Suldog

A Beautiful Morning In Bomberland

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Mon, 20 May 2013 04:11:00 +0000

My job these days is writing. I've been published in both the Boston Globe and the Boston Herald. I have been contracted by Discover Magazine to write a piece for an upcoming issue, and I have also been doing fact-checking work for them (which, aside from doing what the job title suggests - checking facts - also involves a bit of writing and reporting.) I have 14 or 15 different pieces currently under consideration by various publications, and I have received word from a couple of editors concerning tentative good news. The point is, I can write. I tell you this because I'm somewhat at a loss for words concerning Sunday and I don't want you to think I'm that way because of a general inability to express myself.

We won two games. I can describe every bit of the action involved. I can easily give you detail about who made the important plays in the field, who got the clutch hits, who reached back for the big pitches when they were needed, and other physical parts of what happened on the field. What I'm having trouble putting into words are the feelings I had before, during, and after the games.

Let's get the technical stuff out of the way. Here are the scores.

BOMBERS - 8 Renegades - 7

BOMBERS - 15 Renegades - 5

We start the season 2 and 0, tied for first place after the first week; can't ask for better than that. Everybody on the team contributed something valuable. A few guys had spectacular days. In particular, I'll single out Robbie Costello and Ron Johnson.

Costello went 5 for 5, including a double and a triple. He also drew a walk. He scored 4 runs and had 2 RBI. He pitched the first game and picked up the win. In addition, he kept the bench loose with some of the funniest stories I've ever heard. None of those stories will be printed here because they were filthy, racist, vile and obscene (none of which I have a problem being, on occasion, but you had to have been there to get the full impact of him relating how his gold-toe socks were stolen by his in-laws. Nor will it do you any good for me to tell you how he talked about how much his son poops, everybody on the bench making disgusted faces and going "Ewwwww... Oh, geez, Robbie...", and then him saying, in a matter of fact way, "Yeah, we feed the kid nothing but raisins." )

Ron Johnson wasn't as gut-bustingly hilarious, but it's just a pleasure to still be sharing a field with him after all these years. We're the only two original members of the team remaining (this is our 19th season together) and yesterday he had a perfect day at the plate, going 3 for 3 in game two, with a double and 4 RBI, and made a couple of swell plays defensively. Ron turned 60 this year, and I suppose as long as he keeps playing, I'll have to do so, too. At 56, I'm a youngster by comparison. If I quit and he keeps playing, I'll feel like a pussy.

As I said, though, everybody did something to make the two wins happen. If you want the details, you can probably infer them from the team statistics. Find them HERE.

So, what is it that I'm having trouble putting into words? It's just the overall feeling I get stepping onto a ballfield for the first time each season, and most especially for a season so late in my career. I know I'm on the downside. I have been for a while now. I think I still bring value to my teams, otherwise I'd stay home. Still, I'm coming to terms with the fact that I'm no longer a guaranteed starter. This year, I'm realistically the third-string at my positions. And I'm mostly cool with that. Sure, I'd still like to be the guy who knows he's going to get the start. Every athlete wants to be that guy. But it would be silly for me to think I bring more to the table than Joey Baz, Nutter, Eric or Big Jay, who are the guys likely to start at my positions. They're all younger than me, they all possess strengths in areas in which I've recently declined, and - most important - they're all good teammates who deserve me rooting as hard for them, playing in front of me, as they would root for me if the positions were reversed. I'll be ready anytime Jack calls on me, and if I show I'm good enough to start, great, but I'm OK with being a bench player on a winner. When the team wins, we're all winners.

Even more difficult to describe is how great it feels before the game, especially when I'm the first one to arrive at the field (which I often am.) Sunday morning is a time for religious observance for many people, and some of them would probably give me the stink eye for playing ball instead of being in worship, but I truly find myself as close as possible to God when I'm on a ballfield in the early morning, clear blue skies above, the smell of the dirt and grass in my nostrils, seeing the animals who live on the field (I'm not talking about Joe The Wino - I mean rabbits, geese, hawks, possum, maybe an occasional fox) still going about their business and not worrying about this old geezer doing his stretching. I hold a vast thankfulness in my heart for living, at times like those, and I honestly think it's more valuable, as prayer, than most of the times I've spent Sunday morning dressed in a suit inside of some building listening to a preacher. A ballfield in the sun speaks truth to my soul.

OK, I guess I'm probably being overblown about this, but it's honest feelings. Your mileage may vary. I hope not, though, because if you're a ballplayer and it does, you're not getting as much happiness out of it as I am.

Next week, we're off for Memorial Day. Until then, we're undefeated and in first place (and maybe after then, too, because the team looks good and I think we have an excellent shot at taking it all this season.) Back in two weeks with more fast-pitch softball ruminations.

As for other things, soon, with more better stuff.

Mom at 80

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Thu, 16 May 2013 09:30:00 +0000

Today is My Mom's 80th birthday. I hate to think how old that makes me. I must be at least 23 by now; maybe even 24 or 25. I'll ask her when I see her this weekend.

This is a rerun, of course. You faithful readers have seen it 5 or 6 times already. If you're new here, however, ignore those previous two sentences. It's all brand new and spiffy and surprisingly delightful! Anyway, whether you've seen it before or not, I expect you to read every word of it. It's My Mom's birthday, damn you, and it's the least you can do.

Being the crummy son that I am (despite how sharp a dresser I am) this is pretty much the best present she will be getting, although there will be other things in boxes with wrapping paper and ribbons. I'm just saying. However, one of the reasons I adore My Mother is because she's OK with my seeming ingratitude. And, if she is, I don't expect any guff from the likes of you.

Cripes, I'm really not being very nice to you. You probably like me a lot less than you did when you first got here today. Oh, well. My Mother loves me. And that's the point of this.

No, wait. The point is that I love My Mother. Even if I don't make it readily apparent (Ha! A parent!) by doing anything more than re-printing the same damned tribute to her that I've published several times before, except I threw in a few different photos this time and also polished up this hideous introduction. Happy Birthday, Mom! With each passing year, it becomes more obvious why I'm an only child, and the world thanks you!

My Mom always goes out of her way to have eclairs for me on my birthday. Meanwhile, I... Did I mention she always has eclairs for me on my birthday? Yes, she does. Someday, I'll let her eat one.

My Mom and My Stepfather, Bill, both getting stoned, as usual. No, no, no. This was at the rehearsal dinner for the wedding of MY WIFE and myself. Knowing the two of us, they had every good reason to get soused, but they didn't. I sometimes question their intelligence.

My Mom, showing off the acting skills that have won her numerous Tonys, Emmys, and Bills. Hah! She's been married to two guys named Bill, see? It's like I almost made a joke there, if any of you knew. I won't embarrass My Mom by talking about the Tonys, and the less said about the Emmys, the better.

That's My Mom on the left. I wasn't born yet.

I'll shut up now. Here's the stuff I wrote a few years ago and which I'm trotting out here again.

[My Mother, left, and her sister, Jeanne, Easter 1950]

You know how some people have a birthday on or around Christmas and it kind of gets lost? It just sort of gets melded into the larger holiday and that person gets a little cheated out of two special days? My Mom's birthday is like that. She was born on May 16th, so her birthday always falls within a couple days of Mothers Day. As a result, some people believe she gets the short end of things from me.

However, I'll tell you that my mother isn't all that worried about it. A shallow person she is not. She is very intelligent and she understands the situation. This is not to say that she wouldn't want two parties or two bunches of gifts or two of whatever; everybody likes twice as much good stuff if they can get it. But she understands. And I love her all the more for understanding that I love her just as much, even though I sometimes may not show her how much twice in the same week.

This is my birthday card to my mother. You may or may not "get" everything I write here, but she will and that's what matters. These are mainly just short fond memories of times I treasure; times I had with my mother and things we did together. The greater parts of them are from my childhood. So are the pictures, which look the way they do because I only barely know how to use a scanner and photoshop. If I waited until I knew what I was doing before publishing, this space would be blank for about a decade.

I suppose it makes sense to start with the usual Mom-type stuff.

She wiped my tears and bandaged my scraped knees and kissed my boo-boos and made them better. She vacuumed and made the beds. She did the laundry - early on with an actual washtub and scrub board and wringer - and she hung the clothes to dry on the clothesline in the backyard (or, in the winter, on a clothesline we had strung in the cellar) and a bit later we got a dryer. She did the ironing while watching Loretta Young and Mike Douglas. She was almost always ironing when I got home from school, it seemed.

She nursed me through all the usual illnesses and gifted me with my first copy of MAD magazine during one of them, and thank you for trusting me at such a young age with such revolutionary material, Mom. She put patches on my pants, as I needed them.

(Does anybody put patches on pants anymore?)

She gave me eggnog to drink for breakfast - an actual egg stirred into a big glass of milk, perhaps with chocolate syrup. Those were the days when it was considered healthy to feed your child eggs and milk every day, even raw eggs - maybe especially raw eggs. She gave me vitamins.

(One time, I decided that if a single vitamin tablet was good for you, then taking a whole bottle might turn me into Superman. Mom was the one who called the doctor.)

She packed my lunchbox with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, slices of apples or oranges, usually a cookie or two, and always a thermos of milk.

(How many thermoses did I break? Many. You'd drop one of the things and hear that shattering of the insides and you knew without checking that your milk now had big shards of glass in it. Mom always bought me a new one.)

She made dinners of swordfish or fish sticks or tuna casserole. My Dad did much of the cooking, and he hated fish, but when he wasn't around Mom made sure I got enough of the seafood that I loved. She would buy salmon and tuna just for me to eat straight from the can - something I still do often, although now I might spoon it out onto a plate first. She made me macaroni and plain tomatoes, still one of my favorite simple dinners - and one that, as it turns out, is quite healthy.

We would do some cooking together. We made peanut butter cookies. We made bread pudding. She would bake a cake and I would graciously help out by licking the bowl clean. I was always glad to do my part.

Sometimes, we would go out to eat, just Mom and me. We might go to the Liberty Deli in Lower Mills, or perhaps we would end up at a restaurant called Colstone's in downtown Boston. Both of these would be places we visited after we had been to church to say a prayer and light a candle. The Deli after Saint Gregory's; Colstone's after Arch Street. She would put a coin in the poor box at church and let me light the votive candle. She taught me to pray and she taught me reverence for holy places. She gave me a great sense of God as benevolent and likely to listen to me. It was, and is, a good thing.

