The only reason I am a Twins fans is because I prefer to kind of not like Chicago as much as I should if I lived there because everyone is probably actually pretty darn nice if you live there and I suppose the sun still shines there. Yet gosh, they are so-so mean in that city with their rough accents and lack of culture but its not their fault that they are all probably poor, part of a minority gang or got none morals and religious compasseseseses. That’s what a big old mean city does to a poor soul, it makes it rotten through and through. That is why I sure like it here in Waseca a bunch. If I want to get something off my chest or feel like masturbating, I go on down to the Lake Coochiecoochie or to the willow tree in my pastor's backyard and pray to God kind of like my heathen ancestors would have done before figuring out the glory and salvation of the lord almighty, bless their eternally burning souls.

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(nice pants you fuckwits)

Dear bobpuller (the metaphor, not the person),

Your misery consumes me, Twain. I am finding it exceedingly difficult to enjoy the White Sox promising beginning to the 2012 season. Inevitably as I look through box scores and standings my eye always drifts to the Twain and it has become arduous to regard anything else through the refracted light of my tears of joy.

At last, Twain fans finally have a team they deserve. Twaindom has been so humble in their successes, over the past eight or so odd years, that now with your organization firmly implanted at rock bottom, that contemptible even keel nature of yours will serve you well while coping with such ample and abundant failure.

Imagine my surprise that only two years after christening your abominable den of horrors, the wheels have proverbially fallen off the HO scale track. Both of your princes of darkness have fell victim to ailments, your magical moustachioed gentleman is nothing but a fraud, your ace's no-hitter was as empty as it could possibly have gotten and little Nick Punto won a fucking World Series with your sister franchise in the National League. How does that feel Twain? Your patented elbow-grease contributed to another franchise standing at the top of mountain and here you stand, in your BVD's--at the base of Olympus, with nothing but freckles in your hands.

I see you have a new crop of canker-ridden pests forcing their way onto the Major League roster. Patriotic names like Revere and French names like Plouffe but it matters little because they will not cause the same trepidation as the like of Lew Ford, Brendan Harris or Danny 'fucking' Gladden.

I would argue that the sole purpose of your organization's existence was to act as a counterbalance and a pestilence to Ozzie Guillen and in turn White Sox fans everywhere. Well, I'm here to tell your cordially diplomatic fanbase that the fun is over. Guillen is gone and so are the piranhas. You have once again taken your rightful place in the pantheon of major league baseball afterthoughts. If only the Twain had worked a playoff series victory into that decade long contract with Satan, perhaps you could have experienced a modicum of real emotion.

The future looks bright and anything can happen…you tell yourselves. It's all because you are the Twain and you will never understand how life really works outside of your frozen tundra hell hole but I am here to tell you…nice guys always finish last.

Best Regards,

Rhubarb

P.S. Suck it natetheskate.

P.P.S. Inferstructure!

P.P.P.S. It is NEVER too late for contraction.

"I'm taking John, Jacob and Jacob, Jr. to Opening Day on Friday. I have to teach them how to appreciate the game of baseball. The men in dimly lit halls think we need to relearn how to appreciate the game."

"Where did you get the money for that!? Did you tell your boss you are taking off? What about school? Jacob missed enough high school this year with Jacob Jr. in the hospital?"

"I've been saving since last October and I always have the Discover card if need be, I think there's a few hundred dollars on there. The boss wasn't happy about it but I haven't had a day off in four years, so I think he'll understand and I called the principal and told her my uncle died."

"You're so fucking stupid, you should be working not spending money and you better not use the Discover card…I have a hair appointment with Jill next Tuesday and we're going out for drinks after."

"We'll take some more out of my 401k, I really think the kids need to appreciate the game, it'll be good for them."

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"Welcome back, Your World Series dreams were your ticket out. Welcome back,
to that same old place that you had nightmares about.
well the names have all changed (somewhat) since you played third,
But those dreams have remained even after a championship ya heard?
Who'd have thought Jerry'd need ya (Who'd have thought KW would need ya)
Here where we kind of need ya (Here where we kind of need ya)
Yeah we tease you a lot cause old man Ryan kicked your ass, welcome back,
Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back."

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No. A rare, abrasive, FOG dissipated in the Phoenix valley giving way to a cloudless sky. Parts of last year's model had been deteriorated and sloughed off. The incessant abrasion seems to have roughened the surface leaving gouges in places that never should have existed. Even the most jaded of sourpusses, witnessing the players pitch in the pasture, agree the plague on the house had been lifted and having him gone we have gained nothingness once again!

The void will fill with something else but in the exalted shutout of the present there are rejuvenating properties. The players take one crisp breath of air at a time; second by second they realize their existence and their purpose, which had been concealed from them the past several years. There is now room to stretch within the enthusiasm of a paradise regained. In order to find the respite of an earthly heaven, one sometimes has to trudge through a metaphorical hell.

The beast has been slain but he wrote a bestselling fiction with his two mouths. The one good thing about revisionist history is that you don't have to try to not repeat it because it never happened in the first place. The date-rapist can't harm you anymore, he's behind palm tree bars and he's off the streets. His threats against your family no longer merit any concern, he is gone forever…

"I know this is a lil' off-base but iss a whole 'nother ballgame Paul," breathed Gordon.

"It’s a whole 'nother ballgame within a ballgame, within a ballgame. Let's not forget that," hummed Konerko between a catch…and a throw.

