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?