individual, whom for legal reasons I can only refer to as “Alex”, was the guest of honor at a surprise July 2004 birthday party at the China Club, an event I was genuinely embarrassed to attend. Despite my personal feelings for this player —- a young man I found to be disingenuous, supercilious, and deeply pretentious (and those were his good qualities) —- I was deeply worried what his teammates had planned for him. There was all sorts of whispering about a “big surprise” for our third baseman, and without even getting into the liability issues, I felt this was conduct thoroughly unbecoming the greatest professional sports franchise of all-time.
I arrived late to the party that fateful night, and imagine my abject horror when I entered the room and observed the birthday boy receiving a lewd lapdance from Nicole Bass. Without hesitation, I ordered my good friend DJ Finesse to cut the music and hand me the microphone. Employing public speaking skills that would put John Sterling to shame, I admonished the players in attendance for their culpability in a cruel, senseless prank. “So what,” I intoned, “if this narcissistic, self-obsessed fop makes Kevin Brown seem like a fun guy to hang out with?”
“You’re a team, for fuck’s sake. Attempts to demoralize and humiliate your colleagues will not be tolerated — that’s my job.”
It was quite a speech. I’m pretty sure Waldman cried. And even though it was explained to me later on that Nicole Bass was actually Alex’s date for the night, I think I made my point, loud and clear. The Yankee Universe has traditionally welcomed all sorts of colorful personalities ; Joba Chamberlain, Luis Polonia, Jim Leyritz, Jason Giambi and Steve Howe just to name a few. I kept that tradition firmly in mind when defending the player mentioned above, and that’s exactly the kind of leadership that’s sorely lacking in South Beach. While my services are obviously beyond the means of Mr. Ross, i don’t think there would be any harm whatsoever in my taking a day off from my important work in the Bronx to deliver a pregame pep talk to the Dolphins when they visit Tampa next Monday night. And when an inspired Miami squad runs the table and eventually wins Super Bowl XLVIII at the Meadowlands next February, I’m hardly gonna turn down a Super Bowl ring. I mean, that’s the least they can do for me, right?
(EDITOR’S NOTE : From time to time, noted baseball executive Randy L. of the Bronx brings his expertise and insight to CSTB’s readership. Upon learning earlier today that Yankees 3B Alex Rodriguez is mounting a lawsuit against Major League Baseball and Bud Selig, Randy offered…no, he demanded, to have his say – GC)
October is a special time of year in the Levine household. Halloween preparations (we’ve already got John Sterling’s costume picked out), checking out the annual offerings from Dick Wolf’s production house, but most importantly, our favorite pursuit is gathering around the television to watch postseason baseball. Of course, this postseason isn’t nearly as special, what with the World’s Most Successful Professional Sporting Franchise of All-Time being a non-participant, but I’m sure it’s a magical moment for those who live in godforsaken places like Oakland, St. Louis, Detroit, Boston, etc. And it seems a crying shame to me that fans in those cities aren’t being allowed to savor that moment without some sickening, self-obsessed ingrate interrupting TBS’ excellent postseason coverage so we could focus YET AGAIN on whatever crisis is happening in his pathetic life.
But enough about that punk, Matt Harvey. I’d wish the kid good luck with the surgery, but I’d be lying. And the only thing lower than a liar is a liar who seems addicted to lying, as though the lying were some sort of superpower-inducing drug that you could inject into your hind quarters. I’ve done my best to try and find a solution for Alex Rodriguez’ problems this year — heck, I even made him the lynchpin of a blockbuster trade offer — but we are well and truly past the point of no return.
One media outlet says of A-Rod’s latest stunt, “the suit accuses the league and Bud Selig of planting negative stories about Rodriguez in the news.” Not so fast, THAT’S MY FUCKING JOB. And I’ve got to tell you, very often, my efforts have been thoroughly unnecessary! Did the league or the New York Yankees try to slap a baseball out of Bronson Arroyo’s mitt like Rue McClanahan trying to fend off the late Terry “Bam Bam” Gordy? Did MLB or this universally respected franchise have anything to do with Alex Rodriguez kicking his lovely wife to the curb in favor of a succession of hulking paramours, some of whom made Terry “Bam Bam” Gordy look downright feminine by comparison? Was it Bud Selig who installed the Centaur above A-Rod’s bed? Did Rob Manfred talk Alex into wearing purple lipstick on a nationally televised interview, or advise him that “loosey-goosey” was the sort thing that would curry sympathy?
Alex’s inability to look himself in the mirror, his refusal to take stock and accept responsibility for wounds that are entirely self-inflicted, reminds me of no one else as much as former album radio fixture Billy Squier. Squier once infamously sued the director of the above music video for ruining his career, as though a brilliant auteur like Kenny Ortega came up with the idea all by himself for Squier to writhe around like Jennifer Beals’ understudy (ask your parents). The only person to blame for Billy Squier becoming a laughing stock was Billy Squier, much as 100% of the credit for making Alex Rodriguez look like an asshole is down to Alex Rodriguez.
OK, I’ll accept maybe 10% of the credit.
In conclusion, I deeply regret the way today’s talk of legal proceedings have overshadowed what oughta be some terrific playoff baseball between whatever secondary market, bullshit-tiny-town-teams that aren’t the New York Yankees. I’ll do my best for the rest of this month to focus on what happens between the lines, but I am deeply saddened at the cheap, cynical way in which Alex Rodriguez has tarnished the legacy of this great sporting institution. It was my fervent hope a few years ago, that not only would A-Rod someday challenge for the all-time HR crown, but in terms of personal deportment, he would eventually be considered the latest in a long line of Yankee greats including but not limited to Mickey Rivers, Danny Tartabull, Steve Howe, Hideki Irabu and Chad Curtis.
As it turns out, he’s not fit to pack any of their lunches. And when you consider Howe is dead and Curtis is headed to a maximum security prison, I’m hardly talking about very heavy lunches that come in several Tupperware containers.
Greetings, citizens of Yankee Universe and the sad, inconsequential persons who only wish they could be a part of it. Though this weekend was undoubtedly special for the many admirers of Mariano Rivera and our own resident anti-masturbation advocate, Andy Pettitte, I would be remiss in not congratulating the publisher of this web site on Can’t Stop The (Mouth)-Breathing’s 10th Anniversary. You’d think during all that time, they’d either have managed to maintain their earlier archives or at least come up with a design that says something besides PLEASE GO AWAY, but hey, we can’t all be Bustle.com, I am right?
