Fair Eastside

If you need a morning pick-me-up, as I do, this should do the trick.

Moving On

It's early November, and I am hungover. The impetus for my hangover has both immediate and slightly more removed beginnings. On the one hand, I was out with Fine Tone last night. Nuff said. On the other, I've been dating the Phillies since mid-March. Much like a night filled with Jameson served in plastic cups, a season with the Phillies can be bitter, nauseating, yet simultaneously fulfilling. And here I sit, comfortably resting on my overpriced couch, oddly pleased that the Phillies season is over. In recent days, I've had an opportunity (largely because I don't have shit else to do) to recount the wild ride that we all have just endured.

To begin with, let me say this: the Phillies were fuckin great this year. We all must remember that the Phillies--let me reiterate...the PHILLIES-- just played in their second straight world series. And while the season undoubtedly ended in disappointment, and I may or may not have wished horrible pain upon Pedro Feliz due to his awful tendency to leave people on base, the fact of the matter is the Phillies were the second best team in the land. They are the Jason Mann to Peter Rook. They are Fake Dude to Dude. They are Jonah to Leon in a drinking contest! Although none of that makes sense, the point is we had a stupendous year and I am proud to wear copious amounts of red. Next year we will rise again, these are the glory days people!

The playoffs damn near killed me, for the record, and not because there isn't a pill purple enough to cure the heartburn triggered by the sight of Brad Lidge's mole. They damn near killed me because they turned me into an old man, constantly in need of more sleep and frustrated by the slow pace of the game. While Jorge Posada might find it necessary to suck on Any Pettite's earlobe twenty times in the first three innings, I prefer Cliff Lee's brisk pace, 7:05 start times, and national anthems sung by celebrities, not Lower Merion police officers. On a related note, how do the Yankees get John Legend and Mary J Blige to sing the anthem, and we get the fuckin cast of Glee?!? Shiyeeeet, if that doesn't explain our porous showing at the Bank, I don't know what does. Whatever, I mean, I'm not complaining. The Phils added an additional month of anticipation to my life. Very few things get my blood pumpin, and work aint one of em. So thank you Phirries, you make me want to dance.




But now that the love-fest is over, I turn my attention to two teams that, truth be told, underwhelm me. The Eagles, for certain, are a good team, albeit not a great one. We have skinny superstars, worthless superstars, injured superstars, and bipolar fatties who we thought were going to be superstars. We dominate one week, lose to the Raiders the next, and secretly begrudge the more successful team across Pattison Street. Let it be known, I will ride or die with the Birds, but until the playoffs start, I reserve the right to latch onto this train with a rather ambivalent clutch. Safe to say, there will be no pre-game face-painting on Appletree street, bukaki aside.

And then there's the seventy-sixers. Whereas the Phillies inspire, by the look of the crowd at the Wachovia Center, it's apparent that the fans don't realize two important things: (1) Ed Pickney is the new mayor of mixville; and (2) the new Dei Lynam could get the bottom lip. Here's hoping someone pulls an Erin Andrews on her. It would seem, however, that the fans are focused a bit more on the lackluster rotation Coach Eddie is throwing out there on the floor. Without question, I am increasingly frustrated by Sammy's dwindling minutes, Elton Brand's aversion towards scoring in double-digits, and Jrue Holiday not being Ty Lawson. But I want to believe! I want to foresee anything other than a 42-40 season, an early playoff exit, and Giul wasting all his time in those god-forsaken seats! There is no white towel in my linen closet, rest-assured, but the Sixers are dangerously close to being unmistakably insignificant.



And finally, I note that the annual celebration or our existence is creeping up on us. That's right, the annual DR awards -- in the Gianni room --is less than three weeks away. I can't speak for the rest of you, but I intend to shamelessly flirt with the cougar hostess. Get your outfits ready, press your pocket squares, dust off your favorite public league ball-cap, and load up on brown liquor. Remember, if we don't celebrate Sammy, no one will!

