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YOU CAN TELL THE SIZE OF A MAN BY THE SIZE OF THE THING THAT MAKES HIM MAD.

· Joe Sez, News · , ,

CHRIS-SALE-TEMPER-TANTRUM-2

You know what Chris Sale needs? A good long trip to the woodshed. Unless you’ve been in a coma the past few days, you already know that Sale was suspended for cuttin’ up his team’s navy-collared 1976 throw-back uniforms cuz he didn’t like ’em, and then got into some sorta shoutin’ match with someone from Chicago’s front office. Nice, Chris. Real mature. Oh … and with a ginormous helping of sarcasism, I’d like to say “nice job” to the parents of this major league bratski. Anybody who behaves like a 20 year old John McEnroe impersonating Carlos Zambrano doesn’t deserve to wear a Major League uniform, regardless of what era it comes from.

Temper tantrums from athletes are not new. I already mentioned Zambrano and McEnroe, but that’s just the tip of the ice berg, pal. How ’bout Billy Martin, Jonathan Papelbon, Serena Williams, Ron Artest, Latrell Sprewell, Pacman Jones? Oh yeah, and there’s the ever-lovin’ crown prince of pissed off, OJ Simpson. It’s a deep pool of boiling vitriol that meanders through all sports. But no matter which offending athlete or whatever sport they participate in, the professional equivalent of throwin’ yourself on the floor, screamin’ and kickin’ can likely be traced to a really stellar job of parenting.

It’s not like this was the first time Sale flew off the friggin’ handle in a fully armed F-22. I guarantee you it’s been happenin’ his whole life, without consequence. Spare the rod, spoil the child that grows up to be a Major League asshole pitcher.

B.B. Abbott, Sale’s agent said, “The only thing that matters to Chris Sale is winning. If he perceives that something is distracting from that or being prioritized over that, he is going to have a problem with it.” Uh-huh. Dry that one out and you can fertilize the infield at The Cell. Sale supposedly accused management of puttin’ PR ahead of winning. In this case, PR was being defined as having to wear a throw-back uni. Yeah … boy … that’s a total friggin’ hardship. I’d like Sale to work a couple of overtime shifts in a coal mine to find out the true meaning of dealing with adversity. Better yet, how ’bout a tour with the 2nd Platoon, Charlie Company in Fallujah? Good F-ing Lord, I’m sick and FRIGGIN’ tired of guys like Sale melting down over nothin’, and then havin’ a pooper-scooper like Abbott try and twist what happened into somethin’ rational.

By the way, if Abbott was right, and Sale really has a problem with stuff gettin’ in the way of winning, perhaps he oughta raise a little hell with his team’s general performance — a waaaaay bigger road block than a “fashion don’t.” I’m just sayin’. And if we were to suspend reality for a moment, and say that the ballistic missle, Sale, did activate his launch codes over a uniform gettin’ in the way of winning … I think the Sox are gonna have to start playin’ naked, cuz it doesn’t seem to matter which one they’re wearin’, W’s seem pretty tough to come by.

Anyway, from the cheap seats it looks as though Mr Sale thinks his crap doesn’t stink. Well, I got news for Chris. His particular post-dump scent could knock a buzzard off a shit wagon. He’s not better than the rest of his team. He doesn’t wanna win any more than the rest of ’em do. And wearin’ throw-back uni’s now and then is part of the friggin’ game. Everybody does it, yet he’s the only one who feels the need to melt down like a runway model cuz he’s unhappy with his outfit.

You know, my Dad used to say, “You can tell the size of a man by the size of the thing that makes him mad.” That means Chris Sale is about knee high to a fruit fly. Friggin’ prima donna cry baby.

Of course, I could be wrong. But I’m not.

Joe

PIAZZA ENTERS HALL AS A MET: REASON 800 AND F-ING 70 TO HATE THE F-ING METS.

· Joe Sez, News · , , , ,

TOMMY-LASORDA-AND-MIKE-PIAZZA

There is no joy in Mudville. At least on Tommy Lasorda’s street. Of course I’m just spit-ballin’ on that, but I gotta imagine Mike Piazza goin’ into the Hall as a Met instead of a Dodger musta been more than enough to orbit LA’s most famous Italian sausage. They probably heard it all the way in Vero Beach, cuz I’ll tell you … anybody who’s ever heard Tommy when he’s upset knows what his favorite words are, and that he wields ’em like Luke Skywalker with a lightsaber. Even Andrew Dice Clay probably covers his ears.