Back to the matter at hand, however. Sunday was a glorious day at the New Stadium, and this proud organization spared no expense in bringing in any number of fan favorites from Mariano Rivera’s 18 year tenure in pinstripes. Paul O’Neil, David Cone, Bernie Williams, Jorge Posada, Jim Leyritz, Hensley Meullens, heck, you couldn’t roll around on the floor of the Yankee clubhouse for 2 or 3 minutes without colliding with a sure-thing Hall of Famer. And that’s exactly what Joba Chamberlain and CC Sabathia did earlier today when they got into it over the last piece of lox on the pregame spread.
But even those two couldn’t spoil a beautiful moment, one that was made extra special by the appearance of James, Kirk, Lars, and CliffJason Robert, aka the Fab Four, aka Metallica. I don’t mind telling you it took some serious string-pulling to arrange their performance of “Enter Sandman”, and much as I’m loathe to take all the credit for such a coup….well, who else are you gonna thank? Cashman’s musical tastes run more towards songs like “Looking For Love In All The Wrong Places”, “Torn Between Two Lovers” or “I’ve Never Been To Me”.
I know what you’re saying. “What could a responsible, decorated business executive like Randy L. know about metal?” A fuck of a lot more than most of you studio apartment-dwelling scumbags know about grooming or personal hygiene, as it turns out. In fact, while you’ve probably read many stories about Mo’s ambivalence towards “Enter Sandman”, you might not be aware that for many years, I have personally lobbied him to replace it with Megadeth’s “Peace Sells (But Who’s Buying?)”. For starters, I’m a great admirer of former Metallica guitarist Dave Mustaine, a man who has combined a brand of consumer advocacy not unlike my own with a keen interest in current events. And it’s simply a much, much better song ; certainly it carries a lyrical message we can all relate to.
OK, so it turns out Mo’s a pacifist. That tiny shortcoming aside, he remains the classiest person I’ve ever encountered when not staring directly into a mirror. And that’s why it pains me so much to see our crosstown rivals falling over themselves to commemorate a manufactured piece of history. The Mets are really going to induct Mike Piazza into their pseudo-Hall Of Fame? I guess they might as well, that’s the only one he’s getting into without a ticket. But if the Wilpons want to have a special day for a guy who loudly/publicly announced his heterosexuality, that’s no skin off my nose, just so long as they understand Jason Giambi’s gonna want a day and a parade when he finds out about this (assuming he has any friends willing to read this entry aloud).
All of that said, I’m not without empathy for our Flushing neighbors. I understand Mr. Piazza is something of an avowed “metal head”, and with that in mind, if the Mets would like to hire Sebastian Bach to serenade him on Sept. 29, I will gladly lend them the $250 needed to make it happen. You know I love competition, but when there’s a chance to bring a smile to the face of New York baseball fans, regardless of whatever dubious choices they’ve made in their lives, I’ll do whatever I can to make it happen.
Not for the first time, Larry Lucchino, Tom Werner and John Henry have shown that no organization in sports is quite so capable of putting the “ass” in “class”. Sunday evening’s ceremonies in a vermin-infested temple of alcoholism provided some cheap laughs and yet another opportunity for our alleged rivals to pat themselves on the back for actually having achieved anything of note TWICE IN A HUNDRED FUCKING YEARS.
Just for the sake of argument, however, suppose for a moment I buy into the idea that a little nudge-nudge, yuck-yuck at the expense of the universally beloved Mariano Rivera on what could be his final game in that cesspool was somehow an appropriate gesture. How might the World’s Greatest Sporting Franchise return the favor? What sort of highlights could we show on the New Stadium jumbotron during Manny Ramirez’ final game…no, wait, sorry, too late for that. Maybe we can find a clip of Nomar Garciaparra glued to the bench on his own volition while Derek Jeter makes a heroic leap into the stands in time for the former’s last game at….whoops, a little late on that one, too. How about some hidden camera video of Manny Alexander giving his car keys to the batboy? Josh Beckett loading up a baseball w/ KFC grease? Oh, sorry, those guys aren’t wearing Boston uniforms…or anyone else’s for that matter.
That’s because when it comes to dominating for generations rather than an isolated, aberrational year or two, there’s only one New York Yankees and there’s only one Mariano Rivera. Our pathetic, desperate neighbors to the north know this better than anyone. If you think I’m overreacting to the least witty exhibition to come out of Boston since the last time Sully Erna opened his mouth, rest assured, I know my way around a blooper reel, too. And in the not-so-unlikely event we face these Red Sox in the 2013 postseason, I’ve already begun production on a special video montage the Fenway A/V dept. can showcase in what should could be Alex Rodriguez’ final game in Boston. Until then, I’m tempted to say of the Red Sox, “you’re better than this,” but we all know that simply isn’t true.
OK, for starters, let me be very clear that I am rescinding my earlier trade offer. But if you’re the sort of person who thinks I’d relish an opponent’s misfortune, you don’t know the real Randy L. Sure, I’m a little competitive. Whether I’m gunning for trophies with my world-class Labradors, sending gift-baskets to persons who’ve written unsolicited, favorable Yelp reviews for NYY Steak (HINT, HINT) or playing the office game, “See Who Can Look Thru Cashman’s Browser History The Longest Without Vomiting” (I’m up to ten minutes — and it isn’t easy), I don’t like to lose. But on a terrible day like today, we’re no longer a city of Yankee fans and Mets fans. We’re a city of New York baseball fans, bonded in our concern for a tremendous young talent.
Admittedly, I’ve disparaged Fred and Jeff Wilpon in the past, but I am certain they’re tearing themselves up over what’s happened to Matt Harvey. They’re probably asking themselves, should they have continued to parade Harvey in front of sparse crowds during meaningless games in the hopes of making payroll? Should the Mets have employed a medical staff with some proper credentials, rather than diplomas from institutions like the one portrayed in this classic film? And should the Mets have simply accepted my all-too generous trade offer when it was still on the table?
Fred and Jeff, take it from me. Nobody ever won in the game of life by playing the “shoulda” game. For starters, they’re two entirely different games. That would be like winning the Westminster Kennel Club Best Labrador Trophy while competing in a spelling bee. It’s just not gonna happen.
Instead, I think the Wilpons and their nearly-invisible fan base are best advised to concentrate on the future. With time and effort, Matt Harvey might somehow recover from this ghastly injury, much the way our own Joba Chamberlain showed genuine courage in returning to the lineup. With luck, Harvey might someday scale the heights that saw him start this past Summer’s All-Star Game. You know, the one where he committed felonious assault against Robinson Cano.
CAN YOU MOTHERFUCKERS SAY “KARMIC PAYBACK”?