She sang, always. She loved to sing; still does. She sang standards around the house. She had a lovely voice; still does. She and her sister, Jeannette, actually had their own radio show when they were teenagers, on WJDA in Quincy. The story, as I remember it, was that they had spoken to the station manager and complained that there wasn't enough programming for teenagers. He told them that if they thought so, maybe they could come up with some themselves. They said, "OK" and went on the air. Pretty gutsy stuff, that.

I owe my livelihood to my Mom.

[2013 Editorial Comment: Oddly enough, even with losing my job this year, this next paragraph still works. I have gone from one job with which it fits - announcing, and voice-over work, and producing commercial recordings - to another that I'm trying to make a go at - writing, fact-checking - that requires most of the same skillset.]

Even before I went into kindergarten, she was teaching me to read. I was always the best reader in my class in school. I am still one of the best readers I know and I work with professional readers every day. Without that early acquisition of knowledge, provided by Mom, I wouldn't have the job I have today. I am very grateful for that.

She taught me an absolute love for the written word and she taught me that acquiring knowledge doesn't have to be a drag. She would buy me books at every possible opportunity. I still have a half-shelf of Golden Library Of Knowledge books, which she bought for me - one at a time - from a store downtown every two or three weeks. I learned about dinosaurs and the planets and insects and the elements and animals from far off lands, and learned about them before I had to learn about them in school. I glided through much of elementary school because my Mom gave me such an enormous head start.

While I was in school, she kept a scrapbook. It is in my possession now. Entitled "Jimmy's School Years", it is an amazingly embarrassing collection of inept crayon drawings, declining-in-quality-as-I-moved-into-high-school report cards, class photos (who are half these people?), and other assorted ephemera from my times at the Gilbert Stuart, Boston Latin, the Woodrow Wilson, Boston Latin (again), and finally, Boston Tech. Grades K through 12 wrapped up in one overstuffed segmented package. While it is embarrassing, even for me to look at in private, I am so very thankful she did it.

I remember something I wasn't thankful for and which non-thankfulness I have been ashamed of ever since. One day, when I was perhaps four or five, Mom came home from a trip downtown and she had a small present for me. It was these two small replicas of phonograph records, one reading "YES" on the tiny label in the middle, and the other "NO". I don't know what their actual purpose was, but I suspect they were part of some advertising gimmick. I seem to remember that they came from Filene's Basement, but I may be mistaken.

Anyway, she had had a small little nice thought when handed them by whomever - "I'll bring these home and maybe Jimmy would like to play with them". My Mom came in and handed them to me, saying something to the effect of she wasn't sure if I wanted these but, if I did, I could have them. I behaved like a bratty little shit and said I didn't want them; why would I want them?; something entirely ungrateful. Maybe I was expecting something else from her for some reason? I don't know.

(Silly thing to remember, but I do. And I am ashamed about it. I was ungrateful for a gift given with love. I'd almost guarantee my Mom doesn't have the slightest idea what I'm talking about. She remembers good stuff about me and forgets bad stuff. Well, I apologize anyway, Mom, and now I feel better.)

Well, you see, I'm getting into small weird things here and, if I keep on like this, it will be a book before long and even then it won't feel like enough. In the interests of getting this thing published by her actual birthday, I'm going to just list a few things now, things that - if you aren't my Mom - may well sound bizarre or psychotic or both. She'll read each and every one, slowly and lovingly, and have memories - perhaps many memories, and strong - conjured by each.

*******************************************************************

You were the savior of Davy and the unfortunate bearer of bad news concerning Tippy.

You were Sugar's midwife, twice, and every cat's best friend, always.

You were the teacher and player of Fish, Casino, Rummy 500, Chinese Checkers.

You were my pass to the cafeteria at Prudential and then to shuffleboard in the employee lounge afterwards.

You are the gatekeeper of the "For Now" room.

You were the grower of the rose bush, the tiger lilies and my willow tree.

You gave me a box of kitchen matches and a bowl of water.
You were the magician who made stars appear on my bedroom ceiling.

You allowed my jumps down the stairs and piled the pillows to land on.

You put up with marbles in the bathtub.

You made me believe that the second half of The Wizard Of Oz was in glorious color even though I was watching it on a black-and-white television.

You came to see me play at McCarthy's and you actually stayed through the second set.

You were the buyer of South Station bowling.

Your room had the jewelry box filled with shiny things and a Kennedy/Johnson campaign button, the atomizer, the radio that played Jess Cain every morning, and sunbeams that never were as warm after you left.

You were the person with me as I watched The Flintstones, The Addams Family, Camp Runamuck, Hank, Bewitched, That Girl, Fractured Flickers, The Hathaways, It's About Time and I'm Dickens, He's Fenster. At the very least, three of those were shows you could barely stand, but you watched them with me anyway.

You brought me to a brave radical church and I gained a new circle of friends.

You introduced me to MY WIFE.

You were the saver of newspapers - "Kennedy Assassinated", "Man Walks On Moon", "Red Sox Win Pennant" - and I wish to hell I had been the saver of them, too.

You were the person I reported the Dow Jones to every night. Why? I haven't the foggiest notion.

You were the person who brought me the news of a death of a person I knew; the first death I actually felt and understood the finality of. "Ma died", you said. And you held me close and I knew that in this world where people I had imagined as permanent were not, your love was.

You are possibly the fairest person in the world. At the very least, you always listen to everybody and give serious consideration to their thoughts and feelings. I've inherited some of that, but not nearly enough.

You were my traveling companion on the railway in the sky that took us to Ma and Pa's for Easter.

You are the child at heart who played miniature golf and skeeball, took swings in the batting cage, ate ice cream sundaes and candy bars, and did assorted other young things with great relish and panache, on your 65th birthday.

All things considered, you're probably the best mother I've ever had.

(Hey, I got some of this sense of humor from you, you know, so stop rolling your eyes.)

Something like this could go on forever, but I'll close with this:

I've described a large number of idiotic episodes of my life on this blog and will no doubt relate many more. I've done things that were illegal, immoral, stupid, and that otherwise seemingly reflect badly on my upbringing. Every single one of those things came about through my own volition.

Meanwhile, every good quality I possess - and every good thing I've ever done - came about as a direct result of how I was raised. That may sound like hyperbole, but it is the absolute stone cold truth.

Thanks, Mom. Happy Birthday!

Important Ephemera

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Tue, 14 May 2013 14:21:00 +0000

Here's the stuff that piled up inside of my brain during the past week. Thanks for being my mental Ex-Lax.

1) Chris Mauger completed the Orange County Marathon in record time. Here's proof.

(That's hardly the best joke possible, but it's the best you're going to get. Meanwhile, the TV weatherman, whom MY WIFE is watching in the background, is predicting that today will have "below average highs". Given what you've read so far, I suspect you already knew that.)

Chris was running his first marathon ever, so it had to be a record for him. Nevertheless, it was an accomplishment of enormous proportion because Chris is no longer of enormous proportion. He lost a person over the past year, dropping about 100 pounds of In-N-Out Burger from his now svelte frame. The most weight I've ever dropped is twenty pounds, and it took withdrawal and major depression for me to do so. To lose 100 pounds, I'd have to chop off some major body parts.

As nice as Chris' accomplishment was, what he did during the race was even nicer. As a tribute to those people who lost their lives during the Boston Marathon bombing episode, he wore a Boston Red Sox baseball cap for his run. Inscribed on the cap were the initials of those four people. Since Chris is a proud New York Yankees fan, this was no small sacrifice.

(For those unfamiliar with the Red Sox - Yankees rivalry, think England vs. Germany in World War II. Most of the early victories belonged to Germany, but England kicked ass later on.)

(I used that analogy, rather than a more American one, because I have to assume you're from outside of the United States if you have to have Red Sox - Yankees explained to you.)

After the race, Chris had no earthly use for a Red Sox cap, so he sent it to me. That was sweet of him. I'll wear it proudly.

(The first thought I had when I took it out of the box was, "Hey! Now I can compare the size of my head to Chris Mauger!" So I tried on the hat. I'm here to tell you Chris Mauger has a gigantic squash. As could be inferred from any sampling of my writing, I have a swelled head. That hat, however, slipped down over my eyes when I put it on. I would estimate Chris's head to be about the size of a small watermelon. He's probably lucky he can stand upright, let alone run races. God bless him.)

One other thing to tell you connected with this: The modern world has once again gained the upper hand in its battle with me. I am unable to post a photo of the hat itself because I have no clue how to download the photo I took of it. The combination of my ancient camera (which contains a removable card) and my second-hand computer (which, much like me when it comes to prostate exams, refuses to accept insertions) has thwarted any and all attempts at bringing my photographic skills to this piece. Considering my past attempts at photography, this is some of the best news you're likely to receive today.

2) So, I was going to paste a photo here of a bottle of V-8 I purchased, but since the camera thing has me buckwheated (excuse me, stymied) ...

(Some jokes just aren't worth it. I mean, how many of you got that? Probably one or two, and it's hardly a guffaw; more of a weak chuckle, maybe. For those of you without a clue, enter "buckwheat stymie" in Google. I'll wait.

See? Those were two of the character names of the black kids from "The Little Rascals" films. And I pretended to be getting them mixed up with the words one would use to display one's ignorance concerning cameras! Ha-Ha-Ha!)

(Yup.)

Anyway, my bottle of V-8 had this to say on the label:

Original - Now Better Tasting!

That's right up there with the e-mail MY WIFE received from a cosmetics company. In an attempt to sell her something, they promised a "Free gift with purchase of fifty dollars!" Well, no, that would not be free, nor would it be a gift. And combining the two words is redundant as well as repeating yourself, too.

3) The softball season of my 56th summer begins this coming Sunday.

That means this coming Monday you will be subjected to some sort of writing having to do with it. Just thought I'd give you fair warning.

4) Speaking of sports, The Boston Bruins!

