After much soul searching, I have redrafted the John Lackey Pledge.
Following an inning of stress, suckage and general irritation, I have decided the first John Lackey Pledge doesn’t cut it. No.
But we did win. And it was satisfying. The win. NOT you, John Lackey.
So. Several drafts later, I have decided upon the following document to address the accusation of cruelty on my part toward a certain slackjawed pitcher.
Don’t worry. I’m legit. I had a witness.
Until tomorrow- be well!
Jon Lester. 15-day disabled list.
John Lackey. On another kind of DL.
The DENIAL List.
And no. I’m not talking about a river in Egypt.
But who is in greater denial? John Lackey, who has an ERA of OVER 7.4, allows 7 runs in like three innings AND then says things like ““Overall, my arm felt pretty good?”
Or Theo Epstein, for STILL holding on to his $85 mill investment? An investment that is making the 2008 economic collapse look like a checking error.
Despite BUZZ to the contrary, he’s still around. Or maybe we’ve just ALLLLLL got our JLs mixed up. JOHN LACKEY, God. NOT JON LESTER.
Perhaps we should have all been more clear. That’s the last time I close my eyes and wish with initials alone.
“Maybe,” coworker-who-barely-knows-what-baseball-is says, to stop me from continuing ANOTHER John Lackey rant, “This Ted Epstein doesn’t have cable.”
I don’t have cable.
“Maybe,” exasperated coworker says, “He’s not as tech savvy as you with the internets.” (yes, we say the internets, plural, in THIS office)
He makes like, a BAZILLION dollars.
“Maybe,” dead-inside-coworker says, “He has better things to do than fire pitchers.”
He makes like, a BAZILLION dollars to do this.
“Maybe,” bleary-eyed coworker says, “You should save this for your blog.”
But, I already blogged about John Lackey. Like… ALL THE TIME.
And then he told me to shut up. Me. I know. The nerve of SOME PEOPLE.
PS- MORE STEROID NEWS. Awesome. They should call today WednesROIDday.
Alex Rodriguez’ doctor pleaded guilty today in federal court for… *drum roll* bringing drugs from Canada… including *another drum roll* HUMAN GROWTH HORMONE!
Awesome. Thanks, guys. For CONTINUALLY throwing the juice in America’s face.
Other athletes on…
the DENIAL List:
Johnny Damon (I’m still relevant! Hall of Fame, hear I come!)
Andy Pettitte (Roger is my BEST friend)
Derek Jeter (I’m still in the game!)
Jason Giambi (Wow, people sooooooo care about what I have to say)
Coco Crisp (This hairstyle is a GREAT look for me!)
Tiger Woods (I can change!)
Dale Earnhardt Jr (It’s a real sport. Really.)
The US Women’s Soccer Team (People are sooooo watching us on television right now. Sad but true, people. )
Maxim Lapierre (Je suis étonnant!)
Dirk Nowitzki (I have normal arms. Really. You guyyyssssss)
Jorge Posada (I could totally play another five years)
Manny Ramirez (This will ALLLL blow over)
Alex Rodriguez (They ALLLLL want to be my girlfriend)
The Cubs (It will happen our lifetime, guys!)
Got anymore? I’m trying to compile an official list. Then I’ll move onto actors. That means you, Nicholas Cage!
You know what’s difficult? Typing when your dog has started the cycle of fetch.
I accidentally kicked a tennis ball. Ye-gads!
It kind of reminds me of a Red Sox firestorm. You know, how someone starts the cycle of kickass, a cycle that doesn’t end until the game is over. And the game isn’t over, until we say it’s over.
Fetch can last forever.
So, division leader against division leader and to the Red Sox go the spoils. An indicator of some Series yet to come?
Hey, we know I’m biased, but I’m not the only one thinking about it. Philly’s got its horsy eyes on us. The proud. The mighty. The fighting sandwiches.
But that’s Soxtober. This is now. And now is the Padres, A-Gonz’s old stomping ground. So be prepared for some stomping, Padres.
It’s Miller time.
