"...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!