Monthly Archives: January 2008

Politics Schmolitics

Hillary Clinton: To Be Young, Campaigning, and Black

hilbot.jpgIt’s unfortunate that my esteemed opponent, Barack Obama, is trying to make race an issue in this campaign. Every time I accuse him of making race an issue, he brings up race! It’s almost as
if he’s defensive about the whole race thing.

I’m used to these types of reactions. There are people in this world who see me and think that I can’t be President. Well, I have never listened to what the naysayers said, and I am here to tell America that yes, a
black woman can be President.

Maybe the thought of a black woman President scares Senator Obama. Maybe he thinks our place is in the kitchen–the black kitchen. But as a famous black singer whose name escapes me once said, “I will survive as a black woman candidate.”

My husband was proud to be our nation’s first black President. He had a hard road to walk, like so many of our black forefathers. But he walked that road, with his own two black feet, and I am ready to walk that black, black path he forged for me–for all of us!

And by “us”, I mean all of us black people.

Of course, it’s not just Senator Obama who oppresses us. At times, we are our own worst black enemy. There are some who say I’m not “black” enough, that I’m an “Uncle Tom”. This is nothing new for me. When I left the tough streets of my black, inner city, black neighborhood, there were people who said I was turning my back on my black ‘hood.

I didn’t listen, because I knew that my black achievements could reflect well on my black roots, and allow me to one day give back to the black community that gave so much to my black self. And I say that now is not the time for black divisiveness. This is a time for black unity. With that unity, we should all come together blackly for one common black
goal.

And that goal should be to elect me, the only true black candidate, no matter what Barack “Simon Legree” Obama might say.

I don’t get angry at people like Senator Obama, because deep down, they’re afraid–afraid of our blackness. To their fear, I counter with my black hope. To their anger, I counter with my black love. To their hate, I counter with my black friendship.

So say it loud, people: we’re black and we’re black proud!

Wow, this outpouring of affection from you supporters is enough to make me shed a single, black tear of black emotion.

Boob Tubery, Fashion

What Not to Wear and the Final Solution for Fashion

whatnot1.jpgGod, look at this girl!
whatnot2.jpgAre you sure it’s a girl? She looks more like the love child of Margaret Thatcher and a month-old jack-o-lantern!
whatnot1.jpgHer fashion sense is on life support, and I’d love to pull the plug on it!
whatnot2.jpgI’d like to pull the plug on her ! Look at that huge ass! That thing’s got its own zip code!
whatnot1.jpgWhere’d she get those pants, Old Gravy?
whatnot2.jpgIf I had to wear outfits like hers, I’d pop a cyanide capsule straight into my mouth.
whatnot1.jpgExcept if you were her, you couldn’t fit it because there’d be too many Ring Dings in the way!
whatnot2.jpgHer whole look makes me want to vomit, but I’m afraid if I did, she’d lap it up like the dog she is!
whatnot1.jpgRuff ruff! Forget the makeover, we should just put her to sleep! How would you put Ol’ Smeller down?
whatnot2.jpgI’d slit her throat, but I think butter would come out instead of blood!
whatnot1.jpgI’d shoot her, but the bullet might just get lost in all her fat folds!
whatnot2.jpgMaybe if we wait, nature will take its course, and she’ll go out choking on a ham sandwich, Mama Cass-style.
whatnot1.jpgGod, I hate women!
whatnot2.jpgGod, me too!
whatnot1.jpgNot all women, of course. Just the poor ones.
whatnot2.jpgOh God, I hate poor women. Don’t they know dry-clean only clothes just look better?
whatnot1.jpgI know, right? Fat women drive me nuts, too. If
you can’t stop stuffing your face, just get some liposuction, or stay
indoors! You’re blocking the sun for the rest of us!
whatnot2.jpgIf I could, I would so round up all the
fat and poor women in America. Herd them into the same neighborhoods,
make them wear patches on their tacky outfits so we can keep track of
them…
whatnot1.jpgYeah! Then I’d send them off to special camps in
the country, where they would totally work 18 hours a day for no pay!
That’ll teach ’em!
whatnot2.jpgThen when they’re too weak to work anymore, we can execute them all!
whatnot1.jpgBut why waste precious bullets on them? Just round them up in gas chambers and choke them to death! It’s more efficient!
whatnot2.jpgYou’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?
whatnot1.jpgOh my God, every waking moment!
whatnot2.jpgIt’s fun to dream, huh?
whatnot1.jpgSomeday, mi amigo, someday. Now let’s see what her fat friends had to say…

