I suppose it is a bit greedy to ask for four straight wins, but I have to express my supreme disappointment with the first six frames of today’s balls of bases contest.
Here I was all set to pen a euphoric lunchtime picnic set in the e-crastination of MLBTV and wordpress — happily content to the only brightspot of an otherwise rainy day taken up by boring work and an inevitably sucky trip to the gym (necessary to the sustainability of my diet, which consists mostly of chicken fingers and ketel one).
But then Scott “Spaghetti” Baker and the Minnesota Wet Noodles took all of about eleven minutes to get me to minimize my HD browser in favor of the satisfaction of finishing my TPX report.
Don’t take my negative vibes as being down on the Twins for the season, but why is it that whenever I do manage to inflate up my excitement over something (the faux-double-header), the Minnesota brain trust finds a way to quash it out of excitement as quickly as possible? I should probably manage expectations more appropriately.
While I’m being a downer, here’s an exchange from a great film, The Last Picture Show, that reminded me of Honky Tonk Chilly when I watched it the other night:
Sam: You see? This is what I get for bettin’ on my own home town ballteam. I ought’a have better sense.
Abilene: Wouldn’t hurt to have a better home town.
I love Minneapolis. But Chilly, sometimes you make me hate it — just like the spaghettwins of april 09.
But, hey. At least we’ve always got fine dining just up the road…
3:41 p.m. - Bernard Berrian stabs me in the stomach as he drops a punt due to his mind being preoccupied by newsstands across America…. Can you blame him?
3:53 p.m. Touchdown scored by Falcons on a weak shuffle pass…
3:56 p.m. - If I don’t rip another shot of Jack Daniels by 4:15, we are losing this football game and going to 9-6. It would help if we would unmute the television and turn off Michael Stipe’s suicidal pains…
3:58 p.m. - Brian Billick doesn’t feel any energy in the thunderdome, but who is the lucky lady meant to be the recipient of Billick’s sexy vested staredown coming off the TV timeout? It very well could be Dick Stockton’s soon to be ex-wife. I’m not sayin. I’m just sayin…
So here we are. The Vikes have played eleven forgettable games. The Gophers have played twelve. The Timberwolves have played as many times as the Star Tribune tells me they have, because I don’t think I or any other person I would ever even think about speaking to could tell me anything else notable about the team. Essentially, if it weren’t for the Wild, I’d have had twice as much to drink tonight as I already have.
Seeing as how I don’t have any television — making it impossible to catch the outstandingly mediocre hijinks of the manslaughter-inducing cast of Two and a Half Men — the Vikenasties have instead become my very own Two and a Half. Just as millions of idiots tune in to watch that garbage, I - with no better explanation - have wasted hours upon hours on Chilly’s trash.
Somehow I compose myself every Sunday, shower, drink enough coffee to triple Colombia’s legal GDP, and walk a mile-and-a-half to a sports bar so I can sit alone in a crowd of Giants, Redskins, Bills, Broncos (???) and a sprinkle of Panthers and Bears fans as the Vikings inevitably take it to the last possession wherein the odds dictate they will either (A) turn the ball over attempting to come back [50% odds], (B) rely on a pass interference call or a missed field goal by the other team to squeak out a victory [30% odds], or (C) actually come back of their own skill [I hesitantly say 20%]. When the best part of your Sunday is the fifteen minutes it takes you to eat your chicken fingers, text your friends since there’s no one stupid enough to be sitting with you on a precious day off of work, and decide how long until you place your nachos order…well, then you should probably reevaluate things.
Somehow though, someone beyond Winfield + AP managed to deliver on the one Sunday this year in which I’ve failed to watch the game. Instead, this past Sunday I bet $50 on the Vikes money line and sat at my friend’s house watching only the Red Zone channel (I parlayed it with the Ravens), wherein I saw a fair bit of Vikings but certainly not the extent of the kick ass offense that keeps me throttled to the point of crapping myself for an average of 194 minutes per week.
