"...and when the tips of their flaccid dicks touched, Glenn Beck turned to the crowd and rejoiced, America hath been restored!" (Associated Press)

A Season of Promise.

This bullshit winter, despite Cali weather, has extracted any ability for me to articulate or really give a fuck about grammar or punctuation or anything really. This isn't that different from anything else on this blog but my energy to give a shit wanes more each day. Not that I actually thought the Dodgers would acquire a "marquee player" or whatever, and if they did, said player would blow out both knees before or during spring training and would be paid despite their absence for the next decade or so, but I thought after a somewhat exciting and positive final month of the season, in the way cancer remissions are exciting and promising, some cool shit would go down. Of course McCourt is gone but another gutless, greedy cunt capitalist or a group of them will own the Dodgers, in the way we're all owned and fucked forever. Remember, Frank McCourt is still alive. Reputation tarnished, money in the bank. Also, remember he has an address. They all do. Time to bust out the tar and feathers. Or Uzis and AKs.

Here's a run down of beautiful facts, headlines, quotes, a maelstrom of stupid shit that signifies the state of the Los Angeles Dodgers of Los Angeles, the actual city of Los Angeles on the eve of another apocalypse, perhaps the real apocalypse. The last season ever will include A.J. Ellis!

"...20 million off the pay roll, Fox, Loney arrested after car crash, Big Names Not on Dodgers Agenda, Jerry Hairston and Aaron Harang, A Platoon in Left Field, budget constraints make Dodgers get creative(my favorite by the way, redefining creativity to mean shitty) A Platoon at Second, A Platoon at Third, Jerry Hairston and Aaron Harang..."

Fuck it, I think I'll stop there. I think while the Angels were spending the GDP of most African countries combined on two coveted assholes, Tommy Lasorda and Andre Ethier were handing out hams to children or something. I didn't read up on it. I actually think in the grand scheme the latter is a better deal. No sarcasm. Fuck the Angels. And Orange County. And Glenn Beck and the Crystal Cathedral and Mickey Mouse and rally monkeys and fans who call their players "Figgy" because they're too white to do anything otherwise.

I know I sound sore and should reserve my hatred for the Giants or better yet, the owners, the bankers, elected officials, white supremacists, Christian fundamentalists, etc. I actually dislike the American League, the Yankees, Red Sox fans and wifepunching starting pitchers much more than the Angels.
But hating the Anaheim Angels of Anaheim blindly and belligerently is good for the world. Like when you make a wish to the stars and send telepathic unicorn vibes outward beyond the infinite cosmos.

Case and point:

*These dicks, retarded on Coors Light, will be chanting whatever stupid nickname Angels fans give Albert Pujols. For a decade.

I hate baseball.

666~CLAYTON MOTHERFUCKING KERSHAW~420

Clayton Kershaw was the best pitcher in the National League this year. Any old, white East Coast nostalgiacunt who thinks otherwise is a bunk bitch. And a dummy. Roy Halliday didn't win. Fuck you. Kershaw pitched for a team that had a seizure inducing shit year, a shit offense besides Matt Kemp and a shit owner who will hopefully die of syphilis before he can build anymore parking lots. We'll all miss you Frank. And most of all, no run support. Ask Hiroki Kuroda. It ended up being a promising season. For now, I don't even have to think about their bankruptcy or even more depleted offense. "No run at big names," "pay roll less than it was last year" "Kuroda might be leaving." Seems promising.
Party on, Clayton. However your kind parties. Doesn't strike me as a blunt wielding whoremonger. But he's still just a kid. His beard isn't even coming in at full force. Nature will take its course, friend.
Clayton Kershaw has risen the ranks, sky-high above the runner-up to My Favorite Christian Athlete from Texas Award. Normally I hate all of you. Except Clayton Kershaw for now. An impressive season among seasons. That beard will come in just fine. Perhaps one day, 30 wins. And a mustache.

