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.

OMG FUCKOFFANDDIE LOL OMG

There isn't anything to say. It had to be this way. Like any catastrophe, there is nothing to say. Moving on, etc. The last twelve months or so of sports has been a soul-castrating mess. Fuck it. My last and only complaint, in two parts, is that it's really fucking lame when somebody adopts a hometeam at age 30, doesn't watch many games until the playoffs, doesn't get upset when they lose and then cheers "Yay!" and twitters how happy they are. Bust out the chardonnay, we'll stick to malt liquor and memory. Ready vices to welcome the apocalypse.

Playoff Time!

If one were have asked me at the beginning of the season, what is your worst possible nightmarish mindraping disaster scenario for the playoffs?
I would have said, "No way could it possibly boil down to the four biggest stains on my life and sports in general, personally, ethically, godless fate coming down to strangle me while watching my house burn down...etc. etc." I would have just hit the bong again and forgot about it. I mean maybe three out of four teams in the League Championship series' at the very worst but no way all four would be my least favorite.

Lo and Behold, you motherfucking asshole world!

I can care no longer, I seized all feeling in early August so the way it has turned out is almost comical.

We're supposed to decide between the Yankees and Rangers. So the fascist guard of sports, the microcosm of all that is wrong, the raping of the Bronx, the billion dollar payroll, Steinbrenner somehow still smiling while he gets head from Satan in hell. Not to mention the complete lack of personality. At least stormtroopers are iconic and fictional. This is fucking bullshit.
And it's them against a team that, despite their lower payroll, lack of past success and Vladimir Guerrero, these assholes can't be cheered for because it makes George Bush think he did a good job. As he struggles with a 10 piece jigsaw puzzle, he probably thinks in his genocidal child's brain that he had something to do with this. So fuck him! And fuck suburban Dallas, megachurch, Fuddruckery cuntrags who didn't know who was on the fucking team until September. Rangers and Yankees on TBS. YEAH!!!!!!(sarcasm)

And in the National League, which is where I'm emotionally invested and the hatred lies more palpable, we have the two biggest pieces of shit in the world going at it.
For very obvious reasons, a Dodger fan might as well just put a gun in their mouth right fucking now and end it before it begins. But even when I somehow crawl out of my brain and look at the match up, I still want to vomit all over a teenage girl but Phillies fans got that covered.
See, because although exceptions abound and generalizing is an ignorant way to roll, in sports, especially when it comes to fan bases, stereotypes are often correct. Trust me, I was in San Francisco yesterday.
The Phillies have a bunch of assholes I don't like and a notably trashy and racist vibe to the organization. Ask Curt Flood. Plus, they whine and are darlings of the East Coast bias over the last few years, National League-wise, so they get Halladay and that whiny hick, Oswalt. Big deal. I'm just pissed off because I have to cheer for them. THEM! It's disgusting. It's Sophie's Choice. I think I should just drown myself in a piss puddle in the L.A. river.
And then the Giants, who will probably win it all just to spite every thought in my head. They are the fucking worst. I love when fat, redfaced stock brokers from Marin call my girlfriend a cunt at a game and then call security instead of back their shit up when I go after their throats.
Or the bleach-tipped yuppie scumbag who, three microbrews deep called my friend an Indian faggot.
These pieces of shit will be smiling at season's end as they listen to Sting in their Saabs and relax in their condo, on the ruins of the working class.
Giants, you are the yuppiest team around. Some of your fans are not but that's the face of it. All that's soulless and wrong with the world. Die yuppie scum. Fuck your fat seal mascot and orange fisherman hats for dumb cunts who started giving a fuck in the middle of the season.
The world will not stop gangraping me. Perhaps the apocalypse will interrupt coverage of the World Series but believe it, it's already begun. I'm fucking as done as I was mid-season.

The only way we win is if Frank McCourt is murdered by a prostitute.

Amen.

Coda

I would have figured on some kind of seasonal epilogue, something somewhat passionate and profound, as much as can all things considered, and while ideally it would be stated in a few weeks, you know, october. But it isn't. This tattered season has done nothing but skullfuck me in a hundred fashions, because it was far more colossal than just a losing season. It isn't worth the words and it legitimately warrants my languid, lazy, fuck off to all things baseball. I'll still write, I still have anger that won't be excavated by me alone. The elements will kill all of us. So look forward to football, soul jams and general fodder for my dilapidated and perpetually shitstained heart. Thank you, Dodgers.

Soon I'll post a recipe for some weed glaze to put on cookies that hopefully have weed in them as well. Fuck all worlds. Wake me when it's over.

Tune in for an off season full of marijuana recipes, football induced depression, character assassination and stories of fistfights with assholes. Etc.Etc.Etc.

Like....

Five records to play loud while you're high on your day off, combating bloodcurdling anger.

"2pacalypse Now" by 2pac.