"Shoeer Paul. I'm juss glad to be here playin' catch with 'bridge, that's all. I mean, I'm playing catch and that’s it, there's nothin' else 'cept the future. The lass few years I ben feelin' like I ben constantly missin' third base. Now it feels like I'm coverin' all bases no problem but I'm feelin' aimless like there ain't no direction."

"Gordon, breathe once will you? You smell that?"

"Huh, smell what?"

"Quit playing hardball, Gordon. The freshly cut grass, the oil on your glove, your uniform, Danks' chaw…its called freedom! You can breathe once again."

"I remember this feelin' back in Joejah, I think but I doan think its right, I'm a professional, I'm not supposed to feel free, he was doing right by me" quiet tears streaming down his face.

"Its called Stockholm Syndrome, you're expressing empathy for your captor and even defending him, you need to purge yourself of these demons. He can't hurt your OPS anymore."

Gordon begins to weep hysterically and Paul embraces him like a father figure, personalities DO exist on this team, "Let it all out Gordon, let it all out. There, there."

Lillibridge leans awkwardly, hand on hip, with an affectionate smirk on his sympathetic face. Suddenly, his body went rigid and he began looking over his shoulder but then reminded of the fresh calmness in the air. He relaxed his muscles and soaked in the moment. He couldn't help thinking about the present as it would have been in the past. This kind of display of affection would have frowned upon. In times gone by, affection and understanding were empty words with no action unless the action was to belittle or threaten in the future. There was no trust or collaboration once the lies were exposed and the mouth opened to say, "look at me." Maybe Jenks, Swisher and Javy didn't deserve it. As the first few sentences in this new chapter are written, the players actually have a say in what happens in the story or at least that is the current perception.

Robin, watching from the perch of his unicycle, wheels over to the scene. "What the hell do you guys think you are doing!?! This is a baseball field we're on here; do you not have any respect? This should be a group hug! Everyone dog pile!" As Robin reached the apex of his jump, eclipsing the morning sun in all its glory, all the players begin to realize Robin is actually serious about not being too serious. Slowly, players throw their hats and gloves into the air and start hooting and hollering and following Robin into the dog pile. The collective feeling of captivity that somehow oozed into Spring Training 2012 from the previous season began to dissipate in that 40-man dog pile. The energy and overall feeling of well-being and optimism became almost euphoric.

Deep in the depths of the dogpile, AJ army crawls through the mish-mash of bodies and thrashing limbs, stalking his way towards Rios like a pirate scaling a rope ladder with a knife in his mouth. He had received his directive and he aimed to accomplish it efficiently. AJ grabs Rios from behind and puts his right arm into an armlock, quickly he hyper-extends his elbow until it gives away, letting out an anguished pop. Rios screams and writhes in agony, not understanding how this could have heppenedhappened. Parent steps in, yelling at everyone to stop and brushes players off the pile like a normal human would brush dandruff off their shoulders.

"What is it Alex? A charley horse?" asks Robin, intentionally putting his foot in the bucket.

As the team settles down the euphoria still exists but there on the ground in short right field is poor Rios with his ulnar collateral ligament permanently disfigured. No one on the team enjoys seeing a teammate in excrutiating pain and everyone starts to feel a modicum of blame for the injury but in the recesses of their consciousness, each and every one of them breathes a sigh of relief. Herm drags Rios off the field as he whines like a little bitch and no one ever sees him again. He retires to his palatial estate in Puerto Rico with his moneys.

Later that night, Gordon, Robin, AJ and Paul sit at Don & Charlie's wolfing down the surf & turf over a couple bottles of Malbec with their wives.

"You guys hit the ball out of the park today, excellent execution as always, AJ. It was admittedly bush league but whatever, that sac of shit is filthy fucking rich...Paul...Gordon...I think you might have learned something from Oz after all. That acting job was of Golden Globe quality. Way to go to bat for the team, everyone thinks the injury came completely out of left field but in reality we were able to get Alex out of left field, thank Christ," quipped Robin, right off the bat.

"I'll take the award for Best Supporting Actor, chief," smiled Paul.

"I wuddnt actin' guys, those tears were fer real, boys. Let's get ur done this year, huh? It was my turn tuh step up to the plate for once, boys. Its time to spend all my time worrying about Gordon Beckham not some lunatic manager"

Paul puts a hand on Gordon's shoulder, patting it gently saying, "So far, you're batting 1.000 this year Gordon...you're batting 1.000. Looks like nice guys don't finish last after all."

I plan on using this essay to make a number of things crystal fucking clear. Clearly, the handful of overpaid and almighty bloggers who write and run this site are nothing more than mental masturbating think-tanking propaganda machines. They are no better than the mainstream media, in fact they are worse! You know why? They are worse because they can’t get quotes from the actual baseball players and owe nothing to the franchise I would thankfully perish protecting. They can’t delve into the minutiae of the human levels of the organization because they don’t have any fucking access what-so-ever. Their stats don’t take into account the sociology of the game. What makes it even worse is they never, ever attempt to get at the clear truth of matters.

larry, margalus, colin, U-god…these fucking people exist for one purpose…to bend reality to conform to their unsavory blogging agendas. All they want to do is tell people how fucking stupid about baseball they are. They are the bullies in this pixilated hell. If I didn’t like the White Sox so much, I would never come here to argue with them. In fact, I feel it is my duty and fight against these villains so the old-way of of thinking from the gut never dies. Nevermind, I have nothing else better to do. If there is any reason for my existence, it is to prove these fools wrong. Never, will I actually listen to their half-baked theories. The fact that they believe they are above the constraints of quoting reliable sources and facts (yes, craig….facts) does a complete disservice to the game that I know and love better than anyone else. When they make me feel stupid by trying to force-feed me their ignorance, it is almost too much to handle. I eat my blood-pressure medicine like skittles and down a fifth of scotch but sadly still, I cannot put into words how wrong they are, even if words are all a blog and its commenters have. It is a sad state of affairs that I can’t argue this shit at a bar where I have my equally intelligent townie toughs to back me up both physically and mentally. I could totally kick their ass.

