Hey, there peanut gallery. Joe Schlombowski here.
Not to beat a dead horse or anything (although that would give me a world of satisfaction right now) … not really, I’m just pissed. I mean how do you go from spanking the league all season to creating such a powerful sucking force as to risk creating a black hole in the universe? We should change our name to the Chicago Electrolux, or the Hoovers or somethin’.
To be fair, not everybody stunk it up, but as a team — and this is a team sport last I checked — we definitely played in an odoriferous, holy-cats!-who-cut-the-cheese? way. I quote Bull Durham again: “This is a simple game. You throw the ball, you catch the ball, you hit the ball.” Apparently, that’s true for some, not so much for the Cubs. At least in the playoffs.
The numbers are friggin’ pathetic, so if you haven’t seen ’em, chug down a bottle of Pepto Bismol and look ’em up. I’m only gonna talk about two of ’em here. The first is the number 100; as in one hundred years; a friggin’ century of misery that couldn’t be stopped by a team that kicked ass all season long. The other number is (800) 843-2827. That’s the Chicago Cubs ticket office which, in the interest of public safety, oughta update their robo-message for next year, as noted above.
And Lou, if you are reading this (and I hope that you are) I would love it if next year is exactly the same as this year, right up until the playoffs when — and I know you will agree with this — it has to be a whole helluva lot different. From where I’m sittin’ I gotta think a little bit of that guy you’ve been trying to downplay might help to motivate everyone who did such a good job imitating Mario Mendoza the past week. I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job or anything. I think you’re the best. But I also think it’s time for you to bring out Mr Hyde.
100 years has come and gone. We win next year and it stops there. We don’t, we’re into the second century. I don’t think anybody wants that.
Wait ’til next year.