God, look at this girl!
Are you sure it’s a girl? She looks more like the love child of Margaret Thatcher and a month-old jack-o-lantern! Her fashion sense is on life support, and I’d love to pull the plug on it!I’d like to pull the plug on her ! Look at that huge ass! That thing’s got its own zip code! Where’d she get those pants, Old Gravy? If I had to wear outfits like hers, I’d pop a cyanide capsule straight into my mouth.Except if you were her, you couldn’t fit it because there’d be too many Ring Dings in the way!Her whole look makes me want to vomit, but I’m afraid if I did, she’d lap it up like the dog she is! Ruff ruff! Forget the makeover, we should just put her to sleep! How would you put Ol’ Smeller down? I’d slit her throat, but I think butter would come out instead of blood! I’d shoot her, but the bullet might just get lost in all her fat folds! Maybe if we wait, nature will take its course, and she’ll go out choking on a ham sandwich, Mama Cass-style. God, I hate women!God, me too! Not all women, of course. Just the poor ones.Oh God, I hate poor women. Don’t they know dry-clean only clothes just look better? I 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! If 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… Yeah! 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! Then when they’re too weak to work anymore, we can execute them all! But why waste precious bullets on them? Just round them up in gas chambers and choke them to death! It’s more efficient! You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you? Oh my God, every waking moment!It’s fun to dream, huh?Someday, mi amigo, someday. Now let’s see what her fat friends had to say…
All posts by Matthew Callan
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.
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.
Ron Paul Takes on the BCS
Hey there, Interweb-Land, Ron Paul here. Maybe you know me from seeing my name on thousands of highway overpasses across the land. Perhaps you recognize me from my scintillating fifth-place finish in Iowa, or my breathtaking YouTube productions. You might also be familiar with my millions of loyal followers who post angry responses in all-caps to any blog post that mentions my name.
What’s that? You don’t recognize my name? That’s because the liberal media is afraid of me and my suspiciously well-organized grassroots campaign, so they never mention me among the other Republican candidates. If you don’t believe me, just listen to my spirited rebuttals on CNN, Fox News, C-SPAN, Good Morning America, The Today Show, A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila, and three dozen other programs.
Fact: I have a blimp! No other candidate in either party has any sort of dirigible. Mike
Huckabee used to be zeppelin-sized, but I don’t think that counts.
But I’m not here to talk about outmoded forms of air travel. I’m here to talk about the BCS, which is in desperate need of a Ron Paul makeover. Just like our great nation, college football’s bowl system is a mess wrought by bureaucrats and meddlesome eggheads and their stupid computery computers.
When Ron Paul takes over, all computers in the nation will be destroyed, and I will give out free Common Sense Thinkin’ Caps to every citizen. I will also not allow evolution to be taught in schools, unless all science teachers doing so follow every statement about this theory by yelling BULLSHIT.
The BCS is just like the income tax: nobody’s happy with it, but nobody’s got the guts to do anything about it. Except guess who? That’s right, yours truly, the Paulinator. No, please, hold your applause until I’m finished.
My solution: tear down the whole damn thing. But don’t start over. Just let the schools stomp around in the rubble and let them figure it out. How about, everybody play everybody, all the time! Or play the same team over and over! If Michigan wants to play Ohio State three times a week all year, let ’em! Oregon can play itself for all I care. Hell, they got enough uniforms for seven teams.
Eventually, the glorious free market will decide who’s champ, without the expense and fuss of a newfangled bowl system. You see, Americans are frontier people. Things run best in this country when we let ’em run wild. Who can do their job with the nosy NCAA or federal government waggin’ its finger at every gosh darn thing?
Say you’re a big agribusiness company, and you wanna save some dough by feeding Styrofoam peanuts to your poultry. Or you’re a toy company and you feel like using some delicious lead paint. Guess what? You can’t, ’cause the dang ol’ government says you can’t.
But when Ron Paul is supreme executive, I mean, president, that won’t be a problem, ’cause we won’t have an FDA or an FTC. In fact, we won’t have any office that can be spelled in all capital letters. Probably do away with that stupid Supreme Court, too. All we need in Washington is me and enough Congressman to field a softball team.
I’m sure there will be some unscrupulous companies that’ll do crazy stuff, like slap Gerber’s labels on sulfuric acid and sell it as baby food. So you, as a consumer, can choose to not by caustic chemicals for your infant. You vote with your dollar, see? And you’ll drive the no-good-niks outta business, leaving only righteous capitalists standing.
Unless the sulfuric acid guys buy out all the other baby food companies. Or they pay off enough newspapers and networks so you never hear about their sulfuric acid. But hey, that’s the free market. Don’t like it? Go to Cuba, commie.
I’m sure my BCS solution will captivate the nation, just like my solutions for Washington have taken root in the political consciousness. Why, here’s unsolicited testimony from a concerned citizen.
LAUPNOR: IF YOU WANT TO KEEP THE BOWL SYSTEM YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE CONSTITUTION ALSO THE IRS IS ILLEGAL AND EVERYONE WHO DOESN’T THINK SO SHOULD BE BURNT AND TORTURED AND TIM TEBOW IS NOT MY HEISMAN WINNER. HOOK EM HORNS!
I like the way LAUPNOR thinks!