Frist, the White Sox will never win anything again because of KW. Yes, KW is the detriment to the baseball shrine I call the upperdeck of U.S. Cellular. KW probably reads at third grade level the way all his acquistions and trades have gone. He got so lucky in 2005 that I believe Selig convinced the other owners to allow the White Sox to win the World Series just to keep them relevant in case Ozzie Guillen were to leave town. Which he did by the way! If Ozzie never left then Buehrle never would have left either. Now we are stuck with Danks…a guy who won fewer than 10 games this year. How can a guy who wins fewer than 10 games get that kind of a contract! What an idiot KW is…I’ll bet Rick Hahn is seething that KW didn’t listen to him and trade Danks for Betances and Austin Romine. Poor Rick Hahn, how can he even be in the same room as KW?

Second, Peavy, Dunn and Rios…what can I say? I don’t think larry realizes that the White Sox will never win with these three albatross contracts (I say albatross because I can’t think of a better metaphor….what is an albatross?). Dunn will succumb to new lows next year, Rios will disrespect the game of baseball by using his millions to jetset around the country showing off his abs in expensive nightclubs and Peavy will never be the same! I mean Peavy’s experimental surgery should have fixed whatever was wrong with him! Its not like it take a long time to recover from surgery and get back to your old self now-a-days. The miracle of modern medicine has shown us time and time again that it fixes people for good and if it DOESN"T, that means I hate the person it didn’t work with. KW should have seen all this coming, what a piece of shit rat bastard.

Third, the only thing that the Danks extension made me do was look at the team we are going to have in 2014…how could you not?!? We as fans need to over-analyze and figure this out immediately. Where are the prospects that are going to be veterans by then? It is a shame that KW didn’t blow it up and get the best prospects in the game in return for all of our best players….I mean with Buehrle gone what chance do we have anyway? Now I have to sit here and watch an underachiever get 40 wins over the life of his 5 year contract. I don’t have all day! Get me a .300 hitter damnit. If only we had a .300 hitter and someone batting leadoff who could play defense and lay down a bunt. Instead KW had to waste all that money on a fat piece of crap with a history of on base percentage. New fangled stats…the new market inefficiency is putting fannies in the seats and with all this talk about getting that Cuban traitor they expect me to buy a Venchie plan? A 1/3 of our starters would be communists! The only way I am going to a game next year is if they give me half priced tickets or if I steal tickets from children. Instead I will be at home listening to Hawk, who should STILL be the general manager, and coming to this blog to force my grandiose presence on you small-minded infidels.

In conclusion, I am right and everyone is wrong, except that I used six paragraphs in an essay instead of the required five. Maybe if you ivory towers bloggers were more like me, we could be friends.

     

In the basement of a modest ranch house in the far reaches of Chicago suburbia a raging party ensues.  The taint punch flows out of the nipples of a jello statue of Nancy Faust as Thanksgiving dinner is prepared by Chef Julius and his sous-chef and nutritionist, a shoeless man from SC.  A radio guy carves the turduckham as the rest of party goers stuff napkins in the necks and bang their silver ware on the long wooden table, demanding satisfaction.  A fire is lit but there is no hearth, a haze of sweet smoke wafts in the lack of circulation creating semi-transparent ribbons through the dim lighting.

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I am sitting, now, in the hospital, writing this RRRR with my thumb and the help of a coffee addled brain and I can't help but think about all these decrepit OPOS begging for attention in their motorized wheelchairs and oxygen tanks.  This is their life.  They sit at home, watch cowboy movies, go to the hospital, probably think about lost friends and wait to die.  

I hate to be callous but what are these people waiting for?  They are a pathetic and depressing drag on society. They are boring too, I stopped counting how many of these shells have commented on the weather or how its been 30 years since Natalie Wood's death/murder?.  Something tells me these old people haven't been as sweet and benign their whole lives, undoubtedly each has their own dubiously checkered past.

When/if I get to the point where there is nothing to look forward to but finding out how much phlegm comes up in each incessant and thoroughly repulsive cough or guessing whether or not my great-grandson will actually answer his cellphone because I crave human contact...I will take a prescription and crown cocktail and welcome the lack of nothing and everything.  When the coroner tells you that he/she died a natural death it is probably code for (he/she finally ended his/her life by overdosing).

This......I got interrupted, my wife's room was called for rapid response.  When they announced it, I thought, "No way it is her.  Its probably one of the several hundred rolling dead I see around here."  She had a vasovagal attack due to her procedure but she is fine now.  Sheesh.  Tebow please forgive me for being a remorseless and insensitive bastard and spare my loved ones, quit being a bitch and picking on her, bring it to me Tebow!