Denied the services of this murderous thug, the stench of the Mets’ extended 2013 garbage time ought to be overwhelming, but let’s think about what’s really important here. At least Flushing is a little bit safer, and isn’t that really a bigger deal than a contraction-candidate’s desperate attempts to stay solvent? Who amongst us would put the battle for 4th place in the NL East ahead of the health and safety of our fellow New Yorkers?
(EDITOR’S NOTE : From time to time, noted baseball executive and consumer advocate Randy L. of The Bronx takes to CSTB to weigh in on the events of the day. After last night’s Yankees/Red Sox telecast in which ESPN’s Curt Schilling castigated the Yankees for their failure to support the embattled Alex Rodriguez, Randy offered, nay, demanded equal time – GC)
Greetings, ambulance-chasers, self-styled legal experts and fully accredited sleaze merchants lawyers alike. I’m sure you’ve been holding your breath waiting for my latest missive concerning a certain ethically challenged third baseman, and while I sorely wish many of you would CONTINUE DOING SO, I’m afraid to say I’ve been baited to the point where I cannot simply turn the other cheek.
I suppose it’s not a total surprise that during a news cycle in which every word that falls out of my gorgeous mouth makes headlines, someone in the baseball media would seek to steal an idea from me, lock, stock and two smoking barrels (great movie, by the way, but I seriously recommend the closed captioning). Of last night’s scenes at Fenway Park, Joe Sheehan writes, “I’m going to remember more than 30,000 people standing and cheering a man repeatedly throwing a small, hard object at another man. I’ll remember how the crowd…a mob, really…egged on Dempster, rewarded his failed efforts with applause, encouraging his violence and imploring him to take another shot at hurting another man.”
Sound familiar, folks? It ought to. Joe’s done little more than express the same sort of outrage I mustered last month after that gutless punk Matt Harvey attempted grievous bodily harm to our own Robinson Cano. The big differences being, of course, that not only does Sheehan lack my way with words, but there’s a slight double standard in holding the paying customers in Boston to a measure of civility that you’d not expect from the uncultured, unwashed, knuckle-dragging savages that populate The World’s Biggest (& Often Emptiest) Amway Conference Room in Flushing, NY. Face it, Joe, you’re no match for my creative mind, and there’s little point bemoaning the collapse of our society. Not when there’s serious money to made from it, anyway. Still, I think you’ve got promise, and if you can manage to write a few more provocative pieces without blatantly aping Randy L’s Greatest Hits, you might someday have a chance to interview Dale Berra for our Old Timers’ Day program.
All of that said, when it comes to members of the media who shoot off their gigantic mouths first and think of the consequences later on, Sheehan’s got nothing on Curt Schilling. Did this bloated sack of shit seriously claim that future free agents would think twice about signing with The World’s Greatest Sporting Franchise? That any normal professional athlete (ie. one who can go 5 entire minutes without either lying or sticking a needle in his ass) would have reason to expect anything besides first class treatment from our managers, coaches, training staff and security force (who would never dream of tapping their phones, intercepting their email or hiring Nicole Bass to see what’s in their medicine cabinet)? I hate to use this kind of language on a website with so many readers who have the maturity level of 12 year olds, but Curt, please go fuck yourself. Preferably with one of these — that is, if they haven’t all been repossessed.
I find it patently offensive that ESPN — one of our most trusted media partners — continues to employ a self-serving, pompous, on-air-coronary-waiting-to-happen, whose sole claims to fame are 3 flukey World Championships and dipping a sock in ketchup. You’d never get away with that kind of thing in a Yankee clubhouse, Curt, and that’s not simply because Sabathia would eat the sock. We’re all about class and accountability in the Bronx, the sort of things even a Red Sox starter who looks like the kind of guys who used to wash windshields in front of the old Yankee Stadium seems to understand.
I guess this is just my long-winded way of saying that if Ryan Dempster ever finds himself eating out of a dumpster (not an unlikely scenario — you wouldn’t believe some of the shitholes we’ve had to drag Joe Pepitone out of), I’ll make sure he’s got a roof over his head, maybe even a gig as greeter at NYY Steak. And as for the pretentious, smug, sickening Curt Schilling and his nauseating allegations leveled at the New York Yankees….I’d still trade Waldman for him, straight up.
To The Yankee Universe and Baseball Fans Everywhere,
I dearly wish I was writing to you under more pleasant circumstances. Say for instance, one of my Labradors winning a prize at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. An unveiling of F.C. New York‘s new home and away jerseys. Perhaps a grand ceremony at that baseball temple otherwise known as The New Yankee Stadium to celebrate Marino Rivera’s final appearance. Or, maybe a certain radio broadcaster with the initials “J.S.” announcing he’d be taking an sabbatical while contending with an unsavory “sexting” scandal.
Alas, none of those things have happened today. Instead, it is a grim occasion for the game we all love so much, and we’re forced to confront the stark reality that a young man we’ve watched grow up before our eyes, a player who showed so much promise, has betrayed his teammates, his young fans, and most importantly, the team president who signs his checks.
But enough about Francisco Cervelli. Instead, I’d like to talk to you about the controversy surrounding our 38-year-old third baseman, Alex Rodriguez. As you’ve probably heard elsewhere, Rodriguez is facing a 211 game suspension for offenses that must be pretty serious considering all the shit Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds got away with while not missing a paycheck. You’ll note I’m not specifying what A-Rod’s guilty of because I’ve had nothing to do with the investigation. I know Alex is very emotional under so much scrutiny, and naturally, he’s going to lash out at enemies real or imagined. But I cannot stress strongly enough, neither I nor the New York Yankees have brought any pressure to bear on MLB nor have we paid money to acquire photographs or video that might prove incriminating to Mr. Rodriguez.
Some have implied that we’d like to avoid our contractual obligations to A-Rod by any means necessary. To these self-styled experts and internet tough guys, I say, do you have any idea how pathetic you look, questioning the integrity of professional sports’ most successful franchise? Did we shirk from our responsibilities towards Kei Igawa? Do you remember the Yankees conspiring to force Kevin Brown into retirement? Did this team employ one of the saddest sacks of all-time to dig up dirt on Dave Winfield?
OK, we did actually pay one of the saddest sacks of all-time to dig up dirt on Dave Winfield. But that was a very long time ago. And in the modern era, we’re 100% confident in the abilities of our Commissioner Bud Selig, a man whose judgement is in no way influenced by the fact he’s being paid $22 million a year by ourselves and 29 other ballclubs. He’s presided over this A-Rod mess like a modern day Henry Kissinger or King Solomon. I’m not just saying that because he proposed having Rodriguez bombed or cut in half.
