M-I-C, K-E-Y, M-O-U-GOTTA BE KIDDING ME

For this particular blog I am going to attempt to do some that’s been quite difficult for me to in most of my posts. I am going to try and tell this story with using the phrase, “That’s what she said.” While it is one of my all time favorite phrases (I loathe Steve Carell for this), I’ve found myself saying it and typing it too often. So without another 17 seconds of wasting your time… here we go!

The other day I was woken up by girlfriend who seemed to be having a slight panic attack. After asking her what was wrong she told me I had to get up… (resisting, resisting). Well obviously! You don’t wake someone up to tell them to go back to bed. That’s like firing someone so they’ll work.

Anyway, I asked her what was wrong and she told me there was a mouse in our bathroom. My first thought was “Why?” My first thought should have been “How?” but we’re talking about the kid who called his dad before the fire department when his car caught on fire during his senior year of high school. (Fun fact for you)

So I got up and walked to the bathroom. With my girlfriend behind me I walked up to the door and slowly started to peak my head into the bathroom, and… I didn’t see anything.

I opened the door quickly, ran in, and slammed the door behind me. I searched my bathroom all over the place (all 5 square feet of it) and finally found a small, tiny, computer mouse sized mouse curled up in the corner, shaking like Muhammad Ali.

Well I figured, since I have a landlord, that I might as well call him to figure out what he was going to do. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Hi. I have a bit of a predicament.

Landlord: What can I do for you?

Me: My girlfriend discovered a mouse in our bathroom. I would like to know how you’re going to handle it.

Landlord: (girlish shrill) Oh My Gawd! Are you serious? I don’t know. I’m afraid of mice. See what you can 
do about it.

Me: Are You Effin’ Kidding Me!?

Needless to say I decided to take measures into my own hands… well actually, measures into my own cooking pots and pans. I grabbed the biggest pot I could find and jumped back into the bathroom.

It was like trying to wrangle up a pig. The mouse wouldn’t cooperate and all of a sudden I felt like Nathan Lane. (From Mouse Hunt, not The Producers)

After about 20 minutes of exercise in my bathroom (hold it together Paul... not this time) I finally caught him with my toilet cleaner. Yes you heard me right, my toilet cleaner. (See picture)

Well actually, it was the holder for the toilet brush. Who knew the bottom of it was hollow? Not this kid!

So I slip a magazine under the holder and asked my girlfriend to open the doors for me. So she Usain Bolted out both doors while I made myself outside. I put the container on the ground expecting the mouse to run off. 

Instead it insisted on hanging around. We’ll I had to get to work in 4 hours and I was in no mood to just “chill.” So I kicked the damn thing and the mouse shot out like Augustus Gloop.

I walked back inside, washed my rodent infested hands, contemplated throwing out the pots and pans, decided to throw out the toilet holder, made fun of my girlfriend for standing on a chair, and went back to sleep.

To all of you that may run into the same situation, save yourself some time and simply ask your landlord when applying for an apartment whether or not he likes peanuts and never forgets.

Because chances are, if he does, then he probably shares other characteristics of Elephants as well which could leave you playing Mouse Trap.

Remember that game?? No one knew how to play it but we all knew how to set it up. Best 10 seconds ever. That's what she said... DAMMIT!!

Don't Forget To Turn Left...

This last weekend I happened to be watching SportsCenter (big surprise, I watch it like 4 times a day). But this time I happened to watch the highlights from the Brickyard 400 in Indianapolis.

During the quick minute of crashes, passes, and celebrating, I noticed one thing about the NASCAR highlight.

I realized that a minute of watching racing is about all I can handle. I just don't understand the fascination of competitive racing. (I say competitive because it's clearly a "competition" between a group of people. They train and compete to be number one.)

However, I am not convinced that racing is a sport, just like I'm not inclined to calling drivers athletes.

I grew up watching the four major sports; Baseball, Football, Basketball, and Hockey.