spray paint the walls

It wasn't a deliberate vow of silence. I was watching the Dodgers lose to Milwaukee sometime in early August and decided it wasn't worth talking shit about. It never is but usually I have nothing better to do. In August I wrote two zines, High and Outside #2 and #3, adderol, caffeine, bluntsmoke. Then I had to move abruptly, find a place with bad credit and a yuppiecidal pit bull. Two red flags when you live in Shit City. All this while having to resist throwing my now former landlord down the stairs. I might just dedicate this offseason and therefore this blog to listing all the methods and reasons why, concerning the eradication of said landlord and wealthy, property owning gentrifying tyrants in American cities altogether. Kill them all. They're constantly waging war against the working class and belong to the same scumbucket as the owners of professional sportsteams, the high cardinals in the Church of Cunts.
Frank McCourt still owned the team in August and now he does not. Until the Dodgers are sold to another rich piece of shit who pillages our pockets and souls, this is good news. This lone, lost era of wonder where we resigned Matt Kemp and no one is injured yet. Dee Gordon is the real deal, Clayton Kershaw will win 30 games, A.J. Ellis will hit .244! Until the season can turn to shit, we have a few months to bask in the end of the McCourt era and 2011 as a whole. It was a shit year. In the end, we had two of the best players in the major leagues and the chaos of young, potential futurestars was enough to feel better in September than you did in July. Maybe some great players will want to come to L.A. and get paid 100 million dollars to start 35 games. The weather is really nice.
Oh, well. Smoke ten blunts and listen to UGK. Write Matt Kemp on police cars and bank windows. No reason, just say fuck it. Tear some shit up.
World Series Twenty Twelve!

The Trade Flatline. I mean Deadline, no wait, I do mean Flatline. Because there is no fucking pulse. "p.s. sick arson photo, bro."

This photograph is about all the articulation I can conjure this week. It sums up how I feel about the insipidly hyped Trade Deadline and the remainder of the season. Somewhere down the line I'll pontificate further. For now, just watch it burn. I think this is a boat house on fire on some place called King Island. I think it's in Australia and Arson is suspected. It's too bad Frank McCourt wasn't inside.

High Notez.

Rafael Furcal has successfully raised his batting average to .189. Congrats on this stellar achievement. This is the kind of shit that wins championships. At least Dee Gordon would get some practice and get ten to fifteen more people to come out to Dodger Stadium.










But let's not forget the greatest news of all:
Javy Guerra now leads the team in Saves, surpassing Jonathan Broxton with 8!

Welcome back to Shit City. Hope you didn't get too comfortable elsewhere. Here's your beverage sir, strong and cold, just how you like it. It is a delightful surprise to see you, sir, I figured since you went into hiding after such a slew of peril that you would have taken to your surroundings well enough to blow your goddamn head off. Well, we're certainly delighted you made it back here in one piece. Drink up, it's not even August.

All Star Breaks

It will be easy for me to boycott the All-Star game because I've already boycotted the season. The Dodgers were very helpful in this regard. Even if it was being played at some other monument to thieving corporate cunts in another failing city, it would still be just as hard to watch Matt Kemp, Andre Ethier and Clayton Kershaw have the time of their lives inside a dark and empty season that already necessitates amnesia, dementia, any available form of escapism. That said, I hope they have a good time. Curtains drawn tight at the Comfort Inn in Glendale, they gotta stick around to face the D-Backs in a few days anyway, throw an empty bottle of Ten High whiskey at the TV screen, fuck that stupid cunt on Sportscenter, "You don't know me,you don't know shit!" ...All cokesweat and teardrops, "I'm an All-Star you stupid bitch! I am an All....Star...."
Enjoy it boys. Enjoy the mother fuck out of it.

All I can do to keep from thinking about those luxury suites at Chase Field in Phoenix as those wealthy bags of shitscum sit around and stuff themselves with piles of your money dressed in Ranch and Buffalo sauce while a deliberately manufactured plague of racism and ignorance perpetuates outside, is smoke a mountain of grass dipped in PCP and tears and listen to Z-Ro records. Like many great MCs from Houston still holding it down, he can rap about being sad and lonely and hard as fuck better than anyone. Better than Bon Iver or whatever shit people are listening to. Normally, I'd be partial to some L.A. shit, especially for this blog but this song is more appropriate than ever. The Astros do have the worst record in the league. They suck. And they beat the Dodgers. Chop and screw my mind. Anyhow, fuck the explanation. And this blog. And the All-Star Game.