Wow. Hard to imagine a more exciting ending to a playoff series. Game 7 vs. Toronto. The Bruins trail 4 - 1 in the third period. They rally to tie the game (the B's scored two goals in the final minute-and-a-half of regulation), send it into overtime, and then win it on a goal by Patrice Bergeron (and even though I've watched the guy play for years, and I know he's a he-man, I still picture someone skating in a skirt when I hear that name. Of course, I'm the guy who made the Buckwheat-Stymie joke up above, so I'm hopeless.)

We now get to play the New York Rangers in the next round. Woo-Hoo! While I don't look forward to the possible stoning we'll receive from Henrik Lundqvist (and there's a name with all sorts of joking possibilities) there's nothing more fun for a Boston sports fan than a series against a New York team. This city will be happily vitriolic for the next week or two.

5) Here is the most depressing news story I encountered yesterday.

It seems a woman assaulted a restaurant worker because she put too many pickles on her sandwich.

http://www.wcvb.com/news/local/boston-south/woman-assaults-worker-for-putting-too-many-pickles-on-sandwich-police-say/-/9848842/20122226/-/x3tmf4/-/index.html?treets=bos&tid=265333811813&tml=bos_12pm&tmi=bos_12pm_1_10500105132013&ts=H

Apparently, things are back to normal around here. After being all buddy-buddy, what with the bombing deaths and mutilations, we are now punching each other because of overuse of condiments. I'd shoot myself, but I have a doubleheader Sunday.

6) Soon, with more better stuff.

Some lies never change.

Low-Post Mortem

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Tue, 07 May 2013 11:47:00 +0000

[photo of KG & Pierce from Celtics Life, a cool place if you're a C's fan]

You had to know that, sooner or later, I would bore you to tears with a post about sports. I apologize in advance to those of you utterly uninterested in such things. I am physically unable to resist the temptation to spout a few thousand words when someone actually asks my opinion, especially when it's a relative. One of my nephews (name withheld to protect him from ridicule concerning his basketball-nerd uncle) wrote to me with the following questions:

-----Original Message-----

From: Suldog's Nephew

To: Suldog

Sent: Sat, May 4, 2013 12:27 am

Subject: Celtics

I'm a bit confused, emotionally, about this season for the Celtics. What are

your thoughts? Do you feel bad for them?

My reply (with a few thoughts I had since then mixed in):

Yeah, I do feel bad for them. Well, maybe all of them except Jordan Crawford. Here we were after game 5, having won two in a row and back to within a game of the Knicks, we had the entire country thinking the Knicks were punk-ass pussies because we whupped 'em on their home court after they pulled that "We're dressing in black because we're going to the Celtics funeral" shit, but he decided he had to mouth off and trash talk 'Melo and that shifted a whole bunch of public opinion (and momentum) back to New York. Real loser move. I bet Garnett dope-slapped him in the locker room.

Anyway, I was as proud as could be with the comeback they made in the final game [for those who didn't see it, the Celtics were down by 26 points with 8 minutes left in the game, but they sliced and diced the Knicks over the next four minutes to cut the lead to four, the most amazing comeback I might ever have seen.] I was almost sitting there with a stiffy watching it happen.

(I said almost, OK?)

And I would have liked nothing better than to have had Pierce drain a couple of threes to put them away, once the team got it down from 26 to 4, but it just wasn't to be. He looked his age last night; for most of this series, actually. My Celtics fan soul wants nothing so much as to see him come back for another year or two. He deserves to retire as a Celtic. But I don't know if it's going to happen after that series he played. The club has an option for one year, but it's for a load of cash. I think they may unload that money off the books, grab a couple of high draft picks, and start the rebuilding while Rondo heals up.

As for Garnett, I believe he has two years left on his contract. And he was awesome for much of the series. He played like freakin' Bill Russell in games 4 & 5. He averaged 15 rebounds and 15 points for the six games. Pierce has said he'd like to retire when Garnett does, and they both want to retire as Celtics. If I'm Pierce...

(Which I'm not. Duh. I don't resemble, in any way, a 6' 6" black millionaire.)

... I'd go to Danny Ainge and say, "Look, Danny, if you're willing to guarantee Kevin and me won't be traded, and we can both retire together at the end of the 2015 playoffs, I'm willing to play TWO years for the money you'd have to give me for ONE year if you exercised your option. Give me the league minimum for year two, basically, and allow us both the awesome dignity to walk off the floor together at the end of our careers."

Pierce has to have more money than he can use for the rest of his life, so why not? With a move like that, he'd own this city forever. Right now, his legacy is excellent player, sure hall-of-fame selection, one championship, became a team leader and less of a dick with every year he's been here. Folks will remember him fondly. Take a "hometown discount" to unselfishly retire with your best bud on the team? He'll get a statue someplace.

(I'm terribly bothered by what I've heard on sports talk radio, both from fans and commentators. The argument seems to be whittled down to whether keeping Pierce for a year outweighs the value we could receive for trading him. Not a single person has espoused the moral side of things. I don't care about improving the team so much as I care about loyalty. I'm willing to sit through a year where perhaps the team is not a mortal lock to make the playoffs, IF that's what has to be done to ensure Paul Pierce plays his entire career with Boston. Nobody cares more about being a Celtic, about his legacy within the history of the team, than Paul Pierce does. If fans can't embrace that, possibly setting aside the desire for a championship, then what's the point of being a fan? Is the only thing that matters the shirt that somebody wears, and exchanging bodies within that shirt is always acceptable if the player now wearing the shirt is younger and faster? Pierce stuck around during some awfully lean years when he could have easily gone elsewhere. I think the team, and the fans, owe him for that. Anyway, it's not as though Pierce is inevitably sliding downhill at a breakneck pace. He is a former Finals MVP, still one of the top 25 players in the game, quite possibly the best natural scorer the team has ever had, and I think he has one more run in him, especially if Garnett is still around to push him. Even coming off the bench would be fine. If anyone would embrace that downplay of individual stats for a shot at another title, he's the one at this point.)

Aside from wanting to see that display of loyalty (which is 100-1 against happening) what do I want to see? I want one full season of Rajon Rondo running backcourt with Avery Bradley before I die (or before Rondo blows out his other knee.) So far, they've had parts of seasons as the starting backcourt (a very small part, this season) but when they finally have a full year together, other NBA teams are going to have to put ankle bracelets on them to keep track of them. Those guys running the fast break in tandem will be basketball nirvana. Tommy Heinsohn would be odds-on to splooge all over his microphone.

Other players? Jeff Green had his breakthrough. One year after major heart surgery, he came back in a way that finally makes me somewhat happy about the Kendrick Perkins trade.

(Something that received surprisingly little ink this season: The Celtics were, so far as I know, the first professional sports team to have TWO players on the roster who had both undergone open heart surgery. How amazing was that? When I was a kid, heart surgery of any kind was almost unheard of. To have said out loud that somebody could have had his chest spread open, his heart cut up and patched, then actually play a strenuous sport such as basketball, at a professional level, would have been a ridiculous enough concept to have you committed. Chris Wilcox and Jeff Green are amazing stories.)

The core of Green, Rondo, Bradley, Pierce, Garnett, Brandon Bass, and (here's hoping, back from injury) Jared Sullinger, is one with which I'd be very comfortable. If Jason Terry has another year left in him, I'll take him off the bench. Courtney Lee is a swell defensive player and can stick a shot when needed. I don't think we saw enough of Shavlik Randolph to know if he's as good as he looked on occasion. He was considered a blue-chipper at one time, so I think he's worth keeping to see if he can still be what many folks thought he would. Wilcox has great heart (no pun intended.) The other pieces - Terrence Williams, D. J. White, Fab Melo - I can't say I'm overly-thrilled about (although Williams had a nice game in the Knicks series.) As for Crawford, I already said what I needed to say about him.

Is there anything the C's can do to upgrade, aside from a trade involving Pierce, Garnett, or both? Yeah, they could be absolute idiots and trade Rondo. If that happens, I'll personally go to Danny Ainge's house and burn him down (not his house; HIM.) Maybe a trade of their draft choice packaged with Bass to move up into the top 5? I don't know if there'd be a taker for that. I suppose if we're really looking to upgrade immediately, we're going to have to give up something to get something, but I truly don't have much here that I want to give up, whether for sentimental reasons or because I just believe the guys we'd give up are too valuable to give up.

Bottom line? I'm willing to see this same team come back for another year IF everyone can stay healthy. It's a playoff team, for sure, but I think about twenty variables would have to break right for them to win a championship. I'm OK with that if that's what it takes to let Pierce and Garnett retire here, as well as have Rondo, Bradley, Green, and Sullinger to build around.

So, be confused no longer, nephew! I have imparted my basketball wisdom unto you. Go forth, have a drink, and groove on the Bruins until next b-ball season arrives.

Soon, with more better stuff shots.

More Laughs Than You Can Shake A Stick At (If That's Your Idea Of Fun...)

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Sun, 05 May 2013 04:30:00 +0000

I have a friend who needs a laugh. I'm not going to give a name here, but if you think it's you, you're right, and if you think it's someone else, you're also right.

So, anyway, I'm trying to come up with something really funny for this person, but I have nothing particular in mind to write about. I'm trusting that I can improvise well enough to do the job.

"But, Bullwinkle, that trick never works!"

"This time for sure! Nothing up my sleeve! Presto!"

(Outdated cartoon reference. Good start.)

(Actually, here's about the funniest thing I can come up with, which is to tell you the truth about me. I'm a self-involved self-important self-abusing ex-doper, with little real direction or ambition in life, so it's no wonder I'm floundering. I should just clam up. I'm probably giving you a haddock, but it's nothing personal. I'm just doing it for the halibut. Surely, salmon cares enough about me to keep on reading, even if it is getting hard to figure a trout. I know you're being scrod, and I didn't even buy you dinner first. Sorry! But I'm just flexing my punning mussels, so stop being such a crab.)

Yikes! I've got to come up with something better than that or the person I'm trying to make laugh will commit suicide instead. How about a succession of punch lines with no preceding jokes? Yeah, that will do the job, one way or the other. Here goes!

"I'm sorry. I can't hear you. I've got a banana in my ear."

"That's why it's the meanest animal in the jungle..."

"I don't know, either, but there's one crawling on your shoulder."

"That? That's the beer that made Milfamey walk us."

"Your mother's on the roof."

"You don't eat a pig like that all at once."