After all the hubub, we’re about to see the kid wonder, the reason sports bloggers have been panicking me with all this Wake-out-of-the-rotation baloney. Thanks, Clay, for taking one for the team. Your “back.” Rigghhhhttt, blister boy. Lackey, pay attention. You’re next.
Because after the asskickishness we saw yesterday, Wake should go NOWHERE.
PS- Kevin Youkilis says Boston sports is like a “community of athletes.”
Whatever. Look how hot he looks in sunglasses!
Some people are just so jealous of my special Youk connection…
I think this one was my fault guys.
Sorry. First pitch, ball. A-Gonz, dropping a foul ball, third pitch, 1-0- Milwaukee. Fourth pitch. 2-0, Milwaukee.
Remember the second inning? Lester literally feeds a ball into the baseball dirt?
This isn’t Jon Lester. This isn’t our team.
Kottaras being helpful? Kottaras getting a homerun? Does that sound like the Kottaras WE know?
Lester pulling this crap when we have NO PAPELBON?
I’m telling you, this isn’t baseball.
This, ladies and gentleman, is a shitstorm.
See that “S” word I just dropped? If you don’t like it, I’d skip today’s shithawk lesson, k?
Ever make a joke turn into a reality?
You know, not really. But really.
Like, do you ever repeat something so much that it becomes true? Like really? Really true?
See, a writer I work with watches some Canadian show about trailer parks that references “shithawks.”
(As in: “I’ll be watching you like a shithawk.”)
There are several definitions of “shithawk.” I know. I looked it up in the Urban Dictionary two days into the joke.
But, in this context, a “shithawk,” is this hawk, right, that flies all over the office dropping, well, shit.
See, when work piles up. When they change a deadline without telling you. When you’re twenty minutes after deadline and that senator decides to call you back.
When the power flickers. When your car stalls. When you lock your keys in your car. When the batteries fall out of your digital recorder, no matter how much scotch tape you put on the hinge. When the computer shuts down just as you’ve sketched out that terrible article on extra-territorial jurisdiction.
Oh, and when your copy editor decides to “correct” extra-territorial jurisdiction and make the Boone community think there’s suddenly a special jurisdiction for extra-terrestrials? It’s the shithawk.
Shithawks LOVE copy editors.
Sometimes the shithawks don’t even do anything. They just sit there. There on the wall. Watching you. Watching you and just waiting to shit.
And you’re so paranoid because of all the shit you typically have to deal with, that you can’t get anything done. You know. Out of paranoia. Their crazy eyes. Their crazy, beady eyes and their evil little shitclaws (also called shithooks, as in, “damn it, Lauren, they’ve got their shithooks in me today.”)
A flock of shithawks? That’s called a shitstorm (as in, “I can’t even talk to you in this shitstorm.”). They’re quite loud.
Going to work?
Going to the shitfactory.
Sometimes we can hear them buzzing around the office. So much shit. We call it “bullshit,” you know, as in, “Damn it, Lauren! This job is bullshit!”
But it’s actually hawk shit. But it’s a lot. So you see why we make the comparison to bulls.
Sometimes, I find feathers at my desk.
Today I found two.
It started out as a great joke.
And then in our delirium, it became a little serious.
Sometimes, at 2 in the morning when I’m still working on copy for the Friday paper, I think I see one. You know. Just in the corner of my eye. It whizzes away, of course. But not before doing something terrible. Something shitty. Something like causing my notebook to self destruct or drying up every ink pen in my desk when I have an interview.
Today, the story got a new chapter.
Where do shithawks come from?
I’ll tell you.
See, deep in the poo ocean (there’s a poo ocean. Do I really need to spell everything out for you?) is a creature, a mystically awesome (as in, capable of evoking awe, this is not a complimentary use of the word awesome) sea-beast known as Poo-seidon. I have a picture of Poo-seidon. But it is at my office. So you will have to wait until Monday.
Poo-seidon, see, has a magical poo-crystal. It’s called the great looking-poo, but you don’t need to know what it’s called. That doesn’t advance the story. Anyway, he looks into this poo-crystal at all the happy people. All the productive people. All the people getting things done, and with remarkable efficiency. All those journalists out there naïve enough to love their jobs.