May Gila Monsters be released into the luxury boxes where Ken Kendrick and Bud Selig french kiss during the game. While sitting there watching, they will be making more money off more people's backs than any of us could even exaggeratedly imagine. Perhaps they could invite Joe Arpaio or Russell Pierce over to the box for some Nachos. Let the fucks get real comfortable before the Gila Monsters are let loose. Hundreds of them. Remember, Gila Monsters are venomous. And if they're too slow and their bite doesn't get the job done, Rattlesnakes will accompany. Diamondbacks. Oh, how ironic. Fuck baseball. Cue the music.

Sarcasm and murder suicides.

It's becoming more annoying when they actually win games. Or a game. That "historic" 15 to 0 blankjob on the Twins really rallied the troops. Two days later, they lose the series on a 1 to 0 reversed shut out. One to fucking zero. Solidifying their rightful place at the bottom of the standings. Well done, motherfuckers. Hear the roar of 15,000 fans sarcastically clapping, rolling their eyes, sighing, sunken, stumbling out to the half empty parking lot. Going home now in a nightmare of traffic and a mindless maze of indecision and fear.

Trying the radio to strangle your thoughts, welcoming any dissonance that everyday life can provide. But the radio just sells lapbands and then plays, Play That Funky Music Whiteboy for the 300 millionth time. And you've always hated that fucking song. Don't worry though. McDonalds is now open late.

Onward to a shitty apartment in El Monte, Pomona, Rialto, wherever. It just doesn't get any easier. The TV is on now and rich, Armenian cunts are whining about bikini waxes or something. Pray to some shadowy nonsense that you have a little weed left, a can of Bud Light, a Tylenol PM to crush up and snort, anything. You wish you hadn't sold that handgun to those teenagers last month when shit was rough and rent was due. But maybe there's a high note. A silver lining but you'll take bronze, nickel, whatever. Your one bathroom apartment has a decent sized bathtub to drown your children in. And/or yourself. That's today's good news. Go Dodgers.

*An additional high note: Jonathan Broxton still leads the team in Saves.

These fucking pieces of shit lost to this fucking piece of shit.

Brett Myers is a punk bitch who punched his wife and sucks at pitching. Especially this year playing for the worst team in the league Houston Astros. We'll see who has the worst record in a month or so. Motherfucking shit. This blog is drowning in redundancies and its ability to suck is an honest reflection of this shit situation that won't end. Brett Myers punches women. I was hoping he would get beaten in the parking lot or at least run over, humiliatingly by a Mini Cooper or something, over and over. But until then, he gets a lot of money and held the Dodgers to four hits. Fuck him. And them.
Yo, Dodgers, you all lost to this piece of shit. How does that feel?

Dee Gordon is tight. Brian Sabean can eat fifty three dicks. Life is sad and slow.

Well here we are. After the road trip. When you play ok sometimes but still lose half your games, you end up remaining several games out of first. There is still good pitching sometimes that goes nowhere, run support sometimes, losses to shitty teams, almost winning against good teams, ultimately when you don't find ways to win, you are a loser. That last sentence was simple and stupid and sounded like something some screaming redfaced ex-relief pitching future sexual assaulter over at ESPN would say. The big leagues. It makes me sick to say shit like it but then again it makes me sick to have an ounce of hope inside this sickening season. What a fucking waste. While the young dudes are coming in and making a case for the future, the veterans (in their late 20s) who are having great seasons, especially Matt Kemp, will be somewhere else soon and then we can rebuild forever. Dee Gordon is tight. I hope he keeps it up. There is still no offensive threat at at least three positions all the time. It's stupid. Fuck it. I wanted to write about baseball fueled by the feigned hope that it can leave you with during a long summer on the grind. But instead I'm left pulling out my mustache with pliers like with the rest of 'em. Nothing more to say about it. I'll still be smoking hashblunts, screaming words out the window once in awhile, summertime now. Work and words and weed. The only ascension remains inside my mind.