"OK, you're a taxi."

"To hold his pants up."

"He wanted to make time fly."

"A newspaper."

"A sunburned zebra."

"A nun falling down some stairs."

"A penguin being ripped to shreds by a polar bear in a tuxedo."

"To get to the other side."

"To prove to the possum that it could actually be done."

"Because she was safety-pinned to a punk rocker."

"$25 an hour, if he's in the union."

"About three pounds, on average."

"Cut off his nose."

"And at these prices, you won't get many more, either!"

"Maybe I should have said 'DiMaggio?'"

"Not so fast, Johnson."

"Silly Rabbi! Kicks are for trids!"

"Because it's so hard to get the cows to squat over those tiny cartons."

"And such small portions, too!"

"Yeah, next year we're going someplace else."

"I make it up in volume."

"Well, I said 'Kidleys', didle I?"

"I'm a bus driver, lady, not a doctor. Try soaking it in some cold water."

"Oh, goodness, you can't see him from there! You have to stand on the bureau and turn your head just so..."

"Bob."

"Matt."

"Art."

"You don't call him anything. He's not going to come to you anyway."

"Look at the elephants coming over the hill!"

"He didn't say anything. He didn't recognize them."

"By the footprints in the Jell-O."

"Anywhere he wants to."

"Two 400 pound canaries."

"No, I'm mad at my neighbor."

"Then don't do that."

"Well, sure, it's a great act, but what does he do for an encore?"

"Why? Is there one missing?"

"Well, it's infected and my doctor told me to soak it in warm liquid."

"Shhhhh! Everybody will want one!"

"The backstroke, I think."

"Well, why not? That's what you served me yesterday."

"I got a tapeworm and it's good enough for him!"

"A stick!"

"What do you think? Mr. Fink presses pants for free?"

"Hi. I'm the viper. Vere's the vindows vut need viping?"

"Compared to his brother, he was a saint!"

"So the bartender says, 'Why the long face?'"

"He had a hat."

"He stays up all night wondering if dog exists."

"So I bit him."

"Thank you for bringing my husband home, but where's his wheelchair?"

"If I could walk that way, I wouldn't need the talcum powder..."

And if I had any better way to end this, you wouldn't need that gun. I will now tell you a complete joke. The reason I am doing it, rather than just giving you the punchline, is because just about all of you would ask me what the joke is that goes with the punchline if I only gave you the punchline.

A man is on a business trip in the far east. He's lonely one night, so he calls up an escort service and has them send a girl over. She doesn't speak English, but his intentions are clear and his money is good, so soon enough they're undressed and in bed together. They're both enjoying themselves mightily, she's panting and moaning, and then he consummates the situation. She starts screaming and saying, "Dahwoo Rishicki! Dahwoo Rishicki! Dahwoo Rishicki!"

The guy thinks to himself, "Wow! She's really getting into this! I must be really good!"

The next day, he's on the golf course with a client. The client tees up his ball, gives it a mighty whack, and it flies onto the green, takes two bounces, and goes right into the hole, an ace! The man, remembering how good he was the night before, and wanting to impress his client, says, "Dahwoo Rishicki!"

The client turns to him and says, "What do you mean 'wrong hole'?"

Soon, with more better stuff.

A Day In Lockdown In Watertown

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Thu, 02 May 2013 11:00:00 +0000

[Published by The Boston Globe on 4/22/2013, and re-posted here by request of Hilary.]

We stood by the window in our living room, watching the SWAT team S-L-O-W-L-Y travel down our street. Men uniformed in camouflage or in black, helmeted, jacketed, carrying large weapons. They fanned out into yards, our yard, up to doors, our door, knocked. I opened the door. A smiling team member, carrying what looked like a portable cannon – and it was the right thing to smile, because it certainly helped to put us more at ease – made sure we were secure and that the suspect they were seeking was not in our Watertown home.

The previous night, my wife had heard the gunfire and explosions. I was asleep. I awoke and went into the living room. The TV was on, news reports of what had just transpired in our city. My wife gave me a quick rundown. Then we settled in for the next 23 hours. She would not sleep, I caught about 45 minutes during it.

The suspect was here, then there, then possibly moving toward us. We watched the news reports, along with the rest of the country, but we were in the middle of what we were seeing on the tube. We switched feverishly between channels, trying to catch the latest bulletins.

We were informed, via reverse 911 call from Watertown Police, that we should not leave our house, do not answer the door, stay away from windows. We were not happy, but we did what was asked.

It seemed like they might have had him cornered on Quimby Street, but it wasn’t so. There were numerous press conferences, continuous loops of film, much conjecture, rumors, guesses. A man was on the ground on Upland Road, many rifles aimed at his head. He was taken into custody, stripped naked. It wasn’t him. We waited some more.

The SWAT team came and went. The reports continued, some hopeful, some discouraging. We were told, by the Chief of Police, that we might be under order to not leave our houses for two or three days. We were downhearted, but understood.

As the evening came again, we were told that the “stay inside ban” had been lifted. We stayed in. We figured it wasn’t really prudent for everyone to go running outside as though we had just been sprung from prison. I espoused a theory to my wife. I said that perhaps they lifted the ban in order to see if he might venture out in some way. While the ban was in effect, nobody was on the streets aside from police and guardsmen. With it lifted, maybe he’d be bold enough to try and get lost.

Not long after the ban was announced as lifted, more gunfire rang out in Watertown. Shots were being fired in the vicinity of Franklin Street. Reports came in, various sources, saying he was cornered. He was – maybe – in a boat in somebody’s backyard. Finally, that was stated as fact. And they moved in, got him, captured him, gravely wounded but alive.

And the final scene, the one that will stay with me and give joy to my heart for a long while, was that of the citizens of Watertown coming out by the hundreds, lining Mount Auburn Street. They cheered every police vehicle, National Guard truck, EMS unit, bomb squad, and other official vehicle involved in the capture. They cheered heartily, lustily, and with a sense of relief that was palpable and fully understood by both of us.

It was the Watertown Marathon. We were cheering those who finished the race.

###

Oddments

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Wed, 01 May 2013 10:00:00 +0000

Here's just what you need to make your day a joy: a collection of odds and ends I feel a need to get out of my mind and into yours. You're welcome.

Item 1

My good friend, Chris, of Splits 'n Giggles, is running in the Orange County Marathon on May 5th. It will be his first marathon, ever. He has done amazing things with his body over the past year or so, dropping something like 100 pounds and otherwise making me feel like a lazy slug for losing two pounds in preparation for running out of breath on my first trip around the bases in my Sunday softball league.

In honor of the victims of the Boston Marathon bombings, Chris will be wearing a Boston Red Sox cap. The initials of the four people killed in connection with that hideousness were written onto the hat by Chris. This is no small thing for him. Chris is a lifelong proud New York Yankees fan. It truly is special for him to wear a Sox cap during his run and I thank him for the gesture. He has graciously offered to send the cap to me following his run. I'll do a follow-up when I receive it.

Item 2

A few of you were kind enough to read through a long screed of mine some ten days ago. In it, I expressed a number of self doubts, made some scattershot comments concerning reasons to hate humanity, and otherwise opened up a vein to bleed all over this page. I had published it here, but pulled it down immediately when the Boston Globe asked to buy a piece of mine which was included as part of that screed. Everyone who read it and had something to say was wonderfully kind. Thank you for that.

One thing I meant to include in the screed, but didn't - since it was a screed written under some mental duress, I hadn't written an outline and forgot until it was too late - was a quote from Robert Paul Smith. Some of you may have no idea who Robert Paul Smith was. If so, go to the link. Or you can just go to the next paragraph here because I'm going to tell you a little about him.

Robert Paul Smith was a writer. Robert Paul Smith was a tremendous writer. As a matter of fact, I think Robert Paul Smith is my favorite writer of all time, aside from Mark Twain, and it's a damn shame he isn't more remembered.

(I'd like to give credit to the person who turned me on to Robert Paul Smith approximately two years ago, but I'm ashamed to say I'm not entirely sure who did me that favor. I think it was either Cricket or Craig. They're both prime candidates since they're well-read and eclectic, have both stopped blogging, and both have names beginning with C, which may not mean much to you but to me it represents a good reason for my confusing them. In any case, and whoever it was, I owe you one. A big one.)

If Robert Paul Smith had died before I was born, I might now be a believer in reincarnation. I might seriously have considered the possibility that I had been him in a past life. His style and choice of subject matter are about as close to my own as any writer I've yet encountered. As such, I find him irresistibly charming. And, since you seem to have an unnatural fondness for my scribblings, I have to assume you'd like him, too.

Anyway, here's the quote, and the reason I wanted to include it in my screed is because I find it particularly prescient concerning our current state of affairs:

We seem to be having a contest now that I never anticipated - a convulsive effort to make ourselves so loathsome that when we slip the trigger and exterminate ourselves we will have been morally right to do so.

That comes from a work entitled Crank. I have to believe the subtitle will send you on a dead sprint to your local library in search of it. Here it is: A Book of Lamentations, Exhortations, Mixed Memories and Desires, All Hard or Chewy Centers, No Creams. If you can't find it at the library, I'd suggest picking up a used copy somewhere. From my investigations (granted, none too exhaustive) it is apparently out of print. That fact alone tells me all I need to know about the sad state of the world. Then again, if my estimation is correct and I really do write like he did, then the gap left by his being gone leaves more room for me to be published, so there's that.

Item 3

A couple of weeks ago, I asked you to name some comedy teams you enjoyed. I told you that I would say a few syllables (utter a few adjectives) concerning each. I've decided not to follow through on my promise (which is par for this course, but still no excuse for disappointing the 2 or 3 of you who, for reasons known only to yourself, expected better of me.)

I'll give you the bottom line. I like comedy teams. All of them. Any people who try to bring a few more laughs into the world are OK by me. I could have given you some specifics, i.e., the next time you watch Laurel & Hardy, pay attention to Oliver Hardy's hands. They are quite possibly the most graceful and balletic hands in the history of motion pictures, and probably the only hands that, by themselves and with no words or facial mannerisms, have ever reduced me to helpless gales of guffaws, so I guess that would have been worthwhile to say - and so I just did - but, at present, I don't feel like writing a few thousands words about most of the teams you mentioned. Sorry! Maybe later.