I’m kidding of course. People who know me understand that I like to ease the tension with a little joke. I believe it was that great entertainer Artie Lange, who once said, “to be more like Babe Ruth, before the playoffs last year, A-Rod went to a hospital and promised a dying kid that he would ground out to second for him.” Poignant stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree, and while there are dying kids who might not get to see Rodriguez choke in future postseasons, at least they’ll be able to relive his most memorable career moments on a future episode of “Yankeography” or via a multi-disc DVD set we hope to produce in time for the holidays. All of A-Rod’s greatest hits will be included ; slapping the ball out of Bronson Arroyo’s glove, the opting-out, the Katie Couric interview, the Peter Gammons interview, the making-of-the-Peter-Gammons-interview, etc.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to solemnly reflect on this dark day in Yankee history (in a jacuzzi filled with Cristal Brut 1990 Methuselah).
Greetings, fellow lovers of democracy and free expression. I realize we’re living in troubled times and many of you are unsettled when a public figure you’ve invested so much faith in can so casually, so routinely violate your trust. But enough about our disabled third baseman. Instead, I’d like to discuss the controversy swirling around NYC mayoral candidate Anthony Weiner and his lovely wife, Humidor Huma.
I don’t wanna get all puritanical or quasi-religious about this (who do you think I am, Chad Curtis?) but Anthony seems to have made a number of questionable decisions, the likes of which have embarrassed his constituents, his family, his political party, and most importantly, the people who were considering making a sizable financial contribution to his campaign. OK, I’ll get over it, but I’m not sure Weiner will rebound so quickly. Lucky for him, I have all sorts of experience dealing with situations almost as awkward as his, and as such, I’m uniquely qualified to offer guidance. So listen up, Weiner! It’s like you’re getting a free pep talk from Dick Morris, without any of the liabilities!
A successful political campaign is not altogether different from running the world’s most successful professional sports franchise. Both attract their share of obsequious hangers-on, but whether you’re trying to extract yourself from an embarrassing series of correspondence with a woman less than half your age, or you’re simply telling Rudy Guiliani he cannot wear a full Yankee uniform in the dugout, it’s very important to maintain boundaries. When our general manager disgraced the Yankee brand by thinking with his cock rather than his brain, we didn’t allow him to face the cameras in a smug manner, nor was he allowed to parade his long suffering spouse in front of a media gauntlet as a means of seeking sympathy.
Nope, instead with the help of the same Yankee medical staff that so successfully curbed the after-hours self-destructive behaviors of such arrested adolescents as Jason Giambi and David Wells, we prescribed Brian Cashman a powerful daily dose of Depo-Provera. And since he’s been on what I like to call a “PDD” (Performance Destroying Drug), not only has he stopped patrolling the region’s libraries looking for new sex partners, but he’s made some savvy moves to acquire Vernon Wells and Lyle Overbay, both of whom I expected to accomplish as much in 2013 as Joba Chamberlain at a Spelling Bee.
(there was also our commissioning a hypnotist who compelled Cashman to imagine Waldman in a catsuit each time he visited the “Casual Encounters” section of a popular website, but I’ll be honest — our legal dept. considers that to be some borderline Manchurian Candidate shit and we might have to just settle for the drugs going forward).
I’m trying to remain positive about this. There’s no reason why Anthony Weiner’s zipper problems need be the end of his time in the public eye, he simply needs to get it under control. David Cone eventually got his shit together, and I’ll bet Weiner can, too. Huma, if you’d like to join me for dinner at NYY Steak, I’m sure we can work out the proper course of medical action for your horny hubby. And what do I want in return? Absolutely nothing, other than knowing I’ve saved yet another relationship, and done what I can to repair a once glittering political career.
Perhaps you’re familiar with the old saying, “it takes a big man to admit when he’s wrong”. If you agree with that statement, I think it’s safe to say that I am many times bigger than any of my cowardly, uneducated internet critics. I would like to formally apologize to Mets pitcher Matt Harvey, Fred & Jeff Wilpon, the entire Mets organization and their long-suffering fans for my ill-tempered and ill-advised Twitter remarks last night. Having heard Harvey’s profuse apology to Robinson Cano, I am willing to accept this unfortunate incident might’ve been an accident, much the way Roger Clemens once retrieved a portion of Mike Piazza’s broken bat and inadvertently flung it in the avowed heterosexual’s direction. Who are any of us to judge the intentions of these modern day gladiators?
I’ll admit that I reacted poorly. The World’s Greatest Sporting Franchise counts on me for cool, level-headed decision making, not the sort of knee-jerk reactions better suited for the sort of mouthbreathing, anti-intellectuals who populate sports radio and garish baseball stadiums in the borough of Queens. So with that in mind, at the risk of undermining my oversexed general manager, I’d like to remind the Mets and Sandy Alderson that if they’re interested in swapping a sure thing Hall Of Famer for the relatively untested Mr. Harvey, the offer’s still on the table.
That said, I’m not merely here to talk business. Citi Field turned out to be an adequate host venue for last night’s dull exhibition Midsummer Classic, and were I wearing a hat, I’d take it off to our crosstown rivals. Despite my earlier fears, Con Edison never turned off the power. There were no reports of food poisoning from any of the Mets’ overpriced concessionaires (though granted, it’s still early and I will continue to monitor the newspapers). And most importantly, the reception afforded last night’s MVP, the ever classy Mariano Rivera, could not have been more gracious and heartfelt had I personally scripted the outcome (except for the part about some non-entity earning the save — how’s the early dementia working out for you, Leyland?).
Though there are many things that divide the Yankees and Mets —- championships, sophistication, solvency — last night demonstrated that when we all come together as New York baseball fans, everyone wins. The Yankee Universe got to see a wonderful moment in Mariano Rivera’s storied career. And Mets fans will someday be able to tell their grandchidren that at least one interesting thing occurred in the financial albatross that is Citi Field besides an Amway orientation meeting.
Since the editor of these alleged news-gathering blogotorium is indisposed today, it’s up to me to weigh in on this “National Pray For A-Rod Day” garbage. For starters, no amount of prayer can erase a monumental act of fraud — or several of them. Secondly, has it ever occurred to you numbskulls this sort of public mockery is no way to motivate a narcissist..
Toss some of my finest works into the trash? GO RIGHT AHEAD YELP, did you really think the President of the planet’s premier professional sports enterprise wouldn’t have some sort of pull with the NSA?