Offense. Runners on base who came around to score. Runs. More than one. For consecutive games. Yeah, I don't know what happened either. If you were drunk on Sunday at The Ravine and it felt like you were dreaming passed out on a stranger's lawn walking home, with so many runs across the plate in one day or maybe you found yourself late Tuesday night mind suspended in the strange and distant world of a three game winning streak, with the hopeful assistance of psychedelic dope, it was probably a nice break in the interminably monotonous chain of shit play that your Los Angeles Dodgers have been living in the last two months(and since last summer at least.)
The following evening, they were held scoreless by a winless Jimenez with his earned run average coming in at five. Then, a day off before taking it to the mean and formerly important streets of Cincinnati, beginning a daunting road trip with their shitty line-up, their frustrated starters and the youthful emergency crew of young relievers in tact. These relievers have been touted all week because...they're isn't much else to tout about. (James Loney hit his 2nd home run? McCourt makes payroll?) I hope these kids hang in there, I don't really hate any of them yet. Maybe Rubby De La Rosa can play catcher too.
We'll see if they continue this offensive surge or else lose 2 to 1 the next ten games. Every time they strand runners and pull hamstrings will erase any notion that there was any impulse of positivity in the first place.
But the chaotic wheels of fate could always turn in their favor, however doubtful we are on the outside looking in. A decent road trip, staying afloat in a shit division, anything new, exciting or not resembling the way they've played as a team thus far would be galvanizing as fuck. We'll see on June 12th.
The next few games will be potentially annoying, on top of all the other shit going on in your life. Let's not get ahead of ourselves here, or...

The path lit up in purple neon bulbs leads back to the familiar road of escapism.

Dear baseball, fuck you.

A Champagne Jam to kick off Interleague Play.

(From Cannabissearch.com/strains/champagne)

"A lustful combination of Hashplant and a Kush strain that was pollinated with a male Burmese cannabis strain, Champagne offers patients an exquisitely pleasurable medication. The effect sets in nearly immediately and lasts anywhere between an hour and an hour-and-a-half. Ideal for patients with depression, inflammation and migraines, this 50/50 hybrid is popular in dispensaries all over. Coated with tri-chromes, more experienced cannabis patients often use Champagne to make high-quality hash."

-This photograph reminds me of Pizza the Hut from Spaceballs.


I obviously give a fuck about baseball today.

Fuck it.

Here's another photo of a train wreck. A real good, old tyme one. Soon to come, weed recipes and music videos. Things that win sometimes.

Ladies and genteman, you're 2011 Los Angeles Dodgers!

Baseball was better when everyone was on steroids.

Nobody reads this shit. So maybe its safe now to take this blog in a different direction. I've said it before. This team can really lead to redundancy. Their bullshit is seeping into my life which is strange because I've had to care far less than any other season in the past, to avoid jumping out the goddamn window, but inevitably their piss poor play persists and then permeates my life. The other day a friend needed help moving some couches and said she'd buy me lunch even. So she lifted one end and looked at me standing there like an asshole shrugging. What's the point? I metaphorically popped up a first pitch change up with the bases loaded. These motherfuckers have got to go.

I would like to think that the Albuquerque Isotopes would score more than two runs in three days against shitty teams but then again, most of their line up is starting so maybe the Chattanooga Lookouts.
If I gave a fuck, I'd look up the statistics and back my rant up.


Anyhow, this blog might slowly become some kind of blog about different weed I smoke, mixtapes, tight breakfasts I make. Maybe just photos of my pit bull wearing different pairs of sunglasses, whatever it takes.

Following each game and writing about them still not getting it together just sounds like weaksauce in a shit sandwich. I get suckered in still but holy fucking shit, I had to watch them give up one hit and one run off an error against the Arizona Assholes and it really bummed my mom out. What a waste of time and money. Kemp and Ethier will be on another team soon and Frank McCourt can still insist we're doing just fine. Let's hope he's raped and mauled by Chihuahuas sooner than later.

Somebody get these motherfuckers some steroids.