My three questions this week:

1.  Hoodie is curious about American snacks.  What is your favorite?  Mine is/are Parliament Lights but pistachios come in a close second.

2.  I watched a PBS program the other night about a guy who raised and lived with wild turkeys for a few years.  Which wild animal would you want to be accepted by and live with?  I would choose dolphins since I heard their vaginas are about as close as you can get to human.  You know that wild turkey guy wanted to bang those turkeys. Am I kidding?

3.  Who is your favorite historical figure?  I dig Cao Cao because he united the Three Kingdoms.  I also am a fan of Claudius.  If you have not read John Williams' Augustus, you should...

Today our admin began the sacrificial ritual.  She decorated our office with xmas shit.  While doing so, she made sure the deplorable jingles of yesteryear were audible throughout the corporate narthex.  She cheerily sipped peppermint cocoa and adorned the Mass-produced tree with colorful glass balls that signify the empty hopes and dreams of nostalgia, regret and mortal fragility.  Listening to 'Wonderful Christmastime" for the first of hundreds of times over the next 6 weeks, I contemplated my sacrifice to my corporate overlords.  Every Xmas we sacrifice our money and time, instead of virgins like the Mayans did, to the God of Consumerism.  We plan our annual pilgrimmage to our meccas--malls,, commons and big box stores.  We chant our silly chants, we eat our silly morsels and after all is said and done, as the new year approaches like a final exam or a prostate exam, all you're left with is a hazy nog saturated memory of the ritual, populated with the people who walk your walk and a smattering of brand new, expensive, yet swiftly decaying and  depreciating products that are destined for the same place as your bones. What do the holidays mean to you?

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HSA has been backpacking in the Qinling mountain range, trying to find her spiritual self.  I received a battered postcard from her with this image on it.

  

The message read, "Rhubarb, please make a new RRRR.  I am too busy disrespecting the artifacts of these indigenous pieces of shit. Let me know, HSA" 

The postmark was dated two months ago and I received it three weeks ago.  I am just finally getting around to doing it because…well…I am fucking lazy, that’s why.  If I wasn't so goddamn lazy I would do a lot of cool things like:  write a trilogy about Elgin, learn how to distill my own liquor, drop more acid, start a punk jugband or barbershop metal band, start a bloodless revolution, douse myself with gasoline in the middle of the Kennedy.  What should you be doing now if we actually did live in a welfare state where we didn't have to work?  Don't think long and hard about it, don't over-clutter this thread with amateur cleverness, what the hell would you do with yourself if you didn't have obligations to yourself, your family, your boss or society?

 

Expanding on this, I am sure someone asked you at one point in your life, if time were to stop and you had a week to do whatever you wanted with all other human beings basically put on pause, what would you do and where would you go?  Lets try to keep this fairly clean, so don't give me any celebrity-pause rape fantasies.  Remember travel would be difficult because the cars on the roads would be paused and unless you can fly an airplane you probably couldn't catch a flight.  You could ride a horse but how far would it get you in a week from where you are currently at?

 

Also, what is your favorite word, least favorite word and if you could make up a word and put it in the Oxford English Dictionary, what would it be and what is its definition?  Mine would be 'twaint-punch'.  If you were to start a band, what would you want to name it?  My band would be 'Drip City'.

 

 

Its 2032 and a post liver transplant KW wheels himself out to the podium to once again discuss a controversial managerial hire.

"Let's keep this short people, I don't have all day."

 

"Kenny, how is the hiring of Gordon Beckham going to get the White Sox out of their perpetual thirdplaceness?"

 

"Look, first of all he was an infielder...also we came to find out that all Paulie was interested in was getting back to the desert and building a larger home.  Gordon Beckham is a smart baseball man, as you know he played over 2,000 games in his career and learned from some of the best managers in the business in Jim Parque, Herbert Perry and Bill Simas.  Anyone who thinks this is not the best hire we could have made is clearly mistaken.  Not serving as Paulie's bench coach instilled in him the anti-sabermetric aspects that are valued in baseball today but we really think that Paulie was just looking for more square footage.  It was all he talked about behind closed doors and in the media… We have pinpointed the new market ineffieciency and it is experience.  Beckham has a big heart and an ample gut.  You'll see and until you see or don't see we will tell you what you should believe and believe it you will."

 

"A lot of people are saying this is a hire in the same vein as the Ventura hire, what are your thoughts on that?"

 

"I don't want to talk about Robin.  That ship sailed years ago."

 

"It seemed like the team under Paulie lacked the fire and commitment needed to win championships, much less divisions.  How will the hire of Gordon Beckham make things different?"

 

"Well it’s the same thing we always look for, minus the obvious.  It is now public knowledge that Ozzie fucked my wife in her asshole, Robin masterbated on her and Parque lefty fisted her…Jerry and I believe that Beckham is asexual enough to fit in around here and get things done, in fact he volunteered to have his testicles removed as a condition of his hire.  I of course told him that was unnecessary and all we needed him to do was to instill the same grindiness that he gave us out of the DH spot in the last six years of his career."

 

"Fans and critics alike are wondering if we would ever see a White Sox hitter bunt in this decade.  Does Beckham like the bunt?"

 

"As you all know Beckham cut his teeth under Ozzie and was forced to bunt in the worst of circumstances at all times based on him being a secondbaseman.  One of the reasons why we hired Beckham was that he doesn't like the bunt.  If the bunt didn't work 25 years ago its not going to work in today's game either…not much has changed."