(EDITOR’S NOTE : despite being denied his First Amendment rights by the jerkfaces over at Yelp, consumer advocate / baseball executive Randy L. occasionally makes his presence felt at CSTB, using these pages to weigh in on the events of the day, sporting and otherwise. When Randy learned of the recent troubles surrounding the New York Mets, he offered, nay, demanded, an opportunity to reach out – GC)
GREETINGS, chumps, lumps, and the chronically down-in-the-dumps. What a difference a couple of weeks makes, am I right? It was a fortnight ago that a few of you gutless wonders had the temerity to corner me in a Citi Field stairwell and spray mustard packets on a suit that costs more than your parents earn in 6 months. Hardy-fucking-har. But you’re talking to a man that’s been around the block a few times — I know all about flashes in the pan. Shane Spencer. The Strokes. I could go on, but you get the idea. You Mets fans have had your fun, and now that your baseball season is effectively over, it’s time for the adults to have a reasonable conversation amongst themselves.
I of course am referring to a father and son duo who I have the greatest admiration and respect for ; Fred and Jeff Wilpon. I realize the New York Mets have a titular “general manager”, but we all know he’s nothing more than window dressing for the financial Hindenburg that is our crosstown rivals, much the way the Yankees’ Brian Cashman is far too consumed with leaping out of airplanes and picking up librarians on Craigslist to worry about a contractual albatross that would choke the life out of a smaller commercial enterprise. And while I’m told trades between the Mets and Yankees are a rare occurrence, I’m prepared to check my ego at the door in the hopes of finding solutions to both clubs’ problems. That’s just the kind of person I am. I’m not afraid to think OUT OF THE BOX, though please, for the love of God, make sure no one downstairs thinks I said “Jack In The Box” or Sabbathia’s gonna burst in and flip over desks looking for the Sourdough Cheesesteak Melt.
The way I see it, the Mets have more holes than one of those video emporiums we’re constantly dragging a certain radio broadcaster out of. They’re lacking offensive production, a capable big league shortstop, and most of all, they’re lacking star power (please don’t get me started on David Wright. I’m sure he’s a nice young man but he’s got about as much personality as Andrew Giuliani and he might be half as smart). And that’s why I’m prepared to make a trade proposal that could forever change the fortunes of not one, but two New York baseball teams.
Alex Rodriguez for Matt Harvey.
What’s that? You’ve fallen off your chair? You’re stunned that the world’s premier sporting franchise would take a chance on an unproven commodity like Harvey? Perhaps you’re unfamiliar with the expression, “nothing ventured, nothing gained?” I mean, I’m willing to bet if you’re reading this blog, you’re super familiar with the “nothing gained” part.
I realize the youthful Mr. Harvey hasn’t won a decision since mid April. I am fully aware his current physical condition is a question mark. But that’s alright —- I see something of myself in the second-year pitcher, even if it’s just my reflection in the computer monitor. Mentored by proven winners like Joe Girardi, Larry Rothschild, Andy Pettitte, myself, etc., I have every confidence Matt Harvey has what it takes to resurrect his floundering career.
As for A-Rod, well, I cannot pretend it would be easy for us to part ways with this sure-thing, first ballot Hall of Famer. Not only has he formed an incredible rapport with his teammates, but Yankee fans around the world simply worship the guy (you should hear the way they scream at him, it’s like Beatlemania), just as I’m sure the 5 or 6 thousand remaining Mets fans will learn to once he brings his 647 career home runs (not to mention his personal strength trainer, entourage of Chyna-lookalikes and Kabbalah guru) to Flushing.
Does it pain me to imagine Alex breaking Barry Bonds’ all-time HR mark in a Mets uniform? Am I saddened to think of all the plaudits the Mets’ decorated medical staff will undoubtedly receive when A-Rod terrorizes National League pitching later this summer? Not really. When you’ve been to the top of the mountain as many times as I have, you’d like to see someone else get a chance to experience a similar thrill. And I can say for certain there are no two people in all of baseball I’d rather see experience the joy of employing Alex Rodriguez than the Wilpons.
So c’mon, Fred and Jeff. Let’s do this. A-Rod would bring instant credibility to your sinking ship family business, and if you’re prepared to act NOW, I will even throw in Michael Kay for the mere price of Gary Cohen. Again, that’s the kind of guy I am.
I look pretty good up there, right? BIG, BIG day for Randy. All sorts of international exposure. And when the world’s media wanted to know what could the greatest sporting franchise of all time bring to the table when it comes to making soccer happen in NYC? It’s pretty fucking simple, isn’t it? Legitimacy. Local expertise. Sizzle. But the most important element of them all is ME.
Let’s face it, these guys from Manchester City wouldn’t know their ass from their elbow when it comes to running a top-flight sports organization, and I’m more than happy to show them how it’s done — for a healthy fee, of course. But there’s no small irony in that Man City competes back home with a crosstown rival whose annual success has routinely overshadowed theirs. Sounds a little familiar, doesn’t it?
And low and behold, guess which father-son entrepreneurial duo — currently leading the New York Mets on a straight path to contraction — find themselves on the outside looking in? FUNNY considering their own lust for a Major League Soccer franchise led them to waste time and money on lobbying to build an Indian casino in Queens. Time, they’ve got plenty of. Money….not so much.
The study in contrasts couldn’t be more stark. While the 27-time World Champion New York Yankees proudly celebrate our legacy — check out the plaque dedicated to Kevin Maas the next time you’re in Monument Park — the Mets are merely a preparatory school that graduates players like Darryl Strawberry, David Cone and Doc Gooden to the big time.
(Did you dig my prep school analogy? In an earlier draft, I suggested that maybe Luis Castillo went to CHOKE ACADEMY. You know, Choate. Choke….alright. I can see I’m wasting amazing material on a bunch of intellectual stiffs).
And I hope my CSTB followers — all two dozen of them — noticed that when it came time to consummate the marriage between the Yankees and a team no one in America gives two shits about another iconic global brand —- yours truly was front and center. Not Hank Steinbrenner. Not Hal Steinbrenner. But ME. While those two are sorting out Daddy issues and recovered memory syndrome nonsense with some $500-an-hour specialist (though not the kind in a leather mask that Sterling was caught with), I am once again, doing the heavy lifting. Making the bold moves that make me every bit as much a paragon of Yankee excellence as Mantle, DiMaggio or Ruth.
Finally, I’ve got a little advice for New York City F.C.’s newest rivals, a team that seems to think there’s something Major League about Harrison, NJ. Thank you for not mentioning us.. In fact, I’d like you to keep our name out of your stinking mouth for as long as possible. But as long as we’re defining our our respective roles, you might wanna consider changing your team colors to orange and blue.