I think Piazza is still sore at the Dodgers for not givin’ into his contract demands back in the day. Let me just say right here that makin’ eight or 12 or 26 million dollars a year to play a game is not only stupid money, it’s just plain stupid. Nobody should get paid like that unless you’re curin’ cancer or somethin’. Anyway, instead of payin’ him, they traded the guy to the Marlins who immediately sent him to New York. The back story on all of that is pretty interesting. In the end, Piazza was the best position player the Mets ever had, was a GREAT hitter and had his best years in Queens. In addition to that, goin’ into the Hall of Fame ranks a little higher than gettin’ the prize outta your Cracker Jacks box, so you should pretty much be able to decide which one of the teams you played for gets the honor.

Still, if it weren’t for Lasorda, Piazza may never have stepped foot on a professional diamond — not even in A ball. Nobody wanted to give Mike a look. So Lasorda — a long time friend of Piazza’s dad and Godfather to Mike’s brother — talked the Dodgers into takin’ Piazza in the 62nd round of the June 1988 draft. That’s what you call a throw-away pick, my friend. They sent him to Salem, Oregon. If LA is the brightest spot in the Dodgers universe, Salem is a little asteroid that’s furthest from it. I don’t think they has much hope for Piazza. But he was like family. If Tommy hadn’t insisted on makin’ that pick … who knows? Maybe Piazza is sellin’ insurance.

Anyway, if I’m Lasorda, and I’m a big believer in family and loyalty and I bleed Dodger blue, I’ve got smoke curling outta my ears when I hear Piazza’s “Mets” decision, and I’m marchin’ through my house lettin’ loose with an extra large serving of the Dave Kingman and Kurt Bevacqua word salad.

Like I said, it’s Piazza choice. Of course it’s just another reason (number 870) to hate the Mets, and I just don’t think Lasorda would be all that giddy about it.

Joe

OLD STYLE WISHES AND CHICAGO DOG DREAMS ARE ABOUT TO DIE AT WRIGLEY.

· Joe Sez, News · , , ,

WRIGLEY-PREMIER-CLUB

Hey there, weed eaters. I got a question for ya: What the hell is it with the Robin Leach plans for Wrigley Field? Excuse me all to friggin’ hell for just bein’ a baseball fan instead of a Rolls Royce drivin’, C-suite fancy pants with $1000 bills hangin’ outta my pockets, but I guess that just ain’t good enough for Tom Ricketts anymore.

Hey, I’m grateful as hell that Tom-Tom wrestled the Cubs away from the pinheads at the Trib, and has turned the club into something that has less than zero resemblance to the National League door mat it used to be. Major kudos for that, Mr Ricketts. The Schlombowski’s thank you. But plans are in the works to turn parts of Wrigley into some sorta private yacht club for the single malt sippin’ rich and famous, and they’re wedged into my craw like a friggin’ 2 x 4. That whole way of thinkin’ is a slippery slope, my friend. It gives me an Old Style headache — one that can only be relieved by blowin’ the foam off my medicine.

I suppose I should be happy that Wrigley hasn’t gone the way of the wrecking ball. If it had, not only would the best ball park in the galaxy be just a memory, but we’d now have a “kinda” ball park as it’s replacement. “Kinda” ball parks are places like AT&T, or PNC, that kinda seem like an old baseball park, and kinda have some of the idiosyncrasies ($10 word bonus for Joe) of an Ebbets or Crosley or Comsky or Fenway, but they’re just Kingdome’s in disguise. No one is happier than me that we’ve still got Wrigley in it’s almost original form. And some of the changes over the years have been good. As hard as it was to take at the time, I know we had to do the lights. It was a must. And the clubhouse? Sheesh. You can’t treat million dollar ball players like circus animals, especially now since they don’t play like ’em anymore. But not every change is for the better, pal.

Under Armor logos in the Ivy, for instance. I’m sorry, but Wrigley’s ivy walls are sacred. Or were. Puttin’ advertising on ’em is like farting in church, or takin’ a leak on the Magna Carta. Seriously, was that necessary? How much could that possibly add to the revenue stream? And the jumbotron. Yeah, every park has ’em and, quite frankly, I like seein’ instant replay. Still, for me the jumbotron is an extension of all the other crap that’s invaded the between-inning break. It’s as if ball clubs are afraid we’re gonna head for the turnstiles if there isn’t some obnoxious music breakin’ my ear drums, or videos of some fat guy dancin’ every second the ball isn’t in play. It’s supposed to be a ball game, not a friggin’ Chuck E. Cheese.