While I understand that every sport has it's boring moments that arguably every sports fan can make. Football with it's continuous replays and commercial breaks, hockey with it's low scoring match ups, and basketball when it's not the playoffs. Let's also not count out the entire sport of baseball (my favorite) that's boring in every aspect of the game to anyone who doesn't share the passion of America's past time. (At least I'm man enough to admit it.)

But racing... I really don't understand it. How can someone sit through 3 hours of cars going around in an oval. They're cars... they drive, pass each other, turn left about 2,000 times, and often crash because of stupidity. It's like the I87/I90 split during rush hour.

The concept of racing is simple but apparently the preliminary rules of racing are more complex than rocket surgery and brain science combined. The car must be perfect to a "T" in order to pass inspection for racing. If just the slightest thing is off kilter, a driver/car can be disqualified.

Can you imagine if this was the case for other sports.

Sorry, Rockets have to forfeit because Yao Ming forgot to lace his sneakers through every hole.
Looks like the Mets lose another one because Reyes' brim on his hat wasn't curved properly with a length of middle Ordinate of 1.5 inches. 

I'm not even going to get into the different types of flags that are waved depending on the different situations. Lets just say if it were football, the refs would look like a bag of skittles running down the field.

I'm also not going to even get started on the fuel issue of NASCAR, how dropping competitive racing could also drop gas prices by a significant amount. All I know is that NASCAR racing uses about 200,000 gallons of racing each year. For me, I could fill up 20,000 times with the amount of gas they use in one year. This would last me almost 780 years! So not only is the sport boring, but it's also wasting a natural resource. (Okay, I guess I got into it.)

It's not like baseball is hurting the population of cows from the leather baseballs that are used.

Overall the sport is just a way to kill time on a Sunday. I can't even say raining day, because they don't race during the rain, just like that other 1% of all sports.

I say, do yourself a favor. Next time you want to kill an afternoon of car watching. Grab a 6 pack, a couple law chairs and plop yourself on the medium of the highway, there's really no difference. Jimmie Johnson will still probably win.

Can You Hear, Email, Tweet, Text Me Now??

In the world we live in, technology is always changing. I think we can all agree that’s obvious. But to really step back and analyze it only makes you think even more. The other day I bought myself a new phone because my old one was dying after going through more abuse than Tina Turner.

While getting use to my new phone (LG Ally), I sat in living room jaw to the ground amazed at how many different things that it was capable of doing.

I’m actually surprised the manual wasn’t the size of a bible.

While reading through it, and playing around with the phone settings, I day dreamed back to the days of middle school where my parents handed me my first cell phone…The Nokia Brick.

The Nokia was the greatest and coolest thing a kid could own back then. It finally gave you a sense of ownership with something as responsible as a phone line.

It came with 3 or 4 ringtones, basic number pad for calling, no form of texting, limited service, oh and one of the coolest games, Snake.

I miss the days of simplicity in phones. Now-a-days my phone allows texting, emailing, instant messaging, picture taking, video recording, ringtone downloading, emailing, facebooking, youtube watching, WiFi-finding, Google Searching, emailing, voice activating, game playing, document scanning, GPSing, and about 10,000 other things the Nokia couldn’t but a Droid now can. (BTW, I put emailing 3 times because I have three emails linked to my phone, so there, it wasn’t a typo that you thought you noticed.)

Every phone I received after the Nokia got better and better, technology wise anyway. Not so much physically. I’ve had multiple bricks, flips, crackberrys, and now a droid.

I know that I’m amazed today at how much my phone does, and can wait for the next few years to see what else it can do.

And actually it won’t matter, because my father’s response to my future phone will never change and I get a kick out of it every time.

I’ll tell him everything from ESPN Fantasy Tracker to Bank of America Online Banking and he’ll just stare at me the way I cow stares at an oncoming train, and simply say, “DOES IT MAKE PHONE CALLS??”