Getting That Get Back

There is no need to discuss specifics, we all know what the Phils are facing. We can do this, and not to sound actually serious for once, but we have to do it one game at a time. Find below some needed inspiration. This is not new in any way, but most of the best good luck charms are not.

Going Back to Philly - Always Sunny in Philadelphia from Danny DeVito

Let's hope Mr. Lee brings the gangster tonight. Go Phils, bitches.

Yank Deez

Watching Game 2 last night I was struck by the relative silence of the NYC crowd. The quiet crowd in Game 1 was somewhat understandable: when your team get's shut out for 8 innings and your best player looks like Ali the Prime Minister at the plate and your team loses 6-1, it's kind of difficult to get hype. But Game 2 proved to me what should have been obvious: Yankees supporters are a bunch of corporate suck-off pseudo fans who wouldn't know how to boo if you dressed them up in a ghost costume and stuck them in the middle of an Usher video. But don't take my word for it; even resident Fox corporate stoolie Ken Rosenthal thinks the Yankee fans are soft:

"As a native New Yorker, I never thought I'd say this, but here goes: Thank goodness the World Series is leaving New York so we can get a little atmosphere."

He goes on to ramble over 800 or so words about how Yankees fans are a pathetic mockery of anything approaching true fandom. And this is coming from Fox no less - a network that has very little incentive to piss off the fan base in America's biggest media market. Just another piece of proof that rooting for the Yankees is like rooting for Goldman Sachs, only less fun. I hope we kick their ass.

Tenacious LEE!

Jack Black and Kyle Gass eloquently sum up last night's game.

What is the World Coming To?

First the Mets blow the division leads two years in a row to the Phillies. Then Mike Piazza gets caught canoodling with Lance Bass at a gay bar in Chelsea (pretty sure that happened, even if the internet cannot confirm). Next the Mets finish closer in the standings to the Nationals than they do to the Phillies in 2009. And while all of the above demonstrates the Mets swift and steady decline into being a joke of an organization, the ABOVE represents the lowest moment in recent memory.

See Steve Phillips did what any man with a full head of perfect silver hair, an appetite for hyperbole, and an impressive baseball resume would do. First, he got a job with ESPN following his run with the Metropolitans. Then he started spending extra time at the workplace, you know, brushing up on his catch phrases, his posture, and his bottom-lipping. Soon enough he wasn't making it home for dinner, failing to keep track of his children's after-school obligations, and spending an inordinate amount of time mentoring the fresh faces filling the EPSN newsroom. No one was shocked to find out that (gasp) a man in his position was having an affair. Not I, not you, not even Endy Chavez. But low and behold, Steve Phillips' conduct is as disappointing as it is predictable.

Not to beat around the bush here, but if I were to, I dunno, risk my job, family, otherwise decent reputation in the public...I would not cheat on my wife with the above. In fact, I wouldn't even glance at the above. I might let the above dome me up while vacationing on some third-world island and tell her my name was Ed Wade, but I most certainly would not conduct an extramarital relationship with her. See Steve, you have a duty to the male population. If we are going to learn of your deplorable behavior, you have to, at the very least, leave the men of the world sympathetic to your plight. Leave us nodding in agreement, muttering to ourselves that we too would leave our significant others for a taste of that apple bottom. Or for pure entertainment, show us that you are a freak like Marv. But to throw it all a way on a girl who may or may not have graduated from the GFS class of 1998, indulged a bit too much on free donut Friday, and stalked your son on facebook? Really? The entire Mets fan base should be disgusted with themselves.

Rodney Dangerfield Lives!

In the aftermath of one of the greatest Phillies wins ever witnessed which catapulted our version of the big red machine further into our second straight Red October, I went to my usual routine of hunting down what I was positive would be a horde of articles praising the Phillies, warning the Dodgers of their imminent hurt, and capitulating who the Phils would face in this years fall classic.

Needless to say it was a fools errand.