(I suppose there are one or two comedy teams I'm not particularly enamored of. Nixon & Agnew come to mind. Their plumbers sketch was far too derivative of Bagel Street for my taste. I do have to say, however, that few could top them for patter. Nattering Nabobs of Negativism was a classic.)

[Dick and Spiro after accepting the award for Best Spoken Word Recording at the 1975 Grammy Awards]
Item 4

There is no Item 4. It is the Sanity Clause.

And with that, I bid you fondue.

Soon, with moe better stuff.

My Body, My Self

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 11:57:00 +0000

The always-delightful-yet-reasonably-priced Daryl has written a post concerning a couple of odd little body quirks she has, unfortunately, become accustomed to have happening to her. She asked about whether or not her readers had similar things happen to them. Being my usual loquacious self, I answered at length. By the time I was done, and had posted my comment, I realized I probably had enough material for a post of my own, so here it is.

My body plays the following tricks on me:

1 - My left ear will suddenly become hot and painful for no apparent reason. When it does, nothing I do makes it go away. I just have to wait for it to stop of its own accord. This usually happens in 24 to 48 hours. As you might imagine, this is a particularly irritating thing for someone who has done so much work with headphones over the years. Luckily, it only happens perhaps once every six months.

2 - This began happening just about two years ago, but it's nasty. My right foot will all of a sudden go totally spaz. It's like the arch just stiffens completely, painful as all hell. It only happens when I'm sleeping, so I've been jolted awake with searing pain in my foot a few times. Lovely.

3 - The other thing that happens has been happening my entire life. My right eye (you know, I think it's my right eye, as it hasn't happened in a long enough time that I can't recall with certainty) will start "ticcing"; that is, a nervous tic will start the eyelid fluttering or shaking. It is barely noticeable to anyone else (I know this because I've looked in the mirror while it was happening, to see how it looked, and I saw almost no movement; certainly none that anyone not looking for it would notice) but it feels as though I'm wildly winking and grimacing and otherwise presenting a lunatic face to the outside world.

So that's all I told Daryl. Since then, however, I've scanned my body and come up with the following thing I'm going to complain about whether you care or not.

4 - One spot under my right arm - that is, running from about my armpit to a spot a few inches onto my chest - becomes itchy as hell every few months. Before you get all high and mighty on me, telling me to be more solicitous in washing my armpits, I'll tell you that it positively has nothing to do with being unclean. I know this because it has happened within a couple of hours of having taken a very thorough shower. And it has nothing to do with soap, either, because I've had it happen other times when I've been without a shower for more than a day. It has happened when I've worn deodorant and also when I've not worn any deodorant. No explanation for it (except that's the side of my chest where MY WIFE says I have a vestigial third nipple - I say it's a birthmark - and maybe I'm vestigially lactating? Oog. If that's true, I think I've had enough of this world, thanks.)

So, leave a comment telling me all about the things your body is doing that make little sense. Or not, if you don't feel like encouraging me, which would be completely understandable.

Soon, with more better stuff.

Happy News

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 22:19:00 +0000

My piece concerning the manhunt in Watertown, in connection with the Boston Marathon bombings, has been published. The Boston Globe bought it, and you can go here to read it. As you might suspect, anything nice you have to say about it would be appreciated.

Thanks for all of your kind words and encouragement over the past few days. MY WIFE and I surely do know who our friends are - YOU.

Soon, with more better stuff.

Going Sleepy-Bye

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Sat, 20 Apr 2013 02:45:00 +0000

To wrap up the day's events quickly, he was captured. We are fine and OK and thankful. We are going to sleep.

I wrote it up and submitted it to a local paper. It's obviously somewhat time sensitive, so I hope they take it and let me know quickly.

(If they don't, I think I may give up this writing thing. It's good, IMVHO.)

Thanks for sticking with me folks. If it's published, I'll let you know.

This is Radio Free Suldog, broadcasting on about thirty cups of coffee, signing off.

Work Release

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 22:33:00 +0000

We have been allowed to leave the comfy prison. The "stay indoors order" has been lifted. We'll both be staying in for the evening, though. I don't expect the police and guardsmen and such need every idiot in Watertown to suddenly run outdoors yelling "Free at last! Free at last!"

It is literally work release for MY WIFE. She, as most everybody in the area, did not go to work today. As a result (since her department is staffed by very few, but performs functions deeply necessary) she will be going into work tomorrow to do the work that was left from nobody being there today.

In all probability I will not get the opportunity to write the most self-centered story ever to appear in any print media: "Terrorists Forced Me To Quit Smoking!"

More as I get bnored and feel the need to pass it on to you.

Comfy Prison

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 20:58:00 +0000

Earlier today - visit from SWAT.

Now - 4:45pm on Friday, as I write - this is the damnedest thing. We're in what would be termed "lockdown" if this was a prison (which it fairly much is at this point, albeit a comfy one with the company of MY WIFE, good things to eat, TV, and I can get twenty minutes of sleep every four hours if I'm lucky.)

No traffic is being allowed in or out of Watertown. Nobody allowed out of their houses. The local police chief was on TV earlier saying that it could last through the weekend. Aside from the search for the bomber, there is a major crime scene nearby where the other one was killed. That will be examined with a fine tooth comb and God only knows how long that will take.

The important thing is that - despite the possible imminent danger we've been warned of - I don't feel especially threatened in any way (other than not having enough cigarettes or e-cigarette substitutes to get through this thing if it goes through Sunday, so they might have more than one madman on their hands by then.)

(Headline for Monday: "Irritated Smoker Shot Down By SWAT Team" The Boston Globe reports that Jim "Suldog" Sullivan, the mad smoker of Watertown, has been gunned down by SWAT team members. He had last been seen climbing an oak tree, grabbing a bunch of leaves, and trying to light them. "It's really a shame", said Captain Nick O'Tine of the ATF, "I had a pack in my truck. He could have bummed one." Sullivan's spouse, known only by the code name HIS WIFE, is still at large and considered extremely dangerous. She was last seen headed for WHDH-TV, and it is rumored she was out for blood due to the fact that Family Feud was preempted the last three days while they showed the same loop of film that had previously been shown 708 times since the lockdown began.)

OK, I'm still way goofy from not enough sleep. Later.

SWAT Team Just Left Our House

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 12:25:00 +0000

Some 10 to 12 SWAT team members are now on our street, mostly in camo fatigues, some in black, an armored vehicle, going door-to-door, S-L-O-W-L-Y, searching every house, yard, garage, and wherever else they want because when you have the cannons they're carrying nobody's going to tell you "No, please don't go in there."

Honestly, I'm glad they've made the sweep here. That means there's a good probability the suspect is NOT here, and now I can truly get some sleep.

I won't soon forget the sight of two smiling men with machine guns on our front porch.

(They were smiling, yes. They were obviously trying very hard to keep folks as calm as possible.)

Soon, with something or other.

Update From Watertown, For Our Friends

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 10:08:00 +0000

As you probably know, we live in Watertown. One bombing suspect dead from a shootout here, the other still being sought. We are OK, please don't call. We have been up all night, we are now going to nap as the excitement allows.

I will update later, probably.

Thank you for your concern.

For The Woman Who...

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Thu, 18 Apr 2013 04:30:00 +0000

... is often my conscience, giving me a gentle nudge to do what I almost always find out later was the right thing and what I should have been doing from the beginning.

... has never, not even once, doubted my ability to be more than I am.

... knows how to get a laugh from me even during those times when laughter is the furthest thing from my mind.

... makes me happy to be alive on those days, that happen to all of us, when getting out of bed has become a chore for one reason or another.

... has more consistently been in my corner than Bundini Brown was for Ali (and who, upon reading this, will ask me, "Who is Bundini Brown?")

... now knows more about The Three Stooges than she ever thought she would, ever wanted to, and ever would like to admit.

... has never, not even once, during the entire course of our more than 22 years together, tried to stop me from taking a nap.

(You may not consider that item to be on par with the other things I've mentioned, but I consider it of paramount importance.)

... despite all of the evidence I've given her to the contrary, still thinks I'm the greatest catch she could have made.

... makes sure that every birthday of a friend or relative is remembered in some way even though I barely ever remember when they're due to happen.

... despite the obvious convenience of not having to spell her name every time she has to give it over the phone, still chose not to become a Sullivan when we were married.

(And which I completely understand, by the way. Had the situation been reversed, and my last name was something like Mxzyptlk, I would have kept the same name I came into the marriage with, too.)

... who would be very mad at me if I gave you her age here, so I'll tell you she's the square root of 1521, divided by Delonte West's uniform number when he was with the Celtics, plus the number of American League Championships won by the Red Sox (even including those when they were called the "Americans", and not the "Red Sox"), times the combined final score of the seventh game between the Bruins and Montreal in 1979 (the bastards...), minus Tony Conigliaro's home run total to win the league championship in 1965, plus Doug Flutie's retired uniform number at Boston College, divided by Tony Conigliaro's uniform number (which should have been retired long ago), plus Rick Robey's uniform number while he was with the Celtics (which, if you need a clue, was Delonte West's number times 4, plus the number of times in my life I've left a professional baseball game before the last out.)

(And if you can figure out how old she is from that, you deserve to know. If you tell anyone else, however, I'll have to come to your house and kill you. On the other hand, she won't be able to figure out her own age if she tries to do it from those clues, so there's that.)

... deserves a better birthday card than this (but isn't gonna get one because I'm a slug.)

... is MY WIFE, for better or worse (and she's probably wavering as to just which category this falls into.)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

With any luck, I am now standing to your left with a present of some sort. Despite the many requests you've made through the years, it is NOT a fully-let-out ranch mink. Maybe next year. Meanwhile, you should read all of the wonderful things people have wished you. They appear below (this would be a hint to the rest of you, and thanks.)

We Know Who Needs To Be Fearful

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Tue, 16 Apr 2013 09:00:00 +0000

What we saw Monday, in this area I call home, was evil in its pure and unadulterated form.