To celebrate finally doing really hi-tech shit like putting up photos and videos and hopefully more in the future, here's something I found on the internet. All you have to do is google search "yuppie SF Giants" and this pops up.

It's funny. You can chant World Series all you want. Your colors still fittingly represent sunburn and wine diarrhea.

Brox on the rox

I wanted to add a photo of Jonathan Broxton but I think this says it all. Except I guess Brox Ton is more of a Mack truck so maybe this just symbolizes the last couple seasons as a Dodger fan that Broxton has been a part of. The good (100 mph fastballs, strikeouts all the time, seemingly eons ago,) the bad ("Playoff Meltdown" and the memorable sequel, "Playoff Meltdown 2: Can you fucking believe this!?!") and the ugly(Cataclysmic Yankee meltdown of 2010, sinking, sinking out of contention and then into this season.)

There's nothing anyone would like more than a young, 300 pound closer with sideburns, from Georgia, who came up with the Dodgers. But he's making it easier and easier for me to accompany the choir of "boos." Well, at least we'll trade him to the Brewers mid season for cash and an injury prone minor leaguer who will fade away like last week's dopesmoke and Milwaukee Broxton will inexplicably revive himself and save 50 games next season. Either way, get him the fuck out. Lucky for us, the rest of the bullpen doesn't look so fucking good. I'd rather see Rick Honeycutt out there in the 9th these days. As I wrote that, I realized that I wasn't exaggerating. Fuck, what a terrible year.

La Chingada

Another day, another billion dollars, another night, another meltdown, it would be so much easier to spit venom solely about the goddamn disaster that's Jonathan Broxton right now but with so much more going on, something of such importance drowns in the cesspool that is the 2011 season. The good news, I suppose, could be Ethier's hitting streak but it has also become irrelevant in the face of all this other good news.

While it's mildly entertaining and even more mildly fulfilling to see Frank McCourt be universally exposed as a failure, it doesn't help with the sinking ship. It'd be more fulfilling if he would be beaten and robbed and the people owned the team but I know the limitations of victory in this life. It's a perpetual, metaphorical 2009 NLCS.

Our proud owner can't meet payroll, which in the scheme of the present economical climate for most people is insipid as fuck, and not being a Pittsburgh or Cleveland market, no offense to those cities, this is just sad. And all the other tragedies suspended in Dodgertown this year are just a likely, predictable result of people at the top not having their shit together. And just like any instance concerning your owners, landlords, employers, etc. chances are it's not getting better for you. The worst thing to ever happen to these bloodless motherfuckers is an embarrassment, a slap on the back and a pay day somehow. Even McCourt not being as wealthy as everyone thought only means he's a multi-millionaire not invited to the Billionaire's Club. Cry into this collective dick, Frank McCourt. Nobody cares about you and your Quaddafiesque ranting to the media. We hate you. Move aside so some other bloodless motherfucker can own us and make our quality of life just a little worse than ever.

Month down.

It's a vow of silence or else a vow of perpetual bluntsmoke until the season ends. I'd like to enjoy this corroding world without stupid shit like baseball fucking my head up. But it doesn't always work like that.
One month in and it couldn't be better. Once again I exaggerate my predictions and expectations so that I won't be too suicidal when we can't score more than five runs and when we do, blow a five run lead or when even more positions become "platoons" or "by committee" or more injuries and meltdowns and shitty parking lot beat downs with the light shed due only to public relations bullshit, media ignorance and the ubiquitous baseball soft spot everyone feigns. Fuck it all. And we didn't even mention Bud Selig the repo man. Which I'll only be happy about if it results in the Frank McCourt parking lot stake burning I spoke of months ago. It all kind of sucks and I don't care as much as I thought. But the chemical burn inside my chest is just flammable enough to keep me watching and cringing and writing and dying.
Ethier hits the ball every game and Kershaw can't get run support and if Matt Kemp could multiply, we'd be just fine.
I went to the excruciating 12 inning win against the Braves last week. It was ok. The Police State was in full effect but not too many people showed up. Should be good for revenue. I parked at Elysian Park and smuggled in some alcohol.
It was half off day, noon game, Thursday but due to recent events, beer was full price. Which everyone knows, charging ten dollars for Pabst curbs gang violence. Studies at USC have been done, google that shit. This is sarcasm. It's about all I got left.
Mediocrity is worse than being complete shit sometimes. It provides the illusion that maybe it will work out. Long enough to get you spending your money on said Pabst and Jerry Sands jerseys. And what the fuck is going on with Brox Ton?
My head is a mess. I haven't even written an e-mail in weeks. I'm full of anger and rust. Maybe it's because they played so goddamn bad on Jackie Robinson Night. That was terrible. Or the next night. Or the brittle bones and muscles of Rafael Furcal. Or it's probably just a smaller, more manageable tumor in the great failure epidemic of these states and these times. Something we can deal with a little more tangibly. It sure seems this way but it's all connected. It's the same fucking mess.
Hard times in the junkpile of good times, an eve or two before Chevron and Blackwater team up to protect the mansions from the apocalypse, which means no words from me or you or anybody. Until then, we'll be smoking chronic and holding up middle fingers, wondering why it's gotta be so hard.