Here’s to the APProaching Cell Phone Future!

epaC eht no floG

On the 4^th of July, I did something I have only done for the 3^rd time all year. And after about 5 hours of struggling, swearing, pissing (and moaning), weeping, throwing, kicking, and stomping, I’m not sure I’ll be doing this activity for quite some time.

No, I’m not talking about baking a soufflé or trying to land the effin’ plane in Top Gun for NES.  I’m talking about golf.

Now don’t get me wrong. I love golf. I love playing it, watching it, talking about it, (betting on it), reading… well maybe not reading about it. But that doesn’t mean you should stop reading about it. Let’s continue…

I guess we can start our story off at the beginning of my round which began when my jaw dropped in the pro shop when I saw how much it was to play.

Now granted, I wasn’t the one paying; my father was (God Bless his wallet.) Regardless, no one should have paid that much to watch me struggle for 18 holes.

1^st hole we get up to the tee box and my dad takes his first shot of the day. That’s if you don’t could the 50 or so he took on the practice green. Dude loves to putt. (Fun Fact: My dad is the 1988 Massachusetts State Mini Golf Champion. Not mock it, until you can tell me what your dad is the state champion in.)

His ball goes far and a little left. Next my brother, long and straight down the fairway. (Must resist CaddyShack reference)

Next my uncle who take out his 5 wood and smashes the ball up the fairway. “Big hitter the Lama, long.” Dammit!

Then it was my turn. My first shot went about 60 yards to the left, dead hook, in the trees. 1 ball down, 42 left in the bag.

The next 9 holes was alike a Lincoln Theater Tragedy. 53 swings later and standing at a cool 18 over par, the best thing to come from this day had finally arrived. A red Power-Ade and frozen Snickers. Nothing ever tasted so good. Remind you that it was in the 90’s (the temperature not my score) and it felt like playing golf in Satan’s sauna.

For the first time in 13 holes, I actually hit the damn ball straight and WHATTA-YA-KNOW! I pared the effin’ hole.

I’m not so bad after the second shot; unfortunately the hole starts on the tee box not 200 yards down the middle of the fairway.

The rest of the holes weren’t a pleasure cruise but I did get to witness my brother par the par 3 with a chip out of the sand that slowly rolled across the green and into the hole. It was very cool to see since I had never seen anyone do that before. (Would have made Bobby Orr #4 on SportsCenter’s Top Ten.)

So after 5 hours, 104 strokes, 15 lost balls, 3 blisters, and the creation of 3 new swear words, I officially had the worst round of my life, but… I still had fun.

I had fun because I know I’m not a good golfer. I know I’m not going to hit under par, or bring my hand cap under my age. So it’s all about having fun and enjoying the one par I’ll get or watching someone else chip it in from the bunker for par.

I can’t drive, chip, loft, flop, or any other kind of golf swing other than putt. My game consisted of no more than 2 putts per hole which by mini golf standards puts me at 9 UNDER!!!! Sooooo… I HAD A GREAT ROUND OF GOLF!!

Looks like it’s time for me to take after my dad and hit the windmills and clown months rather than the fairways and fringes.

See you on the fake greens… I’ll be the one with the $90 dollar putter and red colored ball.

And Theeeeeeeeeeen....

A few days ago I randomly came down with a virus or as I liked to call it, a bowel reenactment of Hiroshima. This wasn’t just any stomach bug. I felt as if my insides had just been through a 7.0 magnitude earthquake… too soon?

While many people run to the supermarket to grab some Pepto Bismol or pick up some chicken soup, I have always taken a different approach.

I believe that a virus isn’t something you try to treat. A lot of people take medications or get shots from doctors to help the pain. The bad thing is that these techniques only mask the symptoms rather than kill the virus. I however, treat a virus like, ohhh, a terrorist.

I attack the crap out of it. Instead of Dayquil, I call in the cavalry. I call in the WMDs. I call… China King.

To destroy a virus you need to catch it off guard and that’s exactly what 5 pounds of MSG does. While the virus is sitting in my stomach waiting for some like buttered toast and orange juice, I’m ordering a Letter-H Lunch Special with extra duck sauce.