 

"Tony LaRussa III bunts all the time and he has won several championships."

 

"Tony doesn't win because of the bunt, he wins because he wills his team to win.  His father was the same way and we see the same will in Gordon Beckham.  Gordon is my favorite person in baseball because baseball is a baseball man's game and the way we play baseball here on the south side is a baseball man's baseball dream of baseball the correct baseball way.  Seriously, if I could fuck a baseball, I would fuck a Gordon Beckham autographed baseball.  The stitches are just tighter on a Beckham autographed baseball."

 

"You said basically the same thing about Parque."

 

"Despite Parque's results I would still fuck a Parque autographed baseball.  He knows baseball better than anyone in the business.  He's been around baseball his whole life you see, we look for people who have been life long baseball people and we put them in situations to succeed."

 

"At the end of Paulie's tenure it seemed like you and he were butting heads a bit.  Was this personal or was it just a baseball decision to fire him?"

 

"Paulie knows baseball better than anyone, the proof is in the pudding…don't you remember his grand slam in 2005 bringing a World Series victory?  That right there proves he knows baseball but sometimes things in your personal life seep into your career.  In Paulie's case he felt compelled to add 40 more rooms onto his home, this is why we find Paulie's managing the Tempe Devil Rays…I love Paulie to death and it pains me to see him go, I have imbibed scotch with him on many occasions but we all agreed that it was best for him to move on."

 

"Are you still talking to Jerry through a Ouiji board."

 

"Yes."

 

"Is he telling you how to conduct business."

 

"No, he is more of someone to lean on than anything.  He did tell me that if the fans don't come out to the park that his magical bank account won't have anything in it anymore.  So beware fans, if you don't like this hire and you don't come to the park next year because of it, you are going to be the one to suffer and if you change the channel during commercials we might not have enough to re-sign fan favorite Valdijhonny Sweetlord when his contract expires after next season.  If he is gone it will be the fans fault and they should feel guilty about it the rest of their living days.  I can't imagine there being any more questions, are we done?  I really don't have all day and I am getting annoyed and bored.  I don't like talking about my job because it is my job to not talk about my job"

 

"Just one more, do you think Peavy's robotic arm is going to hold up this year?  It is now widely known  that he switched to Raytheon ball bearings and apparently he fully expects to make it through the whole season without viscosity issues, but we have heard this before of course…"

 

"Jake Peavy is going to be Jake Peavy and we expect him to win.  His life time contract aside, we feel he puts us in the best position to win.  He knows baseball and brings fire and commitment to the cause, he is unrelenting and will…………"

Hey guys.  I come from far away, from a very sad place.  Its inhabitants call it SSS but it is known on the interwebs as SouthSideSox.  I am a White Sox fan, you see, and we obviously hit rock bottom this year based on our predictions and expectations.  There are several of us at SSS that really like the Rays chances this playoff season and obviously envy and respect your organization.  The White Sox are the Anti-Rays if you will...there is no sun where I come from, we are entering our winter of discontent.  I hope I don't off myself in a riverbank during a blizzard.

We have one cause for hope...your team's home state has gobbled up our former manager.  Most of us were happy to see Ozzie leave since he was basically an empty uniform the last few years.  You are all very spoiled with Maddon, I'd probably cut off my left nut to get Maddon as the White Sox manager...but sadly no one is interested in a stray testicle.

There is alot of talk up north about our next manager being Francona, Alomar, LaRussa, Buddy Bell (poison me now), Joe McEwing, blah, blah blah...there is a group of us who are hot to trot for Dave Martinez.  We know he is a Maddon disciple.  However, I have come here, hat in hand, with an impending winter upon me to ask a favor.  Can you folks share stories, anecdotes, philosophy, managerial tendencies, personal experiences, opinions, impressions etc, regarding Dave Martinez?

I hate the cowbell but love the franchise, I'm rooting for the Rays all the way but I am also rooting for us to pilfer your bench coach.  Any help would be much appreciated.  Thanks guys!

  

I can't fucking wait for the season to start, this is gonna be the best year eva!  Look who we gots in our lineups, this is gonna be awesome, YES! look at that lineup, Dunn is gonna be great, Q! is all good again, I can't wait for the next game, I hate having the first tuesday of the season off,  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, fuck you podsnoir, easy heat you son of a fucking bitch, not you too Sale!  What happened to Donkey? that appendix surgery got him out of his inevitable late spring training groove, it's okay, he'll be fine, small sample size, thanks for talking me off the ledge craig, fuck you soxfanCT you curse every gamethread you involve yourself in, oh fuck Humber is pitching, well….that went well…maybe we can make it until peavey comes back, I hope he shuts his mouth and holsters his six-shooters, that sure would be nice, man this team makes me drunk, is mechanicalturk really an expat soxmachinist? What the fuck was he doing hanging out with those puds?  Humber for Cy Young, the best sixth starter in the league, how could the Royals not have signed him when they have Bruce Chen on their roster? Why are you making him bunt?  Why!? Its still early in the season, no reason to panic it’s a long summer,  Catch the fucking ball you assholes, bacon looks like a young steve sax in the field but a poor man's Mike Gallego at the plate, he'll get hot, speaking of hot look at Alexei out of the gates for once, 20 HR's from the missile,  Lillibridge is our best player! Wow, he fucking sucks, no doubt about it…tdogg is worried about sandancer, should I be too?  Nah, the guy gets paid too much money to suck a taint biscuit all season, why does Donkey swing through all these pitches?  Does he need lasik?  Nah, he does this all the time, he's a lock for 30 HR's, what the fuck catch the fucking ball outfielders, maybe kenwo was right about having Viciedo up to start the season but Q! has been hitting the piss out of the ball, maybe they could put him in left since Pierre keeps getting thrown out and dropping balls, man he looks like shit, who the fuck is Masterson and how could we let the twain no-hit us?  Fuck my life, the Indians are going to run away with this, yeah right!  The Twins will be right there, we should edge them out once we start hitting the ball, we shouldn't have a closer but if we do Santos looks like he should be the guy, easy heat and podsnoir singlehandedly have us double digits out of first, wasting good starting pitching, Peavy looked great in his first start maybe we should make him the closer since Humber is an all-star pitcher, it’s a long summer no reason to panic, herr teahenz has sure looked good at the plate, maybe I don't hate him as much as I thought and he is clean in the field too, maybe we should trade him and Edwin Jackson for Colby Rasmus, that makes a lot of sense, if we can't do that maybe we should just trade them for some hair, Q should be traded for a Beachy since we need a 7th starter, the White Sox management sure are geniuses for a 6 man rotation, lets make Beachy our closer, Bruce fucking Chen, we're still close, we'll put together an extended streak, the division is ours to win off paper and on, it goes without saying, hope, hope, hope, I smell .500 and it smells like a polish sausage, even a blind squirrel finds a nut, who is on first? .500?  what's on second? A 10 game losing streak, it was dumb to bunt there, what's our stolen base ratio? Donkey is a fat fuck, this guy can't DH, his brain hurts too much when he DH's, we should bench him but how can we bench a contract, sandancer might have to be benched too…too many DP's (twprs), KW wants to bench 56 million but no one listens because he can't understand English, jesus fucking Christ bench those fucks, they'll probably bring up Viciedo after the allstar break, blog guys don't know anything but every thing will be fine soon because we don't suck, this is an 87 win team, Donkey is the worst player in the history of the game I think, he needs to be cut to save money or maybe we could save money on bunts, we own the Twain!  The twain curse is over, what the fuck is this lineup, Cy Humber? No longer, Cy Chen, why can't we hit soft-tossing lefties? Check your facts craig, we're only a couple of games out, Verlander, bobpuller, verlander, VMart is so awesome wish we had signed him to catch fulltime, Deaza is our best player way to beat Scherzer singlehandedly, where is the pimpchrist for fucksake? I hate Ozzie and I blame KW for making me hate Ozzie, I hate Ozzie, does Ozzie hate me? it sure seems like he hates me, personally, why the fuck would you bunt him over there?  thank god the worst player in MLB history is batting cleanup, he'll turn it around, he needs to stop eating cheeseburgers and swing a stick, even on Christmas!, you suck, fuck!  A new contract?  Go fuck yourself, you suck, you make every player who plays for you suck more, way to fuck everything up, fuck, fuck fuck, fuck, can we trade Ozzie for a month of Pujols? Cy Humber not Chen!  will our record be better than the cubs record? when are the sox playing?  are they on TV? Finally!

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An orange cat sits piously on its owner’s lap slathering its saliva upon its owner’s clothing, for some reason the bitch kept cleansing its territorial pissings off her clothes once a week.  The cat was always offended but after awhile it became ritual.  Having just awakened from a petting induced nap; the cat sleepily glanced at the 40" HDTV.  What it saw on the screen immediately made it disheartened.  Through layers of smeared shit it saw the score was 8-1 in the 6th inning.  The cat was juuuuust smart enough to know that when the White Sox were losing its quality of life suffered immensely.  It hadn’t eaten in three days.  A heavy, depressive cloud hung over the house.

A grunt and drunken self-pitying laughter was half way garbled out its owner’s mouth..  The cat, having clearly known months ago that the White Sox would not be making an appearance in the playoffs, stretched its back and leaped off its owner’s lap, a leap four months ago it couldn’t have managed.  The formerly obese feline had put itself through a rigorous training program this summer to lose some weight; it had a plan and needed to be in tip-top shape in order to enact it.  That coupled with the fact its owner had repeatedly forgotten to feed it during the "All-In" summer had caused the cat to lose 15 pounds and it became a lean fighting machine.  The cat scurried downstairs to play with a miniature medicine ball; it needed to bulk up quickly.  Besides, the cat did not want to be at the business end of its owner’s wrath, as it had been virtually all summer.  As it batted the medicine ball around the concrete basement it could hear the muffled screeching of what had become its attack word, "RIOOOOSSSSS!"

 

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In this tumultuous world of excess, diminshed attention spans and the over-abundance of information to pour over and obsess, I've realized that years, if not months, if not weeks, if not days, if not hours, if not seconds are occurring at an ever faster rate.  There is far too much information available to consume all of it and we try as best we can to segment our interests enough so we may accomplish the consumption that we deem most important to us.  Whether it be high brow pursuits such as economics or low brow pursuits like reality television shows or politics--we pick and choose what we enjoy and as we enjoy it all, life passes us by.

My question is this, hypothetically if all electronic media (tv's, DVD, Netflix, smart phones, computers) ceased to exist…what would you throw your mind soul and energy into? (besides inventing tv's, DVD's, netflix, smart phones and computers) 

 

 

I understand that everything is relative.  Prehistoric man did not know of anything other than what their world gave to them.  They probably enjoyed the sunset and the stars more than we do and their interests mostly revolved around survival and innovation.  We can't feel pity for them for not growing up watching Mr. Belvidere. 

 

Think back 100 years, what would you spend all your time doing?  Do you think life was perceived differently when there wasn't so much quickly accessible entertainment?  Were human beings happier, where their lives more rich?  Or are we living in the best time in history to have existed so far?  Did the creation of the comfortable middle class enable this hyper-entertainment era?

 

I feel hypocritical in writing this since this community is based on a common and very time consuming interest.  We are all so obsessed with the Chicago White Sox that many, perhaps, more important aspects of our lives get put on the backburner, in one form or another, so we can pursue this one, undying interest.  Many of us have ramped up our obsession to varying levels but the fact that we are even involved in this community is telling of our nature as a collective. 

 

 

If SSS didn't exist what would you do with all the time on your hands?  If the Wire was never created what do you think you would have done instead of drooling at a screen for 40 hours?  Are we more well-rounded as human beings because we can have shared experiences in these created fictional worlds or are we better off relying on our imaginations?  The medium is the massage and the massage is an opiate.

 

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It could be any year since Jesus fucking Christ…but after the industrial revolution…yet it just so happens, it could be 2011 A.D and that is what it is.  What a fucking futuristic year, on paper.  Who would have thought that games of basedballs would still be played the same way they were in the ancient past even though they really aren't, maybe. My oh my how time flies these days….a decade is a year, an era is a day and a millisecond hasn't happened yet.  Paradigm shifts happen so fast you can't fucking notice them or better yet they happen so fast that they never happened in the first place because time doesn't exist anymore since we are outside of history now because we don't print the books anymore, the paper is from South America and the ink isn't ink.

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A lean figure shuffles through the yard of an abandoned home in a late summer Chicago midnight.  He pries open a manhole cover with ease and descends away from the artificial lights of the city into an all encompassing darkness, the likes of which are rarely seen in this day and age.  Once at the bottom of a seemingly bottomless ladder, the man flips on a LED flashlight and meanders down a claustrophobic pitch-dark pathway.  There is a light somewhere down the way but it seems like it takes forever to reach. 

 

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By the request of ShoeIess in SC, I present for everyone's criticism, debate, education and pleasure; the abridged version of The SSS Meme Glossary.  I haven't been here as long as most of you and I am probably missing or forgetting alot of humdingers so please do all of us a favor and embiggen the community with your vast knowledge of SSS history.  I also realize that some people have different defintions of certain meme's so if I am offbase on any of these please grace us with your addendums.  I do not claim to know all and respect that which I do not.

As the forgotten memes roll in I will edit this post so we can keep a master list with which lurkers and new posters can refer to, so as not to be completely ignorant of the goings on around here.  Hopefully this makes any future transitions into the community easier and more inclusive.  Shame on me for attempting such an ambitious project akin to the creation of the Oxford English Dictionary.  Most of the definitions in the OED were submitted by a man who lived in an insane asylum, so there is that.

This link was posted in 2009 by Chiburb in attempt to make things more inclusive for new people and is basically an earlier iteration of this topic. There is some really good stuff in here....http://www.southsidesox.com/2009/2/27/774044/community-project-new-memb 

 

In no particular order...

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The number of entries to my contest was a tad disappointing.  I felt like an English professor, with the amount of excuses I received just prior to the deadline.  I thought the prize alone would cause more than five people to enter.  I guess a Dayan Viciedo T-Shirt, a copy of Thomas Pynchon's 'V' and a twenty dollar bill isn't enough to motivate a bunch of slackers to enrich a RR that is in a severe downward trend in quality.  Perhaps everyone is fattening up on the content that is spoon-fed to them everyday by Jim and the boys and forget that their voices are being missed.  However, five slackers fought the pull of the thousands of distractions that modern humanity gets bombarded with and spun a few good yarns.  All of which I will post.

 

The winner of the Rhubarb's Inaugural Fan Fiction Fray is…greenlight!  His story is an exercise in post-postmodern excellence.  I won't give my thoughts on the story until the comment section because I don't want to spoil it.  It is a story that must be read at least twice concurrently.   greenlight, email me your t-shirt size and your address and I will order your shirt today, I am just going to have it shipped directly from FansEdge.  Your book will come in a separate package.

There was a tie for second place, TP wrote a story that firmly grasped the woes and realities of this season.  It demonstrated how manically depressive this team has made many of us.  It was an exercise in bleakness and should be commended, lauded and read by all.  Nordhagen wrote a piece that was a lot of fun to read, his character was derezzed into a gamethread due to pop spilling on a keyboard, fucking hilarious.  I would like Nordhagen to expand on this story and I almost feel like stealing the idea.

 

Mechanical Turk wrote me a twisted stream of conscious excuse as to why he did not have a finished product even though at the end of the email there was a modicum of a depressingly raucous tale.  It was such a trip that I will publish it in its entirety.  The consummate college student slacker, BOS, despite many warnings, decided to hand in his homework an hour late after having damn near two weeks with which to finish his story.  It was a worthy attempt but it was past the deadline so it was not considered as a winner.  BOS you should work on it more and post it as your own fanpost once you think it is finished.

 

Without further ado, greenlight's winning story…which will be followed by TP's, Nordhagen's and mechanical turk's.  It will be a fairly long post.  I renamed greenlight's story from Game 163 to…

 

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Rudyard Kipling said,

"Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet."