Baseball, Rocky Rhodes

Rocky Rhodes: The Eternal Bloom of Sour Grapes

Grant “Rocky” Rhodes is America’s oldest living sportswriter. He first rose to prominence in 1918, when he declared in the Pittsburgh Courier-Picayune  that “the Red Sox’ dynastic juggernaut shall never be stopped”. Thanks to an exemption granted by Congress in 1973, he remains the only journalist still allowed to refer to Muhammad Ali as Cassius Clay. His weekly sports column, “The Cat’s Pajamas”, appears in 7000 newspapers nationwide when not bumped for “Love Is” or “This Week in Bridge”. Today, he graces Scratchbomb with his nine decades of sports wisdom to comment on Hall of Fame voting.

rocky.jpg

Like every other old bastard, I look forward to getting my mail each afternoon. It’s fun to wile away the few hours I have left on this earth flipping through a direct mail appeal from some nut jobs who want to destroy the United Nations. I’m also eagerly awaiting a response to my latest series of threatening letters to Chris Matthews.

But there’s one piece of mail I wait for with baited breath each year, and that’s my annual Baseball Hall of Fame ballot. I treasure my status as a lifetime member of the BBWAA, because this ballot is my chance to make a mark on baseball history. It’s also my chance to totally screw all the players who ever looked at me funny.

That is the greatest thing about this time of year. Any baseball writer who says differently is lying through his teeth, Jack. There’s nothing sweeter than getting that ballot and seeing the name of some schmuck who wouldn’t talk to you after a tough loss, or brushed off your autograph request. To know that his shot at immortality rests in your cold, bitter hands, and to think that you could be the guy to keep him out–if it weren’t for that yearly thrill, I woulda turned on the gas a long time ago.

Of course I’m just kidding, folks. We don’t have our own gas ranges at the Shadywood Assisted Living Facility. Or reliable heat, for that matter. My point is, there ain’t no adrenaline rush like the kind you get from a big fistful of sour grapes.

You know why Gil Hodges never got in the Hall of Fame? Because he once recommended an Italian restaurant in Brooklyn to me, but it turned out to be sub par at best. Why didn’t I vote for Bert Blyleven? Because I knew a guy named Bert in high school, and he once took my best girl down to the drug store for a cherry phosphate. I could never look at Blyleven and not think of that sneaky son of a bitch.

Should a possible Hall of Famer have to suffer for a bad meal, or my teenage frustrations? Well, somebody should!

You know what baseball writers talk about when they get together? It ain’t great games or legendary players. Nope, it’s always a game of can-you-top-this to see who has the pettiest excuse for not voting for someone. My favorite of all time has to be Dick Young. He once told me he didn’t vote for Rod Carew because he once hit a single to tie up a spring training game in the bottom of the ninth. Dick was all set to hit the Early Bird Special at the Steer and Stein, but Rod’s hit meant he had to stay at the game, which didn’t end for another five innings. If there’s one thing you didn’t do, it was get between Dick and a discount meal.

“I’ll never forgive that jerkoff for making me miss $4.99 prime rib,” Dick told me, and he meant it, brother.

Of course, since I haven’t been in a locker room since Watergate, it gets harder and harder to come up with reasons to deny candidates entry with each passing year. Luckily, I can rely on the two sharpest tools in a sportswriter’s arsenal: hate and snap judgment.

Goose Gossage, Rock Raines: Dumb nicknames. No dice. What about the old, dignified nicknames of yesteryear? A solid moniker, like Frank “Excellent Fielder” O’Leary.

Jim Rice: They serve us mashed, unsalted rice every day in this godforsaken place. It tastes like wet socks. Even though it’s the only thing my stomach can digest now, I’m not inclined to vote for anyone named Rice.

Jack Morris: I hated his commercials. Why couldn’t he just eat the cat food his owner gave him? I would never vote for him or the snooty cat in the Sheba ads.

Andre Dawson: The Hall of Fame should not be sullied by a French-sounding name.

Tommy John: What, I’m supposed to vote this guy in because he got some fancy surgery? I’ve had 73 medical procedures performed on my body, and that’s just in the last month. My skin is now held together with only a few pieces of well-placed gaffer’s tape.