I like to kid around with this blog’s dozen or so readers, but the real fact of the matter is that we’re pretty similar. Sure, I make a lot more money than any of you, and my position as brains of the operation for professional sports’ premier franchise is the sort of thing your average Jimmy John’s delivery schlub can only dream of. But I don’t spend my entire existence in some ivory tower looking down at the rest of humanity. I engage with the real world, just like you. I can’t wait to see what Shia LaBeouf does next on the big screen (perhaps a remake of “The Elephant Man”?). I’ve preordered The National’s new album. Podcasts? Not only do I listen to John Gambling‘s religiously, wait ’til you hear mine.
So as you can see, I’m a pretty modern guy. There’s probably no one in this organization more in touch with popular culture — certain not the self-obsessed John Sterling, who’d favor “West Side Story” over “Loiter Squad” (IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN). Naturally, I’ve been right on top of this whole Amy’s Bakery story since it first broke. And while I’m well aware there’s few things less fashionable or politically expedient these days than standing up for someone trying to run a successful business, I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let Samy and Amy be torn to pieces by a high-tech lynch mob.
The parasites and cowards who insult this hard working couple make me ashamed to be an American. That Yelp provides a forum for the envious, the gutless and the anonymous to publicly smear the Bouzaglos is not without irony — this is the same company, after all, that went to great lengths to silence one of the only voices capable of articulating what separates a sleazy con game from a hard fought commitment to excellence.
So my heart goes out to Samy and Amy, a pair of proud entrepreneurs unwilling to let their dream be destroyed by the sort of internet punks who’d more than likely have their heads handed to them if ever ventured into the bleachers at the New Yankee Stadium. I mean, that’s not likely to happen given that most of these scumbags would require an advance payday loan to afford a ticket, but you get my point. The Bouzaglo family business reminds of the one I used to work for….at least before it was inherited by a pair of goofballs who seem to think a handsome salary makes my wiping their assess any less undignified or unfair.
I don’t make it out to Scottsdale very often — that’s where people go to die, right? —- but I would like Samy & Amy to know that if they are ever in the New York area (my friends at Fox’s “Red Eye” think Amy has serious potential). there’s a table waiting for them at NYY Steak. Perhaps we can cut loose and swap war stories about what it’s like try to feed and entertain a bunch of uncultured boobs. But what am I gonna do? Michael Kay’s entitled to an employee discount!
(Editor’s Note : Though the Thought Police over at Yelp.com have unfortunately shut down the account of our good friend, Randy L. of the Bronx, he’s graciously offered to weigh in a subject that’s bound to dominate the tabloids and talk radio tomorrow morning – GC)
Greetings, mouthbreathers, premature ejaculators and social networking enthusiasts — or am I being redundant? Much as I’d love to talk about the splendid job Joe Girardi has done keeping the New York Yankees in contention despite the ineptitude of our oversexed GM and the routinely poor judgement shown by our disabled third baseman, once again, there’s a distraction to deal with. Fear not, Yankee Universe, I’ll not allow this latest family spat to derail our attempts to capture a 28th World Championship. But given that Hank Steinbrenner is unconscious at this hour (most hours, actually) and the aforementioned Brian Cashman is too busy updating his Christian Mingle profile, ONCE AGAIN, it comes down to yours truly to clean up the shit pile.
I’m sure I’ll get no arguments from even a cynical bunch of creeps like yourselves when I call Mariano Rivera the classiest individual who ever set foot on G-d’s earth. The Anti-Michael Kay, if you will. Mo has long exemplified what it means to be a great competitor and a wonderful, humble human being (though to be frank, it’s not hard to look like a relative saint when you’re sharing a locker room with the likes of Jason Giambi and Nick Swisher). If I had a son, I’d want him to grow up exactly like Mo — though developing a second pitch wouldn’t hurt. If I had a daughter, I’d also want her to grow up like Mo, though I will grant you he’d make a somewhat homely girl, and given all the terrible bullying problems we read about each day, maybe her path to becoming as successful as dear old dad would be a little less rough if she could resemble, say, Fox News’ Megyn Kelly. When you really think about it, having the values of Mariano Rivera and the good looks of Megyn Kelly would be quite the winning combination. Hey, what d’ya say, scientists?
Let me make this perfectly clear for you, Mr. Chamberlain. Your teammate, the great Mariano Rivera, is going to enter the National Baseball Hall of Fame & Museum on the first ballot. You, on the other hand, stand a very good chance of making the Arby’s Frequent Customer Hall Of Fame, that is, if you don’t choke to death on their grey “meat” products that you so gleefully shovel into the trash compactor you call a mouth.
So let this be a warning the next time you even think of looking at The Great Mariano Rivera sideways. It would be a pleasure to rid the New Stadium’s otherwise perfect clubhouse of your flatulence, and don’t think Cashman can save you this time. I’m calling the fucking shots around here and the sooner you get that through your misshapen skull, the better. You’re no Mariano Rivera. You’re no Megyn Kelly. And you’re sure as shit not Nadia Comaneci.
(Editor’s Note : Earlier this month, we received word from Yelp.com that sometime CSTB contributor, baseball exec and tireless consumer advocate Randy L. of the Bronx, had been banned from the site for a second time, with his most recent reviews of NYC restaurants and merchants lost to the digital ether. However, with the assistance of a team of forensic specialists from M.I.T, we have successfully recovered one of Randy’s most recent essays, a March 30, 2013 critique of the elite NYC gym, Peak Performance – GC)
I’ll start this review by making it clear that I have never personally made use of Peak Performance’s facilities. Between my important work in the Bronx and my charitable efforts on behalf of Teach A Labrador To Read, I don’t have a lot of time for primping and preening in front of mirrors like some desperate male hustler. Don’t get me wrong, physical fitness is great — I wish someone would explain the concept to CC Sabathia — but much of what passes for self-improvement is really an all-too-predictable manifestation of terrified male insecurity.
All of that said, I have sincere respect and appreciation for the ownership and management of this gymnasium ; if any of them would like to try their hand at an internship with America’s Premier Sports Franchise, I’d certainly keep an open mind. Why am I so bullish on Peak Performance? I’d be violating a confidence (and possibly some right to privacy laws) if I told you the full story, so instead contemplate the following, purely hypothetical scenario (if you’ll humor me for a moment) :
Let’s imagine there’s a fabulously successful professional sports franchise, and despite cosmetic appearances that suggest a pair of genetic lottery winners are the club’s brain trust, the operation is actually being run by a man with the initials “R.L.” (an executive, I should stress, of the highest intellect and capacity for caring). This baseball executive has long suspected one of his most highly paid employees of dabbling in illegal performance enhancing substances, and with the assistance of a towel boy at an exclusive Manhattan health spa, has obtained crude, hidden-camera footage of said employee being injected in the buttocks.