The evil came from the usual source. As I write this, we don't have a person's name or any organization with which to link it, but it is the usual source nevertheless. It came from so little moral sense that the destruction of innocent lives serves as validation of a miserable and pitiful existence. It came from senseless violence that somehow seemed the right thing to a disordered and diseased mind. It came from an intellect that lives under a rock, a slimy and squirmy thing that hides from the sunlight. It came from a filthy and cowardly animal who would like to see us fearful, but who deserves - and will receive - nothing more than our contempt.

We also saw good, the best that people have to offer.

The good also came from the usual source. It came from those who run toward an explosion, to help those injured, rather than doing the wholly natural thing and moving away from the danger. It came from those who immediately set up webpages for people to offer help to those who needed it. It came from medical personnel who worked feverishly to save who and what they could, and who also made the hardest decisions in deciding that a limb must go in order to save a life. And it came from the police, national guard, armed forces, and others, who searched out, at risk of their own lives and limbs, the remaining explosive devices that were detonated harmlessly instead of causing further suffering.

My good friend, Michelle Hickman, reminded me of something I've pointed out here on occasion. She posted this photo to my Facebook page.

The good came from the helpers.

The evil may or may not be found. Obviously, it would be better if it were, and then excised like the cancer it so readily is; destroyed, with a vengeance. The good, though, always appears immediately. And that is what keeps me from giving up on the world, even at a time when giving up seems, at first glance, the most reasonable option.

This is what Boston has said in response to evil: We're not running away. We're moving toward you. And there are way more of us than there are of you. You are the one who needs to fear.

We Are Fine

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 22:57:00 +0000

Just a quick one to let anyone wondering know that we are OK. Thank you to those who already checked with me to find out.

I don't often find myself at a loss for words, but this is one of those times. Maybe later.

God bless.

Sunday Bunnies

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 10:00:00 +0000

In my continuing effort to avoid doing what I promised you almost two weeks ago, today I decided to conduct an experiment.

I'm not sure why I'm finding it such a chore to make good on that thing. I usually enjoy spouting off and portraying myself as some sort of expert. I think this unemployment is affecting my self-confidence. And if I'm suddenly becoming humble, that's going to make everything I've previously written truly sad. Be that as it may - and it's only April - the experiment I decided to conduct today came about because the previous experiment I've been conducting, since losing my job, has been such a success. That experiment involved finding out how long it would take for me to become a big tub of out-of-shape goo if I sat on my ass in front of a computer most of the day getting no exercise at all and eating twice as much as I did while working, so today I decided to get off my ass - literally - and take a walk.

I went out the door and took a jaunt down the block. It was a nice morning, weather-wise, so I figured I'd do a mile or so before coming back to the house, having a cigarette, eating a huge hunk of the lovely banana cornbread MY WIFE was baking, and then plopping myself down on the couch to watch the final round of The Masters (which, in my present physical condition, would probably prove to be a fairly strenuous sort of a workout.)

After going three blocks, I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head slightly (becoming short of breath from doing such a rigorous sort of thing on top of my walking) and I saw a bunny. It was a little brown cottontail. He saw me at about the same time I saw him. He stopped in his tracks and apparently thought the same thought which has been thought by rabbits the world over since time immemorial: If I don't move, you can't see me.

(Because of that behavior, arguments can be made both for and against evolutionary theory. The argument against is that an animal with such a stupid thought process should have been wiped out long ago. The argument for is that they have become prolific breeders due to the fact that if they didn't have so many babies, the species would never have survived. Of course, the same arguments could be made concerning red-headed Irishmen who smoke, so skip it.)

I stood still to see if the bunny would start moving again. No go. Bunnies don't think things through. I mean, if you were a bunny, and you believed that not moving made you invisible, wouldn't the thought occur to you that if you saw some other creature standing still then that other creature could probably see you even if you were standing still? No, of course not. You'd be a bunny and therefore incredibly stupid, but prolific (and perhaps fairly happy because of that part of the equation.) So, like I say, the bunny didn't move. I decided, after about a minute of standing there being as dumb as the bunny, I should probably get moving again because I wasn't getting much of a workout staring at a rabbit.

I walked another block or so and a thought occurred to me.

(No, it wasn't the first thought that had occurred to me during the walk. I had also considered picking up a ball I saw on the street, and wondered how long it would take for a wad of bubble gum I had seen to actually biodegrade, and took under consideration the theory that even if I didn't get much exercise from my walk, I might at least find something interesting to write about, but I think I'm disproving that with extreme prejudice.)

Anyway, the thought occurred to me to test the theory of whether or not having a bunny cross your path is good luck or bad luck. I figure since cats of a certain color are considered to imbue luck of some sort when they happen to be in your general vicinity, why not a bunny? So I decided to buy two lottery tickets at a store situated at about the halfway point of the distance I planned on walking.

(Yes, you're right. I have just said something even stupider than what a rabbit might say if rabbits talked. That should probably invalidate any findings I present here, but I've already written too much for me to turn back now.)

After about a half-mile on my walk, I entered the store. I saw a sign advertising electronic cigarettes. I had been wondering about such things, as being an unemployed sluggard gaining weight and not getting enough exercise has not been my only concern of late. I've been coming to the realization that I'll not really be able to play fast-pitch softball this season unless I also do something about my smoking. At the very least, the combination of extra pounds and smoke-filled lungs does not an effective catcher make. I decided that as long as I was doing something idiotic such as buying lottery tickets, I may as well try to do something halfway intelligent and see if it helped to even things out so that God wouldn't whack me with a lightning bolt on general principles.

I left the store and completed my walk by heading home. When I got there, I gave one of the lottery tickets to MY WIFE. She scratched one of them and I scratched the other. It apparently makes little difference regarding luck if a bunny happens to cross your path. While my ticket was a losing proposition, the one MY WIFE scratched was a winner for exactly one-half of what I spent in acquiring both tickets. Since this is about what one might have expected one way or the other without taking into account chance encounters with rodents, it is a wash.

As for the electronic cigarette, it is now about five hours since my walk. I have not had an actual cigarette in that time. I would usually have had three or four. It seems to be satisfying the cravings fairly well. If it turns out that this is what finally works to help me quit smoking after over forty years of it, I'll consider the bunny very lucky indeed. We'll see. I'm not holding my breath, so to speak, but it seems like it might be more effective than any other stop smoking aid I've tried, so I'll give it a fair shot and see how I feel by the end of the day.

Soon, with less rabbiting.

Northern Wisconsin Captures Invitational

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Fri, 05 Apr 2013 04:28:00 +0000

“We’re number 69! We’re number 69!”

That was the exultant cheer raised by alumni as Northern Wisconsin University defeated Boise Southern A&M, 53 – 39, to win the basketball tournament nobody aside from degenerate gamblers and die-hard alumni cares about, the N.I.T. (National Inivitation Tournament). The cheer stemmed from the fact that the NCAA “March Madness” tournament includes the top 68 teams. The N.I.T. field is made up of the remainder, all fighting hard for the honor of being declared the 69th best team in the country.

“I’ll probably get to keep my job, so I guess it’s better than nothing”, said NWU head coach Moe “Larry” Curley.

The Pickerel were led by star center Mustafa Scheinblum-O’Shaughnessy. The 7’ 6” player, an animal husbandry major until he found out it didn’t mean what he thought it did, was passed over by all other Division One schools due to 37 outstanding arrest warrants and an inability to spell his name correctly on the SATs. He scored 41 of his team’s 53 points, as well as sixteen of Boise Southern’s points when he became confused concerning which basket was his and threw down eight separate thunderous dunks on the wrong goal.

“He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer,” said coach Curley, “but he generally scores more for us than for the other team if we keep him pointed in the right direction.”

Boise Southern’s leading scorer (aside from Scheinblum-O’Shaughnessy) was freshman point guard Jud Jenkins, with twelve points. Immediately following the game, Jenkins declared himself eligible for the next NBA draft.

“I most likely don’t have a hope in hell of making an NBA team, but if I go to training camp and get cut, I can probably fool some Italian or French league into thinking I’m worth signing,” said Jenkins. When asked if remaining in school and getting his diploma might not be a better option, he said, “Not a chance. All I have to do is fool one European millionaire into thinking I’m hot stuff and I’ll be set for the next ten years. The best I could get with a diploma from this place is a job selling sheep door-to-door.”

Scheinblum-O’Shaughnessy was asked whether he might follow a similar path and declare for the draft.

“Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout that. Coach say put a ball in the hole and he get me pile o' burgers and shit.” He then stood up, walked toward the showers, and knocked himself cold when his head crashed into the top of a doorframe.

“Oh, Jesus, not again…”, said coach Curley.

A tournament official, under promise of anonymity, said that it is getting harder and harder to find teams willing to divest themselves of all dignity in vainglorious pursuit of a championship with less meaning than a bucket of warm spit. He said that next year they may begin inviting mail-order diploma mills.

“I hope we can keep Mustafa conscious long enough next season to make the NCAA’s,” said Curley, “Otherwise, I might have to take that job down at the DMV my brother-in-law keeps telling me about. I don’t know how much more of this humiliation I can take.”

Give Me An Answer, Get Some Rambling

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Wed, 03 Apr 2013 03:30:00 +0000

For a couple of reasons, I feel like writing about comedy teams.

1) My niece, Avaroo, seems to have taken a liking to Laurel & Hardy. Here's what her mother said about it, on Facebook, a week ago.

"Ava's up watching Laurel and Hardy. She finds them to be hysterical. I find them creepy."

I, on the other hand, opined that Avarooo had superb taste. After reading the rest of this, should you have any brain remaining, I would like to hear your opinion.

2) My wonderful friend, Daryl, and her husband, Ray (who gets no link because he has no blog, but he'll get a link below, because... well, you'll see) made my Easter pleasanter than it otherwise would have been.

Here's the thing: MY WIFE and I picked up nasty colds on Good Friday. We're not positive where we picked them up - our best guess is at breakfast, which we had outside of the house - but we both came down with a cold at the exact same moment on Good Friday. As a result, we did not travel to visit relatives on Easter, as we had planned, but instead stayed home and snuffled up snot.