I really shouldn't have been surprised, after all I have endured my entire sports life in the city that praise forgot (which I concede was much deserved for the most part, especially if we want to talk about the mid to late 90's with the exception of a few Lindros led Flyers teams which ultimately and familiarly disappointed), but it was going to be different this time, right? We were the defending world f'ing champions, we defied the odds dictated by previous defending National League world champs and not only made it to the playoffs but dramatically dispensed of our first round rivals, so the sports media pundits were finally going to be ready to give us the nod, correct? If Chase Utley was asked that very question, he would be correct in answering "In-fucking-correct".

You can absolutely get your fill of praise, optimism and general good tidings by trolling the local beat writers, columnists and bloggers. You can extend the teasing by reading articles written by local guys on the big media outlets. You can even find yourself confused by an article rife with Dodger praise that somehow ultimately predicts the Phillies winning over at ESPN.

Unfortunately it seems to stop there.

To reiterate, the Phillies have won the NL East three years in a row, won the WORLD SERIES last year, and we are still the red uniformed stepchildren of the playoff teams. The Rodney Dangerfield of the postseason. This is not simply ingrained Philly-negativity rearing it's ugly, predictable head as there is no shortage of easily found examples of articles written over the past few days that prove this developing complex to be firmly rooted in reality, that I assure you. However, what finally set me off was the discovery of William Rhoden's article from this past Sunday's New York Times. The following quotes should appropriately define my rage:

"....what Major League Baseball needs is a great World Series, a Series for the ages. And with all due respect to those two other potential matchups, it’s a Yankees-Dodgers World Series that could take the game back to its roots at a time when baseball desperately needs to recover a portion of the trust, if not the innocence, that it has lost in the steroid era.....

If the Yankees were to face the Dodgers in the World Series, the season would end with two great players who had admitted culpability and moved on. It would represent a line of demarcation, that the game was ready to get past one of the most painful episodes in its history....

Baseball needs a World Series for the ages, one that reinforces its roots and, yes, its relative purity. Granted, this is a lot to ask one World Series matchup to accomplish, but baseball needs an authentic fall classic.

It needs Yankees-Dodgers, for the good of the game."

Sadly, thanks to J.C. Romero's follies last year at "GNC", I can't go on the unbridled, self-righteous attack that is aching to spill onto this page, but due to him not being on this years playoff roster, I can at least ask Mr. Rhoden WHAT IN THE NAME OF JESUS THE PIMP ARE YOU SMOKING?!??!?? The Yankees and Dodgers??!?? Manny Ramirez and Alex Rodriguez, thanks to personally increasing the Dominican Republic's Gross National Product by at least 300% with their steroid usage, are the FACES of today's steroid era. As for the admissions of culpability referenced by Rhoden, I was always raised to believe that vague finger-pointing was not actually an admission to ANYTHING. Let's recap, A-Rod claimed that his cousin stuck needles in his hind-parts, the contents of which he 'never knew'. Admission fail #1. Manny had some time to think about it, and actually landed on saying his doctor just prescribed him some pills and he assumed they were fine. Admission fail #2.


With that in mind, how exactly does the proposed Dodgers-Yankees matchup reinforce any manner of purity? If anything, having two of baseball's biggest stars who were both caught red-handed REINFORCES those disillusioned by the steroid-era. If we're discussing 'purity' the obvious answer is a Phillies-Angels series. Sure, that may not be the most interesting Fall Classic from a media or ratings perspective, but that couldn't have been what Rhoden really meant, right? Nor could it be that he has a great revisionist history and longs for the days of the Yankees and Dodgers being the kings of New York, because nobody over the age of 50 is still irrationally bitter about that at all. Therefore I'll assume this was a simple search and replace accident in MS Word and he actually meant an Angels-Philliesseries.

As usual, I digress.

The Phillies simply have not garnered the respect which has certainly been earned and sure as shit should be acknowledged, and I agree it's something to be upset about, but not for too long. As fans, we should take a cue from the players, who choose not to dwell on the egregious oversights of the national media and know that if they conduct business as usual, they will leave their detractors two options: silence or respect.