(Also, there’s a video clip of him taking human growth hormone, too)
Most establishments upon learning of such nefarious video taping measures, would be susceptible to a bribe rather than destroying the evidence and having the towel boy deported. But not the spa in this story. Those guys know how to stand up for their customers, even the ones who have personal “trainers” that look like Wendi Richter with a zucchini in her pants (not that you were staring).
Though I am sure the executive (who must remain as nameless as he is brilliant and handsome) regrets being unable to come to a mutually beneficial arrangement with this gym (or shall we say, “wellness center?) at least there’s someone in this G-d forsaken world with an ounce of integrity left.
Greeting, Dipshits, drones and other followers of the sexless, directionless existence that seems to consume this blog’s readers (if not its contributors, advertisers and web hosting companies). Under normal circumstances, a 1-4 start for The World’s Premier Professional Sporting Franchise would be of major concern, especially in the Tri-State area where the daily travails of the New York Yankees tend to dominate the waking thoughts of media and easily manipulated consumers alike.
Not this week, however. The abusive acts of Rutgers’ Mike Rice have rightfully maintained center stage, and I think I speak for the entire Yankee Universe when I ask, “why couldn’t the tape have been leaked on Opening Day?” Not only would we have been spared nearly as many shots of a near-empty New Yankee Stadium on the evening highlights shows, but hours devoted to Rice firing basketballs at the heads and crotches of his young charges would’ve left little time to showcase quotes from a useless fraud who isn’t fit to wear the Yankee uniform.
There is no question in my mind that Rice had to go, and if the school president continues to insist he was thoroughly unaware of what was going on, well, it wouldn’t be the first time that a brilliant young executive had to take the heat for the incompetency of his bosses. Sure, I could well be describing a regular occurrence in offices that look very similar to mine, but I’m also talking about Rutgers AD Tim Pernetti falling on his sword in a manner that strikes me as unnecessary as it is noble.
The brief hit to Rutgers’ reputation is nothing compared to the vast sums of money at stake with the school’s TV deals and move to the Big Ten, none of which could’ve been achieved without Pernetti’s leadership and real-world expertise. So he initially mishandled the Rice situation —- why punish future generations of New Jersey student athletes by removing a visionary department head?
I realize that amateur athletics and professional sports aren’t always analogous. For starters, the former are far more exploitative (though we’re trying very hard to catch up!), but there are some lessons that can be learned from the professional ranks. Let’s say, hypothetically, there’s a world class baseball franchise, one far more decorated than their pathetic, creatively and financially bankrupt crosstown rivals (not to mention their alleged divisional foe some 200 miles north). What if that franchise had a general manager who made national headlines when cheating on his wife with some mentally insane librarian, leaving him with almost zero credibility within the organization? What if the same general manager suffered a serious injury shortly afterwards when jumping out of an airplane, the very sort of foolhardy stunt that would cause us to void the contract of one of our players (if we could get away with it)?
Would that GM’s immediate superior be within his rights to demand a resignation? Would the team president accept said resignation and subsequently pull the plug on his own glittering career to save face for a pair of siblings whose combined IQ probably isn’t even half of that of Robert L. Barchi? You’re telling me because one jackass has brought unwanted attention to his institution, the person chiefly responsible for keeping the lights on needs to suffer the same fate? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MINDS?
Within days, someone will have done something so monumentally stupid, Pernetti’s transgressions (if not those of Rice) will be long forgotten (my money’s on Doug Gottlieb). Meanwhile, someone of far lesser qualifications will swoop in and the reap the spoils for all of Pernetti’s hard work. Thank fucking G-d a certain 27 Time World Champion baseball team isn’t run that way, right?
Tim, if you’re reading this (and I know you are), I firmly believe that one error in judgement (ie. your failure to lower the boom on Rice ages ago) doesn’t call for another (your gutless decision to leave Rutgers). That said, I also believe that persons with your skill-set deserve a second chance in the sports industry, and if you’re interested in a position as Michael Kay‘s Personal Taster, I’m pretty sure we can work something out.
GREETINGS, finger-sniffers, rug-humpers and fantasy baseball enthusiasts — or am I being redundant? I trust you’re all enjoying your NCAA bracket competitions as much as I am, though I thank you in advance for NEVER MENTIONING YOURS AGAIN. There’s very few things I’m less interested in than how you’re performing in some low-stakes gambling enterprise (though if you have hard evidence of A-Rod’s participation in one, by all means get in touch). The fate of your bracket matters as much to me as the results of Nick Swisher’s latest STD test, which is to say NOT AT ALL.
But I digress. Monday afternoon brought news that a man I’ve long regarded as a peer in the local baseball wars, Mets VP David Howard, is leaving the Temple Of Doom known as Citi Field, instead opting for one of the least attractive jobs this side of manning a mop at Kinematics (ask John Sterling), running business operations for Jim Dolan.
However, anyone with an ounce of common sense realizes there’s no long-term future in working for deadbeat Fred Wilpon or his sickeningly entitled son. Granted, there’s some kindly, washed-up caretaker types in Flushing (Alderson, Collins, etc.), but you’d have be a borderline mental defect to make a serious commitment to that organization. But enough about David Wright — sometimes when G-d is handing out the good looks, he’s a little stingy with the brains.
So with all that in mind, here’s wishing David Howard all the best in his new position. Not only will he experience the glamour of trying to find an emergency NA meeting for Gregg Allman at 3am and the morale-building hijinx that make MSG such a great place to work (gluing cock pics to Wally Sczerbiak’s eyebrows, calling security on Baron Davis every time he unlocks his own car), but he’s dodged the biggest sports business bullet of them all ; constantly having his performance measured against that of yours truly.
Let’s face it. No matter how adept David Howard was at lying on behalf of his boss, regardless of how convincingly he shilled for owners of a baseball franchise that doesn’t give a flying fuck about history, their players or the fans….he was always gonna be New York’s Second Best. Glad he eventually figured it out and got of baseball with his nuts intact. Best of luck in the new gig, David, and if you ever need tickets for a Yankee game….call Ticketmaster. I’m told there’s plenty of good seats left for Opening Day.
(editor’s note : tireless consumer advocate / baseball executive Randy L. continues to see his indepth reviews of products and services censored by the Thought Police at Yelp.com. Given CSTB’s long-standing commitment to free expression, it only seemed fitting to give Randy the floor – GC)
if you’ve ever considered using the online backup service OpenDrive, here’s a helpful hint : DON’T. Their upload speeds are slower than George Kennedy Chris Snyder chasing a purse-snatcher. Their customer service staff are as helpful as an ebola virus on a submarine (or a Nick Swisher with a pen and paper). To paraphrase my old buddy Arnold Diaz, FUCK THESE GUYS.