It was a rather miserable weekend, all things outside of Our Lord's resurrection considered, and would have been much more miserable except for Daryl & Ray. I'll let the following e-mail I sent to those two fine people tell you the story:

Daryl, Ray:

So, this morning, we're watching CBS Sunday Morning, and it comes to a commercial break. We've both been sick since Friday; very bad colds. I decide that I'll step outside to have half a cigarette, get a little fresh air (I know; talk about oxymorons!), and feel the sun on this Easter morning. Since we're sick, we cancelled going to my cousin's place, which we always enjoy tremendously on the holy day. We're both feeling pretty down. The Easter Bunny did not make his usual rounds to our place... :-)

I step outside the front door and I see that some mail has been left on the porch. Since mail had been pushed through our mail slot, into the house, yesterday, this was a surprise. The mail is an envelope too big to fit through the slot, and it has a return address with which I'm not familiar. I light up my smoke and open the envelope.

And then I am thrilled, and delighted, and happier than I've been all weekend. It is something sweet and special in the envelope.

So, I thank you both (and Andrew) for being our wonderful Easter Bunnies, delivering this wholly unexpected mitzvah.

Jim & HIS WIFE
xxxooo

You may be asking yourself a few questions, such as...

a) What was in the envelope?

b) Who in hell is Andrew?

c) Pray tell, what is a mitzvah?

Here are the answers:

a) Inside the envelope was a DVD.

b) Andrew is Ray's comedy team partner.

c) A Mitzvah is a favor, and that's what you'll be doing yourself if you go to You Tube and view the many wonderful short films that Ray Edelstein and Andrew Johns have made together.

There are more than twenty such films there, and each one is a small gem of comedy team magic. Andrew Johns is a tremendous writer. Both guys have tremendous timing. And I personally guarantee at least one laugh-out-loud moment per film (there will probably be many more than one, but I'll stake my reputation - what little there is of it - on at least one.)

So, I expect you to go there, watch some films, enjoy yourself, and then leave a comment or two saying how much you enjoyed the films (feedback is the best way to get them to make more, I think, unless you're connected in some way to HBO or Showtime or some other outlet that should be snapping these guys up to do a regular series of some sort, in which case that would be the best way to get them to make more and I only want the job doing the voice-overs if this actually results in that happening.)

So, go there, do that. Before you go, though, here's what the title of this piece means. I want to know your favorite comedy team(s). The next time I show up here (heaven only knows when that will be, given the spotty way I've been popping in here lately) I'll try to have something to say about every team you mention. If that threat isn't enough to make you dread the future, I don't know what would be.

Soon, with stuff (but only if you leave a comment here) and more better stuff (if you leave a comment there, probably.)

Super-Duper Amazingly Fantastic Friday, All Sins Forgiven Or Your Money Back!

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Thu, 28 Mar 2013 15:57:00 +0000

What is your reward for trying to help me out a couple of days ago? A rehash of an old post, of course! I wouldn't be me if I actually gave you something valuable.

What follows is a repeat from Good Friday of a few years back (and two or three times before then, too, because that's the sort of lazy slug I am.) I've always given it serious thought when putting this out here again and this year is no exception. In the end, I still believe every word in it. Whether I put it out here or not, the sentiments expressed in the piece are still in my heart. So, if God is omnipotent, and likes a joke as well - both of which I believe wholeheartedly - I have nothing to lose and everything to gain by re-publishing.

The only other thing nagging at me is whether or not it's self-serving to publish it again. After all, I just said "I have nothing to lose and everything to gain by re-publishing" and that sure sounds self-serving.

Nah. As I say, God knows what's in my heart. I might be misguided - I'd say it's 7 to 5 in favor of that proposition - but I have to believe He would find my intentions to be good. And, as everyone knows, the road to heaven is paved with good intentions!

Well, it's something like that. Enough blathering! Enjoy. Or, if you don't enjoy it, be a better Christian than me and say a prayer for my forgiveness.

I MAY NEED YOUR PRAYERS ANY MINUTE NOW

It may be Good Friday as you read this. If you're here immediately as I posted it, it's Maundy Thursday. If you're late getting here, it could be Easter. If any case, what in hell are you doing reading this crap, you heathen? You couldn't possibly believe that anything I have to say is divinely inspired. Get your ass to church.

OK, now that the easily-guilted holy rollers are gone, let’s get down to business.

Jesus is hanging on the cross. He looks down and sees Mary Magdelene crying.

Jesus says, “Mary...”

Mary looks up, still crying, and says, “What is it, Lord?”

Jesus says, “Mary...”

Mary again says, “What is it, Lord?”

Jesus says, “Mary, it’s... amazing.”

Mary says, “What, Lord? What is it? What’s amazing?”

“I can see your house from up here!”

Whoa, Pilgrim! Don’t go away mad. You may think it’s just a crummy blasphemous joke, but I can justify almost anything. Nothing up my sleeve... PRESTO!

See, Jesus is closer to heaven and he can see Mary’s house IN HEAVEN. He’s telling her that her faith has saved her and that she will spend eternity in paradise. Hah!

And I guess that’s today’s lesson: It all depends upon your point of view. This is "Good" Friday, right? Why? Why do Christians call this "Good" Friday, when this is the anniversary of the day when their savior was murdered, the day He was nailed to a tree and died a miserable, painful death?

It's because without the cross – without that death - none of us can ever see our house in heaven, no matter how high up we are here on earth.

Hey! That was pretty good! Quick! Are the easily-guilted holy rollers still within shouting distance? Call them back. Maybe this is divinely inspired.

Let’s see if I can wriggle out of another one.

So, see the painting up above, of Jesus on the cross? There’s a plaque nailed to the cross, just above His head. The plaque reads "INRI." Want to know what it means?

I’m Nailed Right In.

Well, what it really means is lightning bolts should be coming any minute now, and I’ll be going to hell immediately, IF God doesn't have a sense of humor. However, I believe that God has an amazing sense of humor. My belief is that, when we die, we’re going to find out that this whole thing was one long and involved joke. And we’ll laugh and laugh and laugh when we hear the punch line.

Or, if you don’t find that terribly convincing, try this on for size. If God doesn’t have a sense of humor, what can we expect in the afterlife? An eternity without laughter? Hey, kill me now and leave me dead. None of that resurrection shit for me, thanks.

Or are some jokes theologically sound and others not? Maybe. We all have subjective senses of humor, I guess. Maybe God does, too. If so, the only way to know for sure is if we can hear God laugh. Then we’d know what He finds funny. Let's try it. Everybody be very quiet for a minute. Here goes.

Two nuns cycling down a cobbled street. The first one says "I've never come this way before."

The second one replies "Must be the cobbles."

So, I don’t hear God laughing. I’m assuming you don’t hear anything, either, right? Well, that's OK, it wasn't a great joke. Maybe we'll try again later.

What it comes down to is having faith. One way or another, you've got to have faith. If you don't, you're screwed. My faith lives in the belief that everything is for the best and that everything will be revealed in the end. Now, if what's revealed in the end is that God has absolutely no sense of humor at all, and He's royally pissed off at me for this, then that's the way it goes; I'm doomed. But, if God has no sense of humor, I've been doomed for a long, long time now. You, too - so at least we'll all fry together.

(The following will seem totally unconnected, but wait for it.)

I remember watching The Mike Douglas Show one day when I was a kid, and he had this comedy troupe on. For the life of me, I can't remember their name. However, the bit they did has stuck with me forever. It was a parody of Moby Dick.

Ahab and Ishmael are standing on the deck of the Pequod. Ahab is looking through a telescope. Suddenly, he sees something and gets all excited.

Ishmael: "What is it? What do you see?"

Ahab: "IT'S THE GREAT WHITE WHALE!"

Ishmael: "Give me a look."

Ahab hands him the telescope. Ishmael puts it up to his eye and looks out at the sea. After a little while, he takes the telescope down from his eye and hands it back to Ahab. He says:

"Eh. It's a good white whale..."

I know why it's called Good Friday. It's because people were saying, "What a horrible day! They've croaked Jesus!" And so it had to be explained, over and over, that this was actually not a bad thing when you consider how it plays out in the end. So, "Good" Friday.

But why not really get the point across? Why not go all the way and call it Great Friday? Or even Super-Duper Amazingly Fantastic Friday, All Sins Forgiven Or Your Money Back? A little salesmanship wouldn't hurt.

Well, that's about it for me. I'm doomed, right? Eternal damnation; fire and brimstone; some guy with horns, in a red union suit, poking me with a pitchfork.

Nah. See, Jesus died for our sins and that even includes crummy jokes, Thank God. And, if you're an atheist or otherwise not a believer in Christianity, I got you to actually consider this stuff for five minutes. I got you to read the name - Jesus - 12 or 13 times. I figure that's got to count for something.

Have a joyous Easter and I'll see you on Monday - unless I'm struck by lightning.

(Which, by the way, I would consider proof positive that God has a sense of humor, although personally I'd find it much funnier if He did it to the producers of Real Housewives of Orange County.)

ADDENDUM: Hilary believes it was The Ace Trucking Company who did the Moby Dick routine, and I do believe she's correct.

Soon, with more better stuff.

Brainstorm Me

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Tue, 26 Mar 2013 16:00:00 +0000

I'm sitting here with an article I've tried to sell a couple of places with no luck.

(Maybe the reason it's not selling is because I write sentences - such as the above - which would give you the impression that I've been trying to sell the piece to periodicals which have recently experienced a downturn in their fortunes. That's not what I meant. Any downturn in their fortunes will likely occur after publishing my stuff.)

Be that as it may - and it sure seems like it, these days - I have written something I consider humorous. Your job, should you choose to accept it, is to tell me the names of your favorite humorous magazines. I will then read your suggestions and send the piece to an unsuspecting editor or two. If the piece is finally published someplace, I'll give the person who first suggested the magazine it is published in a small token of my thanks (said token being larger or smaller depending upon the size of the check they send me.)

Don't be afraid of being too obvious. Lord knows that never stopped me. What I mean is don't skip a favorite because you assume I already would have thought of that magazine. You should never assume I've thought of anything.

That's all for today (except to say "Thank You!" in advance for your assistance.)

Soon (which has become a very relative term around here, but you know what I mean), with more better stuff.

Nobody Reads My Texting

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Tue, 19 Mar 2013 13:06:00 +0000

Nobody Reads My Texting

[Sung to the tune of "Deep In The Heart Of Texas"]

I tell you all I'm at the mall

Why don't you read my texting?

I think it's news when I buy shoes

Nobody reads my texting!