First place!

All the suspended dread along the path toward Opening Day, more than ever it was out of sight and mind but I'll admit I had no other plans but to watch the shit. A more immediate problem than the Dodgers probable lack of offense and the perpetual frustration merrily carried over from last season was the fact that ESPN had to market this shit in primetime because the Giants are defending champs. What's more stupid than Opening Day at Dodger Stadium being at 5 pm instead of 1 pm was that Vin wasn't calling the game. Cue three to four middle aged, former player talking heads who do nothing but talk shit to each other while we wonder what the count is. A little unnerving but I had the radio on and the TV on mute, which had a two second, or a one pitch, delay but it was worth it. Vin laying it down with ease, with grace, I could close my eyes and see the game and then watch a replay on ESPN soon after. For some reason, Vin calls the first three innings and for this special occasion the last three, which I'm sure there is some bullshit, contractual explanation but I'm too lazy and furious to research that fact. I'd rather sit here and say 'fuck that' because I could completely guarantee that nobody, not one motherfucker, in Los Angeles or elsewhere would rather hear Steiner and Monday tranquilize them in traffic than Vin Scully paint the picture he has for over 60 years. So, this sucks too.

Clayton Kershaw was really fucking good. He, like last season but without any run support, out-pitched Tim Lincecum. It was a classic, National League ballgame. 2 to 1 was the final, the offense looked about as good as expected and so did Jonathan Broxton, where he gets the save but it doesn't sit well yet. Not until he strikes out the side in a one run game. Just once, please. Not a bad series. The Dodgers won a tight one the next day, rested half the line-up (?!?!?) and lost 10 to 0 and then won on Sunday in another shaky but victorious outing. Matt Kemp looks very pre-Rihanna out there, defensively and offensively, there are still a bunch of dudes I can't believe are starting and Clayton Kershaw looks like he'll end the season with a record of 8 wins and 12 losses with an E.RA of 2.00. No run support but if the rest of the N.L. wants to take a cue from dickface Aubrey Huff and make 53 errors, it will help Dodger pitching immensely.

We're only four games into this bitchseason, I'm sure it will be interesting and terrible. It's been a good time smoking dozens of blunts and having innumerable beers on ice, listening to Vin, wearing Dodger gear. The beginning of the season is in itself a fat blunt laced with hope and dreams and jaguars and unicorns in or atop of some lowriders surfing giant waves of psychedelic rainbows as they all crash gracefully into the center of my heart.

Fuck the world.