I know I’m in the minority on this stuff, but I don’t really give a crap. I’m of the opinion that Wrigley is part of the history of Chicago, if not the entire US of A, and because of that I think it oughta be treated with a little more respect, and with a nod to the undying loyalty of the average SOB that used to skip work to take in day games. That’s right. Where were the well-heeled back in the day (year before last) when the Cubs woulda had a hard time beatin’ the Sheboygan Little League All-Stars? Not at Wrigley. But now … oh yeah … now it’s cool to be a Cubs fan. And it’s gonna be so much cooler to be of the Premier class, not just the riff-raff in steerage. Can’t say it’s rubbin’ me in a way I like. The more management shoves us into the archives and turns Wrigley into a place where only bankers and lawyers can afford to go, the more I feel the sting of Tom Ricketts backhand.

I suppose season ticket holders have the right to the kinda stuff they feel oughta come with that sorta cash outlay. But where does it stop? Gold-plated cotton candy? Champagn-dipped curly fries? Personally, I care a whole lot more about the product that’s on the field than whether my Chicago dog is made outta Wagu beef or not, and I think the true Cubs fan agrees with that. It’s a baseball game, not a night club. Braggin’ about Wrigley’s room service treatment and doily-covered seat cushions isn’t about bein’ a fan. It’s about keepin’ up with the Trumps. Me? I’ll take the Joneses and the cheap seats any day.

Joe

 

FORMER CARDS SCOUTING DIRECTOR GETS OBSTRUCTED VIEW SEAT FOR NEXT 4 YEARS.

· Joe Sez, News · , , , ,

CHRIS-CORREA-JAIL

Hey there, pot stickers, Joe “Untouchable” Schlombowski, here. So I was readin’ in the Trib that Chris Correa, the Cards’ former scouting director, was just sentenced to a skosh under 4 years in the slammer for spyin’ on the Stros. This story is so whacked that I’m havin’ trouble knowin’ where to even start. But, hey, I’ll give it a shot.

First, Chris Correa isn’t exactly on par with the Pink Panther when it comes to bein’ a criminal mastermind. I mean if you rob a bank, and you’re wiley enough to get away with it, you end up with a ton of cash. BOOM! Instant payoff. Rocket scientist Correa, on the other hand, hacked into the Stros’ database in order to get his beady little eyes on their draft list, notes on trade discussions, player evaluations and a 2014 team draft board. What the hell is the payoff with that kinda move? Sure, over time, the Cards maybe, possibly, eventually might, sorta, kinda be able to make some minor gains at the expense of Houston, but we’re talkin’ about stuff that typically takes years to develop. And Houston isn’t even in the same league, let alone the same division as the Cards, which if they were it would have the greatest possibility of makin’ a difference. And what does Correra get outta any of it anyway? Maybe a raise if and when enough of it pays off, but … wow … is that a roundabout way of gettin’ ahead.

Second, if you are gonna do your own little Richard Nixon reenactment, why the hell would you target baseball? Now, I could be wrong but it seems like whatever Apple Computer is plannin’ for the new, new thing might … just might … be a little more valuable than the OPS of some 16 year old phenom from Barahona. Yeah, I get it … Correa was in baseball so he was workin’ the turf he knows. But the risk/reward trade off is just too thin. It’s Twiggy on a liquid diet. It’s friggin’ anorexic.

Third, and no offense to the Stros — well, the usual amount, but no more than that — if you’re just bound and determined to partake in corporate baseball espionage, is hackin’ into the Astro’s database where you wanna start? That woulda been like Nixon’s guys breakin’ into the Bethesda Motel 6. If I’m Correa — and thank God I’m not cuz I’d have the IQ of driftwood — I’m hackin’ the Cubs. Why? Look at ’em. Look at the club, the depth, the talent, the farm system. If you get away with it — and I gotta assume that was part of Correa’s plan — why wouldn’t you go after the information that can make the biggest difference for you, both in terms of it face value, and the fact that you’d be takin’ it from your arch-friggin-rival? Nope. Correa goes for the Stros in what can best be described as a pinheadian move of gargantuan proportions.

But then, what would you expect from a Cardinals guy?

Joe

NATIONAL HOT DOG DAY, BASTILLE DAY AND RADICAL ISLAMIC ASSHOLES.

· Joe Sez, News · , , , ,

BASTILLE-DAY-FRENCH-FOOD

When I got up yesterday, I had a little extra spring in the Schlombowki waddle. It was National Hot Dog Day. As usual, I saluted and checked my condiments. No … the ones in the pantry.