While the virus makes itself comfy through my intestines and around my bowels, I am pouring half a bottle of Frank’s Red Hot Sauce on my meal for that little extra F-U kick.

To this day my theory has been successful and holds an impressive 11-0 record. (At this rate, one more and I clinch home field advantage.)

Viruses today are treated too softly with  small doses of medicine and liquids. So next time you’re laying in bed curled up in a ball of death or are using you toilet as a porcelain pillow, grab your phone and dial up a pu pu platter for two. One for you and the other for that Osama Bug Virus hiding within your body.

瓷枕头 (porcelian pillow)
Your Lucky Numbers: 6 13 27 42 51

I Got 99 Reasons But A Manny Aint One

On July 18^th, 2010 at 7:01PM, Carl Beane (the Red Sox P.A. Announcer) will utter the name of a man once loved, hated, and confused by the fans of Boston. He will quickly run through the first three members of the visiting team. He will say “Batting third and playing right field, Andre Ethier.” There will then be a pause, a clearing of the throat, and the crowd will take a deep breath. The next words out of Beane mouth might produce the loudest noise at Fenway since opening day. “Batting fourth and playing left field, Manny Ramirez.”

The question is what will the crowd yell after Ramirez’s name echoes through the sound system?

Will the crowd cheer? Boo? Heckle? Start a traitor chant? Steroids chant? Maybe nothing (unlikely)?

Will they applaud the man that once (with the help of his Dominican counterpart) carried the 2004 and 2007 Red Sox on his and Papi’s backs?

Manny was voted to the All Star game 7 consecutive times as a member of the Sox. He hit a high .312 batting average, belting 274 round trippers, and batted in a ridiculous 868 runs. All this in just 8 seasons. This is career worth of stats.

He’s entertained the fans with this Goliath-like strength. He hit the second longest home run at Fenway Park, 

a 501 foot shot against the Blue Jays, one foot shy of the record. (Ted Williams: 502ft)

He led the American League in multiple stats. Leading the AL in home runs in 2004, intentional walks in 2001/2003 (not the major leagues since Bonds was still shooting… I mean playing, and on base percentage in 2002-2003 and 2006. He also led the league in batting in 2002 with a Joe Mauer-esk batting average.

Now I don’t want to get all hopped up on stats. (even though I wouldn’t mind going on with my spreadsheet of fun here.)

Manny also brought some hardware back to the Bay State. He was the recipient of the Hank Aaron Award in 2004, and 6 time Silver Slugger winner with the Sox. OOOOHHHH Yeah… He also brought Boston more gold with World Series Trophies than Flava Flav has in teeth fronts. His league leading batting average in 2002 was rewarded with the AL Batting Title.

While this is all very, very, berry fresh and fruity (Thank you IHOP), there were a few things that might just make the fans boo the old cleanup hitter.

First, there’s the countless blundering moments of Manny so-called “being Manny.”

From the potty break in the Green Monster, sitting on a baseball after failing to catch it on the dive, and of course, practically walking to first base every time he made contact with the ball.

(On a side note: I don’t think I’ve ever hated a player more for not hustling, even if it is a routine ground ball because baseball is full of obscurities. You really don’t know what’s going to happen. That ball could be bobbled by the first baseman. I don’t see the harm in just running to first base.)

Manny was also and is still also not a team player. He made comments public about his dislike of Boston and how he wanted to be traded. All this came at the beginning of the season too. Man in the sky forbid he wait until the off season. Heck, he’s even doing it again with the Dodgers now.

Manny was also accused of choking a member of the Red Sox organization and throwing them to the ground. 

Oh yea, the guy was in his 60s but its okay, it’s just “Manny Being Manny.”

Oh and let’s not forget about the whole steroids situation. Manny was suspended for 50 games as a member of the Dodgers for abusing the league’s drug policy.