Nothing will do that better than rings on two fingers. These next few weeks are going to be awesome.




(NOTE: Apologies for not bringing the usual dick jokes and bad puns I tend to heavily rely upon, just needed to get a few things off my chest. Jester Flintskins will return shortly, I may even bring nudity next time)

Prosthetic Legs and Wiping That Ass

Friends, countrymen, DR community, I am at long last back in the proverbial saddle of posting. Don't lie and say you missed me, but I am back anyway so suck it. Now we cannot be positive of it, but my sources tell me the picture above may be doctored in some way shape or form. It's up to you the reader to make that call. What I can tell you for a fact is that Mr Wallace loves his championship belt, and apparently fake limbs.(look for this heading in the article: "Unlikely Chiefs fan unfazed") What in the hell was Rasheed doing tossing around some dudes fake leg? I have my opinions:

- Smuggling a legs worth of weed into town for a blunt session.
- Somehow trying to pickup a technical foul in the off season.
- Making his own leg lamp a la "A Christmas Story"
Got you own opinions? Send em on in to thabulbubak@gmail.com

Now, on to the Wiping Your Ass section of this post...

You, as I did, might be asking yourself why in the fuck is Terrance Howard so serious about hand washing? Is he a germaphobe? Does he hate H1N1 as much as my wife? Or, is it something way deeper...something like the way in which he expects his ladies to keep their derrieres clean? Surprisingly it's actually the latter. Check out what Mr. Howard has to say about how he expects the upkeep to go down:

"Toilet paper - and no baby wipes - in the bathroom. If they're using dry paper, they aren't washing all of themselves. It's just unclean. So if I go in a woman's house and see the toilet paper there, I'll explain this. And if she doesn't make the adjustment to baby wipes, I'll know she's not completely clean."

Damn, dude is dropping bombs of wisdom on the world and doesn't get so much as a Peoples Choice Award for it. For shame world, for shame....

The Tao of Pedro

What can one say about Pedro Martinez? He's pitched like a Cy Young winner, he's brought occasional hilarity to postgame press conferences, and he's done more in the service of the jheri curl than anyone since Eriq LaSalle let his soul glo. He's been such a positive presence that I've been lately inclined even to forgive his many years as a member of the Red Sox. Though it's been a slow process due do his Boston pedigree, embracing Pedro has become a gradually pleasant experience for me. I often imagine him in the Phillies clubhouse, doling out hilarious Dominican nicknames (Ryan Howard as "Barrio Sin Luces" anyone?) and organizing midget wrestling tournaments during rain delays. Oh, and attending cock fights in North Philly. What, you don't remember this amazing piece of youtubery?

Pedro Martinez Cockfight Video - kewego
Pedro Martinez Cockfight Video

That's right - between Mike Vick and Pedro, South Philly is now home to professional sports' most notorious animal rights offenders. Which as far as I'm concerned, is awesome. Sorry Dan. That is all.

My Neck, My Back...

This week has not been generous in the free time department, but I have been on the map enough to learn that Shawn Andrews, our favorite frosted tips having overweight black man has done hurt his back. And likely his neck, crack, and power U to boot. And hurt 'em bad. The takeaway? He won't be thrusting his large paws into the armpits of other seriously large humans anytime soon. At least not during game time. And while it makes sense that a man of his substance would have a bad back, there are all sorts of alternative explanations for his injury that flutter around in the ether. For one, his mental fortitude has certainly come into question in recent years. But regardless, I have a viable theory of my own. Sportsnet put me on to the fact that S.Andrews, aka S dot Mandrews, has an affinity for the youtube. And not like you or I favor hilarious videos, but rather, the man likes to post. A lot. In this gem, he proves he is an ass clown in his basement, has no future in the music industry, and smokes as much weed as Michael Phelps. Enjoy: