Thursday, November 12, 2009

Another Deflated Gasbag

So Lou Dobbs quit, eh? Or did he really get pushed out so they could outsource his job to an illegal immigrant who will work for a much lower wage and no healthcare?

Ha ha ha, I totally have Dobbs's number.

I was originally inclined to buy the man a cupcake as my way of saying thank you for shutting the fuck up. But then I found something even more speshul.

Dear Lou Dobbs,

America is a better country with you not on television. On behalf of a grateful nation, please accept this can of Manhattan style fish assholes.

Love and kisses,
Smokey Robinson and the Funky Bunch

Thursday, November 05, 2009

Consoration for the Phirries and Their Phans

The Whirled Series is officially over now, everybuzzy, and whether you rooted for the Broad Street Bullies, the Bronx Bombers, or the Minnesota Bullwinkles (not pictured), I think it's pretty safe to say that, in spite of all the time you spent watching, in spite of all the energy you spent cheering, in spite of all the cocaine you let Robinson Cano and Pedro Feliz snort off your delicious ass, chances are that they probably won't call the next day.

And if you're from Frilladelphia, that's not the only ring you won't be getting this year. (Zing!)

Well cheer up there, Phuckaroo! Don't let the Phils' ills be too much for this fan! I know it looks like the entire city of New York is giving you the Phinger and telling you to phuck oph, but that's just the way the skyline is shaped.

But if you still can't bear the 370-day championship drought in the City of Brotherly Lovers (ew!), here's some things you can be gratephul phor while you're waiting around for next year.

1. You already won the 2009 Whirled Series!

At least according to the Philadelphia Inquirer, you did. This ad ran on Monday, just after the Yankees had taken a 3-1 series lead. Perhaps they borrowed phact checkers from Phox News. Or perhaps they were merely taking their cues from Jimmy Rollins's pre-Series prediction that the Phillies would win in phour games - or phive if they were pheeling generous. It's not at all clear which phour or phive games Mr. Rollins's was referring to, but one thing IS clear, and it happens to be the second thing Philly phans can be happy about:

2. No Jimmy Rollins fortune telling business!

With the myth of his psychic skills now debunked, Rollins's entre into the lucrative world of astral projection and Wee-Jee Boards and Professional Mumbo Jumbo-ism can now comfortably fall in the ditch of broken dreams along with Philadelphia's hopes to repeat as Whirled Champions.

He had to see it coming, though, right? Oh, maybe not.

3. Ryan Howard's Birthday is in two weeks!

That's something to be happy about, isn't it?

4. It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia!

Not the show, I'm talking about the actual fact that it is literally ALWAYS SUNNY IN PHILADELPHIA. Scholars maintain that the reason for this is because of a dracula named Twilight. And scholars are never wrong, or else they wouldn't be called that.

5. No more foul territory reports from Ken Rosenthal!

I initially thought Ken Rosenthal's imitation of Steve Carell's character from Anchorman was Fox Sports' attempt to make more hip by bringing in a comedy act - kind of like when ABC brought in Dennis Miller to do Monday Night Foosball, only much, much, much funnier. It turns out, however, that Ken Rosenthal is just a short white dude with a microphone and an IQ approaching 36. And since we already have enough of those guys on the teevee (I'm talking to YOU, Barack Obama), I am very much looking forward to seeing Ken Rosenthal shut the hell up.

Or not seeing it. Or... well, whatever.

6. You're not that phar from New York!

So if you want to come to the parade, or if you'd like to call into WFAN and rant about Yankee steroid usage (because I'm sure nobody in the history of the Phillies ever even HEARD of steroids, and also that the windows in their glass houses are all perfectly streak-free), or if you just want to drive up the Turnpike to remind yourself what a champion city looks like, all it'll cost you is $11 or $12 in tolls, which the grate state of New Jersey will be more than happy to accept.

I really think six things is enough, and if you can't be happy with that, maybe you should start doing yoga or something. Anyways, I don't have time to keep going with this. There's a parade in New York tomorrow, and my victory outfit isn't going to plan itself.

Wednesday, November 04, 2009

Not Our Year

It saddens me to no end to report that in yesterday's New York City mayoral election, it was Mike Bloomberg, and not the Muppets, who took Manhattan.

In fact, the Muppets didn't even come in second. That honor went to someone called "City Comptroller Bill Thompson," whose haircut led me to believe he was at least half-Muppet himself.

(Hey, psst! Am I the only one who thinks "Bill Thompson" sounds like a made up name? How generic can you get? Bill Thompson? It might as well have been Jack Smith or Bob Mitchell or Bill Thompson or something. Bill Thompson is like the kind of name you used to check into a hotel when you don't want the federales or that nosey wife of yours to find out where you're staying. What are you hiding, Bill Thompson, if that fake-sounding name IS your real name?)

Anyway, Bill Thompson lost, and now he has to go back to the same job he had before, and probably have lunch at the same stupid cafe downstairs in the lobby of the same dumb, boring building, which is almost as frowny face as the Muppets NOT taking Manhattan, as I was led to believe they would.

The New York times says Mayor Bloomberg no longer seems invincible, and I agree that he does look pretty vincible, which is what makes the Muppets' failure to take Manhattan all the more heartbreaking. This is like reliving the failed Oscar the Grouch '08 campaign all over again. Only this time, with 30-35 percent more tears.

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

Is Athletic Success the New Black?

Fruit workers, particularly those in the various canning divisions of your major fruit conglomerates are a shifty bunch, full of testiness and simmering currents of rich, creamy, bacon-and-cherry-flavored, race-based bias and resentment. And nothing brings that bias and resentment bubbling to the surface like beisbol.

When Jackie Robinson broke the Collar Barrier in 1947, there were riots and looting throughout the fruit canning world, and the entire operation of the Dole Fruit Plant here in midtown Manhattan had to be suspended for almost thirty years before the furor could be calmed. It took a surprise appearance and impromptu concert by a dashing young black man named Kenny Loggins to get things stable.

Those were the days.

Needless to say, my friendship with Alex Rodriguez (the baseball player Alex Rodriguez, not the nuclear physicist Alex Rodriguez, that punk ass) has therefore been somewhat problematic for me at the old Fruit Plant. It's not because he's a widely despised public figure. Dole-mites love widely despised public figures as a general rule. It's because he's black.

Welcome to post-modern America, and thank you very much, Barack Obama.

There used to be a time when men were real men, women were real women, transvestites were neither real men nor real women, and Americans could comfortably use race as a reason to dislike other Americans. Remember the politics of hate and all that? I miss the 80s so much sometimes.

See, because now, it's the opposite of that. The peeple I work with don't dislike I-Can't-Believe-Clay-Aiken-is-Gay-Rod because of his race. They dislike him because of his repeated postseason failures, his admission of steroid usage, and the fact that he loves to pull down his pants and run screaming through midtown Manhattan with fermented wheels of Gouda cheese. And because they dislike him, they therefore assume he must be black. QED, quid pro quo, summa cum laude, lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, Amen.

On the handful of occasions when my pal has stopped by to visit, his reception at the hands of the various members of Canning Operations staff has run the gamut from nasty, sustained peltings with full cans of bacon-wrapped cherries to much more friendly peltings with half-eaten cans of bacon-wrapped cherries with the tops removed, because the edges of those tops could really hurt somebody. (That's how you can tell the C-Ops staff are in a forgiving mood.)

Of course, discerning cultural anthropologists, as well as anyone with a pair of eyes and a rudimentary understanding of Spanish names, would dispute the notion of Tina-Fey-Rod's blackness. Then again, he is dating Kate Hudson, goes the counter-argument. Also not helping matters: all this postseason success and glory and clutch performance, the kind of performance reminiscent of notable black men like Tiger Woods and Michael Jordan and the aforementioned Kenny Loggins, who rushed for a then-record 282 yards and 7 touchdowns in a game between Georgia and LSU in 1982.

It's getting so you can't be good at anything in this country without peeple assuming that you're black and hating you for your success, although not necessarily in that order. Thanks again, Democratic Party.

And thanks also to fine folks in the C-Ops division at Dole, who are throwing those cans of bacon-wrapped cherries at me for no readily discernible reason. They couldn't possibly think ol' Smokey Robinson here is black, could they?

I've-Been-Workin'-On-The-Railroad-All-The-Livelong-Day-Rod, take me away-Rod!