Then he raises his poo-triton (it’s quite powerful. And shiny) and takes a feather (I don’t know what kind of feather. Probably a sea bird. Like that albatross from “The Rescuers”) and raises it over his head (like Triton does in the “Little Mermaid”) and summons a poo-nado.
At first, the poo-nado is really terrible. Sucking up all the productivity in its path (journalists near and far tremble with dejavuz when reading this part of the story), the poo-nado looks like a whizzing wall of poo.
Then, suddenly, the winds settle, solidifying. Individual feathers rise up from the shit. A desperate, screeching, banshee sound echoes your eardrums as wings start to emerge. The weak lose hearing all together at this point.
And then, like a phoenix, the shithawk erupts from the chaos, its smelly claws curling toward you with a ferocity known only in mythology, as squiggly gray waves (you know, the kind that surround Pigpen in Charlie Brown) halo the beast.
Then the cycle repeats itself. You know, until you have a shitstorm. That’s a flock of shithawks, in case you weren’t paying attention earlier.
Shithawks typically travel in shitstorms.
Anyway, I thought the shithawks were confined to the office. They’re happy here. They have lots of souls to drain of hopes and dreams. We do, after all, have five reporters in our newsroom. But I didn’t take into account what would happen when their food supply finally ran out.
See, that’s what’s happening.
It’s budget season. Wayyyyyy too many opportunities for the shit –ahem- to hit the fan.
And when a shithawk hits a fan, it divides into a thousand individual shithawks.
Anyway, as our hopes and dreams fade in the office, the shithawks grow restless. Their food supply dwindling, they have to look for other sources of hopes, dreams and productivity.
They turn their lonely eyes to Boston.
Sorry, guys. I think this one is our fault.
I invested in a pellet gun. But they’re wily little shitters….
I’m really sorry. I should have warned you. I just thought Boston was too far away for the little shitters.
It’s a shithawk migration. No one is safe.
More evidence- I worked most of today (shithawks LOVE it when I work)- worked the Appalachian Roller Girls FIRST EVER HOME BOUT. They are undefeated.
Sorry, were undefeated. Until I covered their match up today. And the shithawks followed me. Sorry, ARG! You looked great in your fishnets! And are, as always, unparalleled in awesomeness.
PS- This made me feel a little bit better. Thanks, FDA. Kevin Youkilis is my favorite human.
With eyes off the ice (if you didn’t see our glory, I recapped it Carolina style HERE and you can read ALL about those classy Canucks fans HERE and HERE), Boston turns its hungry eyes to the mound, aiming to wear a different type of skate.
The no-good, stingerless, Damon-harboring, Manny-chasing, Tropicana swigging Tampa Crampahs.
See, while Tim Thomas was kicking ass and we were prepping our gullets for Stanley Cup champagne yesterday, the Beckster was holding down the fort, guerrilla style.
Not that fort. THIS FORT. Google Image Search, you always take me so seriously.
Josh Beckett was doing this all over Tropicana Field.
Metaphorically, of course. If Josh Beckett was a REAL ninja, the NESN cameras would not have caught the greatness. Of course… um… everyone was kind of watching hockey. So no one saw him be a badass. Which is like a REAL ninja.
And it was great.
Beckett shut the Rays down in a ONE HIT wonder.
With help from my most favoritist Kevin Youkilis.
With a THREE RUN HOMERUN EXTRAVA-FRICKING-GANZA.
And, Tampa, we’re about to hampah your style once again. Ray chowdah anyone?
Speaking of skates, did you know that Terry Francona has been in them?
Speaking of weird things- the writing could be on the wall for Wake, as Miller is officially part of the rotation.
But that’s depressing. We don’t do depressing today. At least not in cyber-Boston.
Isn’t Boston grand?
PS- Here is honest to god proof that women are better baseball fans.
Depressed hockey’s over?
“At the end of the day, you have to give credit where credit is due,” Vigneault commented. “Boston played a real strong game. They got great goaltending and they were able to score a couple of tough goals around our net and they deserved to win.”
So, Bruins fans, ignore ignorant haters and drink your champagne. You’ve earned it. And join us in staring down Tampa.