Nothin’ … and I mean NOTHIN’ is better than a hot dog. Except 3 or 4 of ’em. A few dozen more if you’re Joey Chestnut. Anyway, National Hot Dog Day pays tribute to that, honoring the highly under-appreciated and unassuming hot dog as the quintessential American food. It’s waaaaaay more American than apple pie, by the way. When the hell was the last time you saw someone chowin’ down a pie at a ball game? Never, that’s when. Look, when American’s do American stuff, like picnics or a 4th of July BBQ or takin’ in a ball game, hot dogs are on the menu, pal. Period. And if they’re not — if you’re doin’ any of those things without havin’ dogs or brats or polish or whatever kinda encased meat products (the 3 most beautiful words in the English language) that turns your crank, you’re just plain un-american. You could be KGB with an attitude like that. Boris Badenov. Putin.

Hot dogs are actually the perfect representation of America, in a small, 3 or4 bite-sized epicurean way. Think about it — America is made up of all kinds of people (and St Louis fans) from all over the world. Melting pot? Pffft. To me, that’s a hot dog, baby! If you ever saw how they make ’em, you’d know exactly what I’m sayin’. Why? Cuz dogs are made outta all the left over stuff once the fancy cuts have been carved up. So, just like your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free are the ingredients in American soup … your fatty bits, small trimmings and pig lips yearning to be delectable are mushed all together in their own perfect union — the delicious all-American hot dog.

Anyway, I was really lookin’ forward to Chicago doggin’ all day; breakfast, lunch, dinner, bedtime snack … the works. It’s a Schlombowski tradition. And, as it turns out, a nutrition tradition. Yeah, seriously. I’m pretty sure hot dogs are a super food. I don’t really know what that means, but they’re food and they taste super, so I’m goin’ with super food. It’s a good thing, like kale … only I’ll eat it.

Turns out that yesterday is also Bastille Day — the day France celebrates its liberation. So I’m thinkin’ to myself how friggin’ awesome it is that the most important day on the French calendar aligns with the most important day for America. Yeah, yeah … I know some of you think Christmas or the 4th or Fat Tuesday are way more important. That’s ok. Everybody is entitled to an opinion. However … you either love hot dogs, or you’re wrong, my friend. Anyway, if it wasn’t France — let’s say Tonga or Rwanda or Cameroon or somethin’ — it wouldn’t raise even one hair in one of my eyebrows. But France? France is some kinda food Mecca. 1) Croissants come from there … 2) everything they cook is slathered in butter … mmmmmm … and 3) the all-time slam dunks of slam dunks; French fries. Now THAT’S a country that knows food.

So we’ve got these two simultaneous celebrations — one about a food nation and another about a nation’s food. It was like some freaky Julia Childish karma kinda thing; an anointing of the hot dog (le hot dog in French) as one of the finest of all chef’s creations, deserving of Michelin stars or linen table cloths or somethin’. By the way, I still don’t understand what the hell tires have to do with food.

And then everything went to total shit.

Some twisted M-F-ing radical Islamic ass-wipe with an 18 wheeler does his sick, murdering Road Warrior thing through one of the main streets in Nice, France during their Bastille Day celebration, killing almost 100 people and injuring Lord knows how many more. This sick F-bucket went on for more than a mile, weaving in and out to try and mow down as many people as possible. Women, children, everybody. To say the least, I lost my friggin’ appetite and, quite frankly, I don’t think I’m ever gonna celebrate National Hot Dog Day again. At least not in the usual way.

What I’d really, really like to do now is make every chicken-shit psycho terrorist a-hole in the world, put on an orange suit, get down on his knees and eat what I call a jumbo DAESH dog. That would be about 6 ounces of C4 shaped like a brat, covered in poopy-flavored relish, metal shavings for onions, and a nice mustard-gas mustard, all packed into a burnt-to-a-crisp bun so it’s black as their friggin’ hearts, and their stupid friggin’ flag. Now that’s what I’d call a National Hot Dog Day, my friend. KA-FRIGGIN-BOOM!

My heart goes out to the people of France. My stomach, too. It’s much bigger. Like everyone else in America (except for the few that are here lurking in the shadows plannin’ similar fun and games for us) I’m saddened by this tragedy and the pain it brings. I wish we could unleash the full force of a Chicago weekend on Syria and Iraq and everywhere else these guys are plotting their assholian carnage, cuz that would pretty much put an end to it. Would be a helluva lot better than doing to ourselves, too.

Joe

PS. Sorry about all my French. Seemed appropriate.