I wrote a bunch about my lunch

Why don't you read my texting?

Me!Me!Me!Me! - I had sushi

Nobody reads my texting!

I had a date but I was late

I couldn't stop my texting!

Now I'm alone 'cause she went home

She couldn't stand my texting!

So I told you what I'd been through

You didn't read my texting...

You told me to STFU

Nobody reads my texting!

[Dedicated to a great humorist - and he's still alive, so I'll assume he's still funny - Frank Jacobs.]

Soon, with more better stuff.

P.S. Co-writing credit on this goes to MY WIFE (who, if she had her own blog - hint, hint - could regale you with her wit on a much more regular basis.)

P.P.S. Yes, the artwork is mine. No, I'm not proud to say that.

Ah, 'tis a great day for the semi-Irish

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Sun, 17 Mar 2013 05:00:00 +0000

[Since I'm re-printing this for the umpteenth time, I'll head off the sort of commentary I've received before. The hideous "Irish" dialect I use here? Yes, I know that no real Irishman speaks that way. It's a caricature, as many portrayals of the Irish still are in film and on TV, and without even half the thought given to it as I gave while concocting my intentionally abominable character. If you find it offensive, well, DUH! That's the point.

If you'd like to see how the Irish were depicted in the popular press during previous centuries - that is, abominably (and, perhaps, there's relatively little for me to complain about now) - try THIS. Anything that follows here is mighty tame by comparison.

I suggest, for the most enjoyment on your part, that you now endeavor to forget this introduction, referring back to it only if you find what follows offensive.]

Ah, Sweet Jayzis, ‘tis Saint Patty’s day! Time fer th' wearin’ o’ th' green!

I’ll be startin’ me day off wit’ a pint o’ Guinness, an' then a big tub o’ corned beef an’ cabbage. After that - Tura Lura Loo! - I’ll slap ME WIFE upside her gob an' t’row me 26 kiddos down th' stairs, so they'll be gittin' ready fer mass in a proper way. After th' sarvice, I’ll punch Fadder O’Malley in th' mush an' head on over to th' pub wit' Murph, Mac, Murph, Quinn, Tommy Fitz, Timmy Fitz, Jimmy Fitz, Murph, Sweeney, Sully, Sully, Big Sully, Fahey, Sully, an' O’Brien fer a few quarts o’ whiskey. Faith an' begorrah! Then we’ll have a grand time whalin’ th' bejeezus out o' each other 'til the green blood runs in rivers, I tells ya! Toity toity toy! Then some more corned beef an’ cabbage an’ more whiskey an’ more Guinness while we tell each other tales o’ how, if we was still in the Auld Sod, we’d be beatin’ the snot out o’ whole armies o’ English arseholes. Ptooie!

O! Then th' topper to th' whole grand day! Th' parade, by Jayzis! Won’t it be a foin sight t' see all th' lads an' lassies dressed in their foinest an' marchin’ down th' avenue? Ah, where’s me shillelagh? Another pint o’ Guinness, O’Reilly, and póg mo thóin!

(*Snort*)

Ah, th' barmaid is a foin homely lass, she is, but I’m a married man! Where’s ME WIFE? I want another 6 kids! Ah, ‘tis a foin day!

(*punch*)

O’Toole, how are you? Go shit in yer fist, ye boghoppin' sonuvabitch! Where’s yer 42 kids? (*smash!*) Ah, Mullins! I thought that was you! Saints be praised, it’s good to see yer face!

(*wallop*)

An' I don’t suppose ye were after forgettin’ th' time ye tripped me durin’ recess in th' fifth grade, ye bastard! Go n-ithe an cat thú, is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat!

Jayzis, Mary an' Joseph! I’m so drunk I can’t find me own arsehole an' it’s time fer me to go meet me 32 brithers an’ sisters who’re on th' police department an' me 64 uncles on th' fire department an’ me 487 cousins who work fer the state because we’re all goin’ to Seamus McCarthy’s house to play th' harp, drink more whiskey, eat more corned beef an' cabbage, an' then brawl all night until we collapse in the street in a drunken bloody stupor. Erin Go Bragh!

(sigh)

I’m partly Irish. You don’t get a name like Sullivan or a face like mine without some Irish blood, but - God help me – I sure do hate to admit it sometimes.

The Irish are just about the only ethnic group that you can defame with impunity. Nobody is holding rallies to change the name of the Notre Dame athletic teams. The Fighting Irish. Try calling some college team The Hotheaded Hispanics and see how far you get. Throw an Irish cop with a larcenous streak into a movie or a TV show and nobody blinks. Hell, make him a drunk who beats his wife and has 12 unkempt bratty children. You might as well go all the way. It’s not like anybody is going to complain, least of all the Irish themselves. The Irish are just about the only group that generally ignores most of the stereotypes people throw around about them. For that matter, many of us seem to take pride in our rotten image.

When I say “us”, I say it with some reservation. Yes, I have Irish blood, but unless I tell you, you wouldn’t know that I actually have a higher percentage of Hispanic, not to mention French. I also have Yankee, which is English in origin, of course. And some Scottish. The Irish is pretty much only pasty skin deep.

So, by the stereotypes, this is my make up:

I’m a red-headed Irish Hispanic, so I must have a hair-trigger temper. However, being French, as soon as you stand up to my temper, I’ll surrender. Since I’m also English, I’ll probably make a very wry joke while doing so. The Scot in me would like to make a buck out of the whole deal.

I like to eat potatoes at every meal, but I’ll have snails, greasy beef and haggis with them. Oh, yes, with jalapenos on the side. I’ll also have a heaping helping of spotted dick for dessert, but petit fours will do in a pinch.

I’m up for just about anything sexually, of course, but would you mind not shaving your armpits? I might slap you around a bit, but later you can tie up the English side of me and put a whip to my butt, so it’ll even out. Since I’m also a Scot, if you want me to wear a kilt while we’re doing it, I’m OK with that.

I think Jerry Lewis is a genius, but Monty Python, Cantinflas, Billy Connolly and the first half of this post also make me laugh. I drive a Jaguar low-rider powered by peat, but never on toll roads. I wear a beret on top of my sombrero, as well as a derby under it. I work for the government, I sponge off of the government, I am the government, and I want to overthrow the government.

Ah, that’s enough of that, I suppose.

(Just in case you’re really wondering, about 1/3 of the above is true. I’ll leave it to your imagination which 1/3.)

(Not the Jaguar, that’s for sure.)

So, I don’t really have much of a point here, but I’m glad you came along for the ride. If I’ve upset you in any way, just be thankful that it isn’t Bastille Day. Or Cinco De Mayo, for that matter.

Soon, con mas (whatever the French word for “better” is) stuff, Bucko.

Come On, People! Get Those Equivalents Right!

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Sat, 09 Mar 2013 05:08:00 +0000

[This is a repeat. I probably shouldn't have told you that. The folks who will recognize it don't need to be told that information, and the folks who won't recognize it don't need to be told that information, either. So, I've told the truth for no good reason whatsoever. Ugh. I need a drink.]

        (L to R: Glen "Big Baby" Davis of the Orlando Magic, a Buick)

MY WIFE just heard a weather report stating that we could be in for hail the size of pennies. I'm sorry, but that's just wrong. Hailstones do not come in the size of monetary units. Think about it. Hailstones are generally spherical. You can't say that they're the size of flat metal objects, circular though they may be. If you do, you'll have a confused populace trying to differentiate between hailstones the size of pennies and hailstones the size of dimes, and dimes are smaller than pennies, but they're worth ten times as much, so while people are standing around outside trying to make sense out of what you've told them, they're already full of holes and laying on the pavement, their life's blood flowing in rivers towards the sewer. And a fine kettle of fish that would be. And don't even get me started on kettles of fish. The only more disgusting idiom is the ever-gross "put a bug in someone's ear." Yuck!

Be that as it may - and it damn well is, so get used to it - the correct equivalents for hailstones use sporting equipment. Golf balls, baseballs, softballs, basketballs. That's the scale. Anything below the size of a golf ball is just hail. Anything above the size of a basketball is just ridiculous.

(I personally believe that the end of the world will include hailstones the size of Buicks. But, since a Buick isn't sporting equipment - unless you're a horny teenager, and you count the back seat - I would never actually describe them that way. I'd say, "Hailstones the size of Big Baby Davis, if Big Baby Davis had wheels and a chrome-plated ass.")

Well, that should take care of the hailstones. While we're at it, though, we may as well get the rest of it straight.

If you've got a tumor - and I hope you don't - the equivalent measurement is a piece of fruit. It can be the size of a grape, an orange, a grapefruit, a cantaloupe, or a watermelon. If your tumor is larger than a watermelon, you could say that it's the size of Big Baby Davis's ass, but nobody will believe you.

"Football Fields" is a valid equivalent measure, but not for hailstones, tumors, or Big Baby Davis's ass, although that's a close one. It has to be for something that is the size of one football field, or at least two football fields. You can't say that something is the size of one-and-one-quarter football fields. If you do, people will say that your brain is the size of a kumquat. They will be wrong, of course. Small brains come in the size of tiny vegetables, i.e., peabrain (although "birdbrain" is acceptable, but only because everyone knows that birds are peabrains, unless the bird in question is Larry, in which case we're talking basketballs again, so Big Baby Davis again.)

Football fields are particularly good for measuring cruise ships, by the way. If you were to fill a big room with brochures for cruise ships, and then swing a cat by it's tail, you'd almost assuredly hit an advertisement with "football field" in the text, if that's your idea of fun. Apparently, you can also use them to measure destruction. Go here, if you want to be depressed. Of course, if you think rain forests suck, it will make you giddy.

(I don't trust that math. Six football fields a minute? That would be 360 football fields an hour, and 8,640 football fields each day, which translates to 3,153,600 football fields a year. That would be more than 141 billion square feet. Do you know anybody with square feet? Of course not, so there you go. Pseudo-science!)

Finally, one blog post by Suldog = 10 minutes of your life you'll never get back. I don't think anybody will dispute that. Maybe Big Baby Davis, but he has an ass the size of a Buick.

Soon, with more better stuff (the equivalent of which has yet to be officially determined, but I'm thinking a hungry ferret in your underwear would be a good approximation.)