Perhaps this shake up is the beginning of a new dawn — a turtle-head peering out from its shell of mediocrity amid an NFL landscape ripe for the false hope of football immortality. In other words, a December to remember before a January that’s over before it starts! COUNT ME IN. What else is there to live for until inauguration day besides the usual criminal pardons and shady midnight regulations and the worst Oscar season since Titanic ruined the entire year of 1997. The only redeemable thing about that three-hour ordeal was the Uno’s personal pan pizza I ordered halfway through it, but not the pizza itself - just the time it took to get it.
So gather ye faithful, Vikes fans. The electric speed train that can’t make good on its loans is getting a stimulus in the form of Kyle Orton’s beard hairs eaten off his skin by a rabid Jared Allen.
And Super Bowl Homeboy will be there in full force for its 2nd Annual Vikes Tailgate to get the party started.
ROCK N’ ROLL IS ALIVE…..AND IT LIVES IN MINNEAPOLIS…
Bring your cleats to the streets of Chicago for the first annual SBHB summit.
Topics this Halloween include: The inevitable fall of Nordy, who the VIkings can draft to lead them in 2009, whether Franchise and K-Love will lead the Wolves to 30 or even 31 wins this season, and how Pasadena Brew sizes up to some of the second-year coaching greats in Big Ten footbal history.
Super Bowl Pasadena Homeboy does not endorse politicians, but no matter what happens next Tuesday, it will mark a new day in America — and usher in some sunshine to the dark nights that have blanketed our nation. It is no coincidence that Brad Childress is at the helm for the largest breakdown in free-market capitalism since the age of Murderers Row.
Think about it. The country Brad Childress placed the keys to shiny new houses a National League Football team in the hands of a party in no way qualified to handle it — those with shitty credit Tarvaris Jackson. Meanwhile, greedy sons of bitches Childress mortgaged OUR future by peddling the false of hope of mortgage-backed securities a deep playoff run reliant on the oh so reliable foundation of subprime loans the least kick-ass offense in the history of football.
Ok, enough of that. Between the Vikings debacle and the apparent secret handshake between Gardy and Bradstache to apply the kick-ass offense for one night at US Cellular about a month ago, times have been tough for Minnesota sports fans. And of course, the Homeboy hood was shaken by the news that one of the few sports personalities in the state respected by SBHB ran into some personal demons that led to his departure from KFAN. Times are rough.
But oooooh oooh child the night is darkest just before the dawn.
WHY?
BOOM. Pasadena Brew has been crafting up his finest Oktoberfest for the Gopher Nation. Pasadena Homeboy realizes that the Rose Bowl relies on some unlikely bounces such as a win in Madison and a Buckeye loss at Champaign, but watch out because Pasadena Brew is capable of nearly any feat. Pasadena Brew will lower the world’s CO2 levels to 350 parts per billion, will eliminate our dependency on foreign oil while simultaneously ending the recession by creating industries that don’t yet exist while also solving the massive logjam in our nation’s highway funding by scrapping the gas tax in place of high speed bullet trains — ALL TO PASADENA. Pasadena Brew will hold a summit the day before the Rose Bowl in which he welcome the new President and the heads of state of Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, Russia, Georgia, North and South Korea, Venezuela, Zimbabwe, Sudan, China and Canada (just to make Canadians feel good about themselves) and will single-handedly solve world peace by unleashing the transcendent beauty of his 38-3 win over USC.
Pasadena Brew is not of us, but he walks amongst us. I would recommend taking whatever scraps are left in between your mattress - and the faux box of Parliaments you keep on your dresser to fool mattress robbers in these harsh times - and double it all down on Pasadena Brew and the Pasadena over against the Wildcats of Northwestern this Saturday.
Homecoming indeed.
Meanwhile, Nordy lost the first game of his life tonight to the team whose name still does not exist. However, due to Nordys not being present at said loss, researchers are still determining whether Nordy’s invincibility is still in tact.
Homeboy fave Justin Gaard is increasingly rockin’ the airwaves with his svelte positive vibe.
AND HEY!! FRANCHISE JEFFERSON AND THE PUPS ARE COMIN OUT!
But then Scott “Spaghetti” Baker and the Minnesota Wet Noodles took all of about eleven minutes to get me to minimize my HD browser in favor of the satisfaction of finishing my TPX report.