So the question is, what WILL the fans do once Ramirez’s name is announced? Will they cheer for the Manny that we loved for 6 or so years, bring home 2 World Series trophies, or will they boo for the club house cancer and drug user.

So if the fans boo, they boo. And if the fans cheer, they cheer. If they do nothing, then they doing nothing. It's just important to remember that no matter what they do you can't blame them because, Hey, it's the just the fans being fans.

Strasburg, Party of 14!

Empty, hankering, famished, starved, and carnivorous; all words that describe how Stephen Strasburg felt after his impressive debut against the Pirates Tuesday night.

Unlike me, he put it a lot simpler. He’s hungry.

Strasburg left the 7^th inning having thrown 94 pitches, giving up a home run, two earned runs, fanning 14, and for the first time ever, leaving every fan (40,315) at Nationals Park screaming, standing, and “hungry” for more.

SportsCenter has become StrasCenter for the last 2 days, hyping his debut and basking in his first 7 innings of fame. However, as impressive as it was, I’m not entirely convinced by one outing.

Let me rephrase that… I’m not convinced, YET.

I’ll give him credit, he definitely held his composure and showed no signs of last night being his first major league game.

However, there are some factors we need to throw into the fire. The Pirates are dead last in the Majors in Runs Scored, RBI’s, and Batting average. They’re 25^th overall in Homeruns, and 29^th overall in hits. To say the least, they are good enough to win the anti-triple crown. This played a role in Strasburg’s success Tuesday night because he was practically facing the worst offensive team in the MLB.

Granted his curveball was untouchable and his fastball invisible. He still like every rookie, had some mistakes. His control was 50/50. He was hitting some spots dead on, and missing them by 2 or 3 feet. There were two control issues in particular that stand out to me. One of them didn’t help him, but finally brought a reality to the crowd and Strasburg himself, that I think everyone needed.

The first was a home run given up to Delwyn Young where he left a change up over the middle of the plate in a spot where every major leaguer can crush it for a four bagger. This is quite a big mistake even though it was only a two run homerun. But unlike some ball clubs, teams like the Nationals and Pirates can’t afford to let up more than a couple runs, since they don’t produce that many each night.

The other mistake was in favor of the young gun. He threw a breaking ball that not only broke about a foot and a half but missed the catcher’s target by twice that much. The batter however, didn’t have a chance and swung wildly at it for the strike three.

The kid (and yes I can call him kid since he’s about 2 years younger than myself) has stuff, there’s no doubt about that. I’m not taking anything away from his power, poise, and aggressiveness.

But I would love to see him face a line up with at least a little bit of talent. If the schedule goes as planned, His next four opponents will consist of the Indians, White Sox, Orioles, and Braves. If you asked me, and you must be otherwise you wouldn’t be reading this, We’re not going to see what this kid’s really made of until he faces Atlanta.

WARNING: EXTREME STATS COMING AT YOU!!!

Until Strasburg theoretically pitches against the Braves, he’ll be facing 3 more of the worst offensive teams in the MLB.

The follow stats are as follows: Batting Average = Cleveland 26^th, Chicago (AL) 28^th, Baltimore 24^th.

Runs Scored = Cleveland 26^th, Chicago (AL) 25^th, Baltimore 28^th.

Hits = Cleveland 27^th, Chicago (AL) 30^th, Baltimore 25^th.

In fact the only thing that Baltimore might have going for them is they don’t strike out a lot as they’re only 6^th in team whiffs. However, they will be right down the road from Nationals Park, so I’m pretty sure the crowd will be helping to pump the blood through the veins of Strasburg fast than 2 Viagra’s and a bottle of scotch. 

Although I did hear that scotch helped David Wells with his perfect game.

For a pitcher who practically tore the Pirates roster a new one, these next few teams should be fairly simple, considering they are almost the same team as Pittsburgh.

So grab your day planner and mark your calendars. Pick up the phone and make your reservation now, because Strasburg is sure to serve up a few plates of success these next few starts. But come his “theoretical” start against the Braves, he might want to have the pepto bismol handy.