HEADS UP, dweebs, shut-ins and similar losers of the sports blogotopia or whatever you’re calling it these days. Nice to see CSTB finally has as many advertisers as readers — keep up the good work!
When I got the phone call the other day telling me that a dear member of the Yankee family had jumped out of an airplane, I’ll admit my first thought was, “please G-d, let it be Michael Kay”. Upon learning, however, the would-be daredevil was our handsomely compensated General Manager, my mood immediately darkened. Coming on the heels of Brian’s highly publicized marital problems, it would take some doing for him to find a more embarrassing way to make the tabloid front pages, but FUCK ME if he didn’t manage it.
So with that in mind, Brian, I’m asking you to exercise better judgement in the future. If you’re still having some kind of mid-life freakout, maybe Waldman would be willing to role-play as that lunatic who tried blackmailing you. If that’s not enough and you’ve still got the itch to take a flying fucking leap from a great height, I think I speak for ownership and the entire Yankee Universe when I ask, nay, beg, that next time YOU TAKE A-ROD WITH YOU.
First of all, I’d like to wish everyone in the Yankee Universe the most joyous of holiday seasons. I don’t suppose Eddie Nimibutr of Austin, TX is a Yankee fan, but I’d like him to know that I’m fully in his corner. It’s a crying shame that some people try to use Yelp to advance their own vindictive agendas, especially when at it’s best, the site can be used to foster understanding and help consumers become better informed. And the trolling of personal Facebook profiles HAS TO STOP. It’s not journalism, it’s not fair, and besides, Human Resources tells me Waldman can post whatever photos shes wants!
I’m kidding, of course. Look, this whole “I don’t care about dead white kids” thing will eventually blow over — Jason Giambi did far worse stuff and who gives him a hard time in public these days? — and when it does, I’d like to offer Mr. Nimibutr a job as greeter at NYY Steak. We’re sorely in need of someone with his people skills and if nothing else’s he’s already demonstrated he knows how to command media attention. Given that we won’t have Nick Swisher making Page 6 for pissing himself at a Switchfoot concert next season, we could actually use some help in that department. I look forward to hearing from Eddie, and to those of you in Austin, TX who want to dine somewhere with “a greater supply of compassion and understanding”, could you try not to be such a fucking cliche’ for 5 minutes?
(EDITOR’S NOTE: it was reported this weekend that a man and woman were filmed fucking in a Yankee Stadium bathroom stall during Saturday’s Rays/Yankees tilt. “The woman sat on the toilet as her enthusiastic male partner — who wore a CC Sabathia t-shirt and no pants — climbed on top of her amid a crowd of onlookers,” wrote the New York Post’s breathless Josh Saul, and rather than concentrate on the sensational aspects of this story, we instead reached out to a close friend of the CSTB family, Bronx executive Randy L., for his unique perspective on this quintessentially New York moment. – GC)
Greetings, losers, shut-ins, finger-sniffers and Mets fans — or am I being redundant? Though I’m loathe to drop any wisdom via a blog that can’t sell one single advertisement, I’m told the publisher is a big fan of my unexpurgated Yelp reviews. Since I’m as magnanimous as I am well-endowed, here’s a freebie for the sports blog crowd. Even if this is barely one step above Live Journal.
Deadspin’s Issac Rauch — hopefully no relation to the pituitary freak stealing money from the Mets — did an adequate Mike Taibbi impersonation yesterday with “A Couple Humped In A Yankee Stadium Bathroom Stall For About Three Innings On Saturday”. Three innings! That’s supposed to be impressive? A little advice for the male heterosexual readers — it’s really not necessary to go on that long. Maybe you think you’re doing her a favor, but chances are awfully high she’s pretty eager to get it over with and get back to pretending you have any redeeming qualities.
I am certain this story is going to get a lot of play in today’s tawdry media sphere, and despite the absence of photos clearly depicting penetration, I can understand this. Publishers and editors are businessmen, not Zucotti Park-dwelling fantasists who have to smoke copious amounts of weed just to tolerate fuckin’ Tom Morello. They’re in the business of MAKING MONEY, just like me and the two genetic lottery winners I do all the heavy lifting for. I know, you’re already shaking your head, “sex sells, Randy, we know.” To which I’d reply, you’re the cynic, not me.
Unless each of this blog’s 12 readers have somehow morphed into Andrea Dworkin (and in some cases, that would be an improvement), I can’t believe I even have to spell out the distinction, but there’s a world of difference between random sexual encounters in a public place and true romance. The former are generally desperate acts committed by sad, lonely, friendless individuals. The latter? Well, it’s the sort of thing that renders almost everything else (save for 27 World Championships, a chauffeured town car and enough cash to fill the Grand Canyon) meaningless.
I know this might be the minority opinion, but the young couple filmed In flagrante delicto (that’s FRENCH, you ignorant little shits) were true romantics after my own heart. Note the guy’s refusal to dispense of his CC Sabathia tee — I like it. He’s paying homage to a lynchpin in our attempts to win World Championship #28. And if the shirt was seriously stained before returning to his seat in the Audi Club, he can purchase a replacement at the Yankee Clubhouse Store, a 5000 square foot facility conveniently located in the Great Hall right behind home plate.
How many times have you heard of a similar incident taking place at that aesthetic/commercial disaster known as Citi Field? Not once, and I reckon that speaks volumes about the building’s stench and the host team serving as the greatest anti-aphrodisiac this side of a Hammel On Trial CD. Some of you self-styled comedians have suggested we hand out condoms at the gate, and it’s an interesting idea (especially if we can get Verizon or Turkey Hill to pay for it). And we’ll look into it just as soon as our crosstown “rivals” take steps to confiscate razor blades.
That’s right. I WENT THERE. While Flushing’s embarrassment does more to keep The Samaritans switchboard busy than say, a Hammel On Trial CD, the 27-time World Champion New York Yankees are all about romance and repopulating the Yankee Universe with more exceptional young people, conceived in the most sophisticated of environments. Who amongst us can say that Saturday’s consensual encounter might not result in that most precious miracle of all, Nick Swisher saying something interesting the gift of human life? Maybe the Baby Bomber in question will someday grow up to be another Derek Jeter, another Don Mattingly, perhaps the next Joe Pepitone?
And perhaps — if he or she works very hard, uses his or her imagination and never, ever allows the intellectual shortcomings of 2 overprivileged siblings to undermine self-belief — becoming the President of the world’s most successful and universally recognized sports franchise, is within reach.
Not fucking likely, but parents can dream, right? A toast from me and everyone in the Yankee organization to Saturday afternoon’s young lovers.