Thursday, August 6, 2009

The Black Abbot & Costello

Let's be honest. On their own, Ryan Howard and Jimmy Rollins are not the most inspired thespians/spokespeople. Try as you may to block it out, RyHow's abomination of a Subway cheesesteak commercial will never be forgotten, and J-Roll's good deed commercial for Reviving Baseball in Innercities (aka RBI...see what they did there?) actually makes me want kids to join gangs and stab things. But, put them together and the results are always AMAZING. First we had their righteous remix of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame", and now we have this gem embedded below. For once, Funny or Die has posted something that doesn't actually fall into the 'die' category. Enjoy.

Monday, August 3, 2009

Lee Elia ain't got shit on Cliff Lee

There is no denying it, the DR is on life support. We are Terry Schiavo, 1990-2005. Our collective contribution to the world wide web has rarely been so insignificant. Yet as our esteemed staff has hibernated in air conditioned rooms up and down the east coast -- all due respect to Eldiablogrande and his affinity for fans during the hot summer months -- rest assured, three readers, we will return triumphant, stronger, and more offensive!

The big news in my life (my imminent move back east) is a mere blip on the radar of truly important developments that I think we can all embrace. Our beloved Phillies have made their power move, telling J.P Ricciardi to eat the proverbial penis and scooped up Cliff Lee in exchange for a bounty of promising prospects we will all soon forget. I, for one, have no beef with this trade. Despite sharing an unfortunate common last name with one of the all-time pieces of shit ever to adorn Phils pinstripes, he also shares a first name with an all-time Phillies great. Someone needs to buy me that poster, pronto. The more crafty lefties the better in my book. If Hamels can drag himself away from his wife and get his shit together, October might bleed into November and we will all have reason to celebrate yet again. Until then, props to Ruben Amaro, ain't a soul in Phillies nation who can complain about our commitment to winning.

With August comes the end of my time here in the Windy City. The year has disappeared faster than a Jake Schultz consumed 40. Yesterday was yet ANOTHER gay festival in my soon-to-be old neighborhood. And what did I learn upon my return home last night at 11:00 PM? Put simply, gay men love tank tops. Beefy gay men, skinny gay men, gay men who now fancy themselves as women... they all love tank tops. Outside of that, my tutorial has been rather limited. But a lesson learned is a lesson learned.

There has also been a massive amount of death in the news this past month. Thoughts of my own demise put me on to this cheery website, which might very well make its way into my daily routine, somewhere between the Inquirer sports page, the New York Times Business page, and starbury tv. I have long since wished death upon the Red Sox, only to have the sanctity of their championships dealt a fatal blow in the alternative. At least when the Phillies did steroids, we continued to suck, thus avoiding the public shame that now falls upon our neighbors to the north. That's no coincidence as I see it.