What Kipling meant was 'two things that are so different have no chance to ever unite.'  This couldn't be further from the truth.  This was written in the late 19th century and times have changed.  Due to the advent of rapid transportation and lightning fast telecommunications, whether we like it or not, humanity is now a part of a global community.  Never before in history has there ever been as much tolerance to difference in opinion, race, religion, culture, etc...  This is so true that language, literature, music and art from different cultures are mixing to create a melting pot of sorts, just as human genetics appear to be doing.  Of course there are people that fight against or don't believe this to be true, the enlightened call them the ignorant.

However.......there are two areas in particular that will always resist each other, never unite, continue in their contradiction and the gap will inevitably grow wider and wider as generations pass:  White Sox baseball and Twain baseball.  I dislike the Twain more than any other organization in sports, shit...I dislike the Twain more than any other thing on Earth.

Twain fans will always bring to the table a relentlessly faux, sunny disposition and even-keeled nature.  Their smiles are stapled to their cheek bones.  Underneath that Pleasantville facade they harbor as deep a hatred for us we do for them.  We both assign truthful and false generalizations to each others fandom...we are crass, drunk and ignorant blue-collar workers...they are freckly-faced Lutheran do-gooders who play with model trains and eat their peas with a knife.  They are fake people, they are plastic, they are two-dimensional, you can find them standing next to a mom & pop general store standing in line to purchase the new flavor of custard.

My question to you people is:  What do you hate?  Why do you hate it?  Is it healthy or cathartic?  What made you this way?  Is it ignorance, nature, nurture or opinion.

Also, I would be curious to know, what are your favorite oxymorons?  What are the most absurd figures of speech containing two contradictory ideas?  What are some other things in culture that you would never find in the same fondu pot of culture?

This fan murdering team has sapped me of my creative juices.  At times, I feel like I am dumber than I was after a game is over. I have probably missed 4 games this year, so I'm growing fairly stupid.  Stupid enough to run a fan fiction contest!  As most of you know, I take great enjoyment in writing fan fiction for the likes of you people.  I'm not sure which is more futile and nerdy:  fan fiction or model railroading.  Regardless, I offer a bounty for the most bizarre and well written fiction piece about anything related to the White Sox.

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"Is he going to make it doc?"

 

"It is a rare day when a patient passes a kidney stone while I am operating on his appendix.  I thought I made it perfectly clear that he not drink fluids 12 hours before the surgery."

 

"He's a drunk…Is he going to make it?"

 

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picture by Southsideexpat

Hey brohans, its your broseph Bro DiBroggio.  I have to brolate a story to you that happened to me yesterday.  After a legalization of marijuana rally in the DePaul quad, in which I beat on my bongos until my palms bled, I decided to take a hit of acid and walk south down Halsted preaching the virtues of recycling.  So there I am in my turquoise Ocean Pacific tank top from Ragstock, my white umbros from Flashy Trash, shower thongs and purple bandana to keep my flowing locks out of my face while walking into the wind to the southside.  I meant to turn back before I got to Bridgeport but my mind was so erased and my message so well-received by passers-by calling me #1 that I kept on truckin'. 

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In a hotel room in the Rogers Centre sits a shadowy figure drinking Crown in a whicker chair.  On the floor lies a dead hooker wearing nothing but a White Sox jersey.  The décor of the room, by request, had not changed since 1989…the green carpet, the floral bedspread patterns, framed and signed pictures of Joe Carter and Dave Stieb in the nude.  It is as if Roberto Alomar had never left for the promised millions of Hamsterdam. 

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There is a mandatory stillness in the oppressive dusk.  The mockingbirds will not cease blame of the defenseless innocent, they possess the void...standing atop their ashy mountains they sip the evaporating dew.  Their mania is exponential in the vast and empty landscape.  The faithful fall like flies and lose all reason.  Disciples are captivated by empty rhetoric.

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A beardless and emasculated Gardenhire finds himself in a strange 2-dimensional landscape.  It is hazy yet bright but there is no sun, the sky looks like a ceiling you can lose a flyball in and there's a constant electric breeze blowing from behind, no matter which direction Gardy faces.  The grass is like concrete the trees are flat and covered in a blue heftybag-like moss.  Everything looks like a cardboard cutout, there is little if any depth or range.  A 2-dimensional, 10-foot tall Mankato policeman approaches Gardy on a 2-dimensional bicycle.

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Next Monday the Sox venture into the vast and mythical land where the illusive polyester-clad OPOS roams in its white orthopedic clogs; projecting financial fraud, usury and tax evasion, every chance it gets, upon the rest of the American population.  Since Ponce de Leon, the senior citizen community has sought out the Fountain of Youth in Florida's murky waters and ozone depleted skies; to no avail. 

Now sitting in their pink-walled death chambers, upon wicker chairs adorned in floral cushions…the OPOS' contemplate their imminent deaths, their ever expanding hyper-color skin-cancers, senior-citizen discounts and how to hide their wealth from their children and grandchildren.  It is no wonder that Tampa Bay has two kinds of people, OPOS' and white collar criminals (mostly a combination of both).  The entitled OPOS' allow poor people to live in trailers and duplexes on the devalued real estate, so they have someone to cut their crab grass, carry their golf clubs and shine their oversized Town Cars.  As long as those in poverty are out of sight nothing can ruin the party!

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