"The Diary" by Scarface.

"In God We Trust Inc." by Dead Kennedys

"Vengeance" by Tragedy

"Standing on the Verge of Getting it on" by Funkadelic




September, motherfuckers.

Below Rock Bottom

I used to know this woman a few years back. Me being an alcoholic and her being a sociopath, things didn't work out just right. We were real sweet on each other as it goes and then it unraveled and that was that. As soon as the axe fell, which is always slower and gradual than I think it's going to be, this residual bullshit would hang in the air. We weren't done but it was obviously over. It's never quick and certainly not easy. And every time we'd hang out after the point of no return, knowing the inevitable result of the briefest interaction, she'd look at me with these dark and tired eyes and say, "Do you really wanna do this right now?"

Thinking on this now because the hesitation, as it goes, and necessity to say fuck it and take the next train out of this shit hole is more palpable than ever. There was a time this summer, (while doing some traveling, drugging, drinking, etc.) that I regretted the distraction because I promised myself to be consistent on this blog, solely for myself since nobody reads this shit anyways. It was supposed to be a way to keep writing and to have constant material because these seasons are always full of the age old familiar and the new and improved BULLSHIT MACHINE. So in the beginning, when the Dodgers were struggling, it was a way to productively vent my frustration, about these assholes and the assholes at large. It went well for awhile. Then the Yankee meltdown happened and then the chance to right the wrongs and the constant lack of power. It was supposed to be a pitching problem, remember? Something was always broken and that is all trivially excluding the McCourt disaster. Universally labeled now with affection, the McCunts. Then they went to Philadelphia and fucked that up beyond repair. They lost in every way imaginable. They were at the very least creative in their fuckedupness. Worst part about the entire season is the constant chances they fucking up. Despite this and despite that, gutting the farm system to get Octavio Dotel, etc. the Dodgers had countless opportunities to just win a few fucking games!!!!!!! And so, with a depleted shit bag team and owners who should be crucified upside down at a barbecue, in a backyard in El Monte, the season is gone. But still not over. These motherfuckers are playing the Giants and nothing matters. They've deemed themselves the most redundant aspect of my life.
And like I said before, I've avoiding this goddamn thing because, Do I really wanna do this right now? In public, going on and on about the same stupid shit that everyone else knows?
People are so tired of the Dodgers bullshit and in a more depressing way than usual. There have been statistically worse seasons and more disappointing moments(I think)but the future has honestly never looked so bleak. And to exacerbate(baseball analyst asshole's favorite vocabulary word) the situation, the cyclical genocide, large scale money laundering and general flatlined morale of american society has never been worse. Nothing it seems can balance this debt. And every time you think you see some glimmer slicing through the pitchblack shades, as you lie there on the flophouse floor, it's nothing. You're left there wondering why you ever gave a shit in the first place.
And just like the slow blade of a bad deal concerning a woman or man, anything you give a shit about, you wonder the same thing. I don't want to do this right now. Or ever. But I do. I hang on for a little while, walking to her house, up the stairs to a certain death. And death it surely is. But I'm here now. I'm still walking there and I don't know why. I'll probably do it again next year.

An Easy Rider-style road trip

I haven't written anything in awhile. It has to do with a number of factors, mainly the lack of internet which is another story, but also because of beer, basketball, laborious tasks, apathy, anger, for a little while contentment and being in and out of town.

All that can be said now is that the Dodgers have developed an acute allergy to first place. They get there and back off, one step ahead and two back, for two days last week we were an elite group of ballplayers. A fucking team. In one boring weekend, where the Dodgers played baseball like walruses fuck, they reversed the charge and played like shit.
A sweep of the goddamn Cardinals and first place in your hands, momentary best record in the league, Angels in town and you lose in three different annoying ways. Ethier and Kemp in their promotional bid to make the All-Star team have decided to stop playing, which is nice. Kemp hasn't hit the ball since Mother's Day and Ethier has been hitting like he has two broken pinkies, one broken thumb and glaucoma.

Once again, nice fucking life.

I'm trying not to worry or feel done so wrong by all this, it's only June and we're still only a game out of first. But they pissed and shit all over their longest home stand of the year. And here they go stumbling into Cincinnati and Boston, then Anaheim. And the Giants get Baltimore at home. Giants fans are almost as excited about this as they are about free WI-FI at their rustic yuppie mall ballpark. This will be a hard week. I'll resist the urge to take a hundred hits of LSD and fly into the sun. At least Padilla's coming back. He's been incredible. Wait, actually he sucked, got hurt and gave up a bunch of runs in the minors the other day. The bullpen has become reliable, minus George Sherill, but reliable in the way my Uncle is reliable. He'd do anything for you but he's a fuck up. So he does well for a little while and then shits on everyone's life one day, when it counts. Uncle Bullpen, I'll still send you money when I can.

Cue the heroics, motherfuckers.