Fantasy Metal

Although I was never interested before and will continue to talk shit about it, I will sail the tempestuous seas of fantasy baseball this year. Or at least flow through the murky shitflood, holding on to some makeshift flotation device.
I was always against it because I have a life. Which is not true, I found out, so there's no dissuasion there. Also, I always figured I had enough problems with real sports and most of those said problems were superficially stupid enough. But here I am. If anything, it will distract me from more pressing problems, baseball and otherwise. And the league isn't a bunch of whitecollar, whitefaced, dickheads who have power lunches and say things like, "Gonzo is off the hook, babe."
This league is with some homies from Riverside and the team names include "Marihuana Cigs and Beer" and "California Lopez" among others. I currently fake own and manage the Dome Valley Bluntwrapz. And I'm going straight to the top!
Probably not. My biggest concern besides never having played fantasy baseball and being increasingly disillusioned with bullshit like this anyhow, is that I'll be too high or drunk to remember the draft date. Then I can end up with Jay Gibbons and A.J. Ellis in my line-up. Hey! Just like real life.
So maybe I can rant about two different threads of my life weaving through the shitstorm that surrounds us all.
Dome Valley Bluntwrapz. Y que?

Heaven and Hell (reeled in and gutted like the rest)

Well, Major League Baseball has done it again. Extracting my funds in return for poor service, occasional black-outs and a visual document of seasonal disappointment. I only have a subscription to MLB TV because I'm living in Oakland and need to hear Vin Scully's voice to remain sane. I'm not the kind of baseball asshole who gets excited about watching A-Rod reach some bullshit milestone. I want to cancel it, I don't need it. Fuck the Dodgers, etc. But I'm going to be reeled in and gutted like the rest.

The fact that they just access my money, take 25 fucking dollars out so I can watch Gabe Kapler pop out to end the 3rd inning of some bullshit game in Arizona, is some bullshit. It's the same old, reliable, cyclical, masochistic bullshit I put myself through every year about this time. So I'm an asshole. This year I don't think I can afford it and care less than I did last year. Someday Bud Selig will die and nobody will truly care. Maybe it'll be this year. Selig going straight to hell, which only exists in my mind for people like him to go to(I don't subscribe to religion,) is more likely than the Dodgers winning the World Series in the next decade. So, maybe I could save the 25 bucks and buy drugs with it, throw a party when he dies. I'll keep the three or four people who read this posted on this situation as it develops.

Another long season lies ahead. Don Mattingly is tight. Frank McCourt is not. And Vin Scully, who by the same non-religious, figurative afterlife I mentioned, is going to heaven. In fact, he is God. So, 25 bucks to the devil every month so I can hear God call a losing season, with grace and impeccable beauty. But the fact remains. Godless world, Bud Selig owns you, the Dodgers are nearly limbless in their pursuit of a championship and Orange fisherman hats were purchased in bulk last October, not before but after. "Not to mention, I put shoe polish in my already ironic hipster beard! Next up, Christian tattoos!"

Fuck the world. And baseball. I'm going to make some bomb-ass breakfast while I still can.

Re-runs of shit TV.

So I didn't kill myself. Or anyone else yet. And here we are now, Spring Training around the bend I could really give a fuck. This season should provide plenty of material for stabbing myself in the face with a butter knife, because I'll be eating pure butter with a knife, hopeful I'll die of cardiac arrest before the All-Star break, but something tells me that, with a ready weapon in hand, a tenth consecutive 1 to 0 loss will put me one toke (of PCP) over the line and the butter knife will have punctured my skull multiple times...
Unless Jay Gibbons hits 35 home runs. Or that all nine players "platooning" three different fucking positions will all have really incredible seasons. This looks like a disaster. But last season they looked good and played for shit. So, I never have any idea what will happen but usually it doesn't look good, it's fun for a minute and then we witness countless dickmoves and don't win the World Series.

Fuck Frank McCourt. Gotta say it again and again. It's nothing new but I can't help thinking about another swindle by some swine. Some despotic rich dickface strolls into town, buys our shit up, charges us more money than ever, fucks it all up and sells it back to Fox. Slumlords need to be burned alive in the stadium parking lot while we're deep into a case beer and on our fifth pregame blunt. And when the Narcs come around in their black SUV, "just enjoyin' drivin' around the parking lot," we can tell them to get fucked and move along. Or else get burned.
Class war aside, I am excited for another season of failure and the eradication of my soul. It's an inexplicably hopeless cause. At least, Vin will be there to tell it straight, lay down the poetry and remind me that the canopy of blue sky above Chavez Ravine is certainly a sight to see.