On a serious note, I’m genuinely disgusted that a ridiculously stupid minority is ruining the Vancouver experience. It looks like this happened in 1994 with the Rangers win. It looks like a pattern. But it’s a pattern in the minds of a select few stupid people. Not the city of Vancouver.
Vancouver is seriously one of the most beautiful places in the world. It is probably in my top three favorite cities. It’s a city I would love to live in (not the hockey team. But, you know), complete with beautiful buildings, views and people. Ever since trekking to visit family in the Pacific Northwest years ago, I’ve had living there on my wish list.
Please do not lump the entire city in with the jerks running around in teargas, k? I promise you it’s an extremely small minority and that Vancouver joins you in your disgust for these riots. I’ve spoken to friends today in Vancouver (all of whom are okay) who are just embarrassed at what is becoming an international gag-inducer.
See, when stuff like this happens, it doesn’t just go against the host city. It goes against everyone who enjoys the sport. It cheapens the fan experience for ALL hockey fans and does more than surface damage. It injures the integrity of hockey, regardless of whether you’re a Bruins fan, a Canucks fan or (god forbid) a Rangers fan.
We ALL lose our credibility when ridiculous things like this happen. I hope the instigators are caught and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. And I hope generalizations can be minimized in the aftermath.
Loved this summation by NPR. Worth the read.
They want to coat our nation in syrup and feed us to a moose herd. Really. I heard it from Michael J. Fox.
Tonight, the United States, whether we are baseball fans or hockey fans, stand together.
Tonight, we fight Canada!
Cue the Pledge of Allegiance!
Seriously. Why isn’t your hand over your heart? Do you hate America?
Because JoJo Reyes does!
Do it for the troops, Boston!
Those wiley syrup makers are trying to take over, eh! They’ll bring their moose (the size of pickup trucks, I tell you!) and their hats and their bacon and their gravy fries. They’ll put wigs on our lawyers and Nickelback on our radios! Do you like Nickelback? Well, do you, punk?
Tonight… WE FIGHT!
(The author would like to point out that this is in no way representative of how she feels about Canada, a place she’s spent lots of time in, or, more specifically, Vancouver, her dream city, a place where, while she hopes their hockey team loses -and loses violently-, she hopes to retire in someday so she can watch the killer whales from her yacht -she will have a yacht- . She can prove it. She does speak French, after all, and has spent time utilizing this skill in Quebec. She just really, really, really hates your sports teams, Canada. Like, a lot. And she doesn’t actually like Ann Coulter. She is actually terrified of Ann Coulter and thinks she is the praying mantis of America.)
PS- Did you read this? Looks like our Bruins are getting the no-no from management about their apparel…
Gotta disagree with management on this one.
Looks like Big Papi blames more than C.C. Sabathia for the rock that hit him in the leg.
Now, Papi. You know I love you. I’m going to blame this rant on your pain, k, and breeze over your logic.
Because ESPN didn’t hit you with that pitch, Papi.
And… the media, see… the media capitalizes on what the AUDIENCE wants. The rating points. People complain about the media (stepping on a larger soap box now) and its divine influence, but it’s not the media. If media could dictate desire, Paris Hilton’s new show would be a success.
The rivalry gets media focus because it gets fan focus.
That’s how the chicken and egg works. Chicken (you) then egg (media).
Like Charlie Sheen. No one WANTS to write about Charlie Sheen. I don’t WANT to write about Charlie Sheen. But you can visibly tell when the anchor says the word Charlie Sheen- because the ratings points go up. Before. Your. Very. Eyes.
And, since the media relies on commercial dollars, and commercial advertisers rely on media people watch, we print Charlie Sheen. We light up the screen with Charlie Sheen. Ratings go up. We make money.
Not because of Charlie Sheen.
Because of you, America.
Because of you.
The media does not throw pitches.
CC Sabathia throws pitches.
And, while I’m on this soapbox, THIS, ladies and gentlemen, is reason number 4 why we will ALWAYS need NPR. And why NPR is one of my dream jobs. Because I would love to work at a place where I didn’t have to Charlie Sheen my way through the day’s news.
And Charlie Sheen is just one example. Think about it.
So, dearest Papi, blame the bear. Not the beast.