Dear Bob Carpenter.

Dear ass clown Bob,

Hi. Long time watcher, second time letter writer. Listen...about your calling of the games...I'm gonna repeat myself a little, but I have a couple new pointers as well. Allow me to proceed? (In other words, pretend I'm not Rob Dibble, who you love to constantly talk over.)

• My biggest pet peeve still exists with you, good sir. Please be aware that when you state something like, "Here's the pitch, and it's foul-tipped to the backstop" you're incorrect. For a ball to be ruled a foul-tip, it has to go sharp and direct from the batters bat to the catchers mitt, and be caught. If the catcher doesn't hang on after it hits his mitt...well...it's just a good old fashioned foul. But then again, you're not clear on the foul ball rules either, skippy.
  
• Hey, dude? You're on TV. That means that your audience actually has eyeballs, and can see the game. Please resist your urge to forecast the plays, because you're fucking killing me. If I have to hear something along the lines of..."How far is this one gonna go?" only to see it caught ten feet from the wall again, I'm going to kill your cat. Also, please refrain from calling a ball a hit until it hits the fucking ground, and calling the runner out until the throw beats him to a forced bag, or he gets fucking tagged.
• Here's a new one I caught from you last night, Carpster. (I can call you that, right? Thanks.) There was some chirping going on from the Nats dugout when a pick-off attempt at first happened. They wanted a balk called. I missed what happened initially, so I was eager to hear the announcers break it down for me. Carpy didn't disappoint with the brilliant suggestion that "maybe they're saying he didn't come to a complete pause before throwing to first." What the fuck is coming out of your mouth, sir? Jumping monkeys on a pogo stick! Seriously? Just what the hell are your qualifications? ::Checks Wikipedia:: Wow. 33 years in baseball, and you don't know what a fucking balk is?!? Then again, you questioned the ruling of a line drive last year, so I guess I shouldn't be too surprised.
  

Okay, Bobby. That'll about do it for today. I appreciate you reading this letter, and sending me some good feedback. But..since you won't, I'll just imagine how it would go...

::phone rings::

Me: Hello?


Carpster: Hey hey, little buddy! How's my main man doing? Huh? All right! Hey, thanks for the feedback, tiger. I appreciate all the little people out there that enjoy my work!

::points his fingers at the speaker phone he's using on his desk and fires off two gunshots from his fingers::

Me: Yeah, hey, did you read my....

Carpinater: Can't say enough about how much I enjoy getting fan mail. Hey, do you own an official Bob Carpenter score book? Bet you'd get a thrill outta having one show up in the mail...signed by me, wouldn't ya? All right kiddo, I'll make it happen.

Me: Actually, Bob I.....

Bobby C: Okay party peoples, I gotta get moving. As always, I love my fans. You stay outta trouble you little scamp, you. OHH, gotta go, I just saw a hot little number walk by. Time to turn on the ol' Carpster magic.

::tries to hang up phone but hits the wrong button, allowing me to hear still::

Muffled Bob voice from down the hall: Hey, hey, little lady! You got it going on! Hey, I'd love to see how far this one could go, if you know what I mean...And I think you do!

::Voice trails off...

Fucking Christ.

This game might be it for me. I don't know how I don't hang myself
after this shit. Crushing.

ZNN returns, and he brings his right hand man.

So sorry for the disappearing act I pulled last week. To be honest with you, I don't have as much fun writing about the losses as I do the wins. To be even more honest with you, I'm lazy as shit.

BUT IT'S A NEW DAY, PEOPLE!

ZNN pitched well enough to get the win yesterday, including striking out that Johnny Lannan wanna-be David Wright three times. Seriously, though..what's up with Wright trying to take a run at Johnny for the best eyebrows in the game?


Get your own fucking gimmick, David Wright Wrong (BURN!). (Also, to appreciate Johnny's eyebrows to the utmost, it is imperative you see this picture. Simply magnificent.)

Anywhoo, ZNN threw just over 100 pitches last night with 62 of them strikes. He threw four pitches, and was even changing speeds on his fastball. He did his job, limiting the Mets to one run on six hits while striking out five. He left the offense to his main man, JESUS!, however. The Venezuelan Messiah crucified the Mets going 3-4 with a two run HR, 3 RBI and 1 BB.

I managed to sneak into the clubhouse after the game, and found the two of them holding court in the corner. I snapped me a pic...


I must admit...I had a strong moral dilemma with the picture above. I mean...who do you choose to be God, and who gets the Jesus spot? I eventually gave Jesus the Jesus spot because, well, his name happens to be Jesus.

One last thing for you guys...I managed to find what has to be the worst headline since the Adam Dunn signing when everyone was using the "Dunn Deal" pun. Oh...Bill Ladson, you rapscallion you!

Nats win again, as Zimmermann falls from the Heavens and delivers swift justice.

Our savior came out last night in gleaming white, red, and gold and smote the Atlanta Braves with his righteous missiles of good and justice...full...ness.
Yes, for he surely struck down upon thee Braves with great vengeance and furious anger, as they attempted to poison and destroy his brothers. And you know his name was ZNN when he lay his vengeance upon them.

You know how some people claim to see things in photos after they're developed that were not seen at the time the picture was taken? You know, ghosts and some shit? Well, I was at the game last night*, and snapped off a couple pictures of ZNN. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at the time, but after I went home and developed them in my dark room...well, let's just say he looked a tad different on film than in person.



*My lazy ass was not at the game. It was like...rainy and cold. Think I'm gonna drag my ass out there knowing the game would have a delay or three? Think again. My ass was on the couch with a Yuengling and the remote, so I could switch between the absolutely riveting rain delay coverage and the Capitals whooping up on the New York Rangers.

A special thanks to my wonderful dog Sedona, who not only saved my life with some pep-talks, but even managed to bang out a post yesterday. Much love, Doney. Much love.

And now, if you'll allow me the time, I would like to award the first ever awesome dude of the day medal for 2009. Ladies and genitalmen... I proudly award it to, Mr. Jordan Zimmermann. Yay! Cake and punch is in the kitchen. And use a fucking fork this time! We're not neanderthals.

The dude that feeds me is not happy dude.

Hai!

Section 138 dude not feelings gud. Found him holdin plaztik bag over hiz hed. Den I's found him with drain-0. Told him "Be happiez!" but he no listens. He'z bean loked in hiz room for 2 dayz nao. Hope Natz win soons, or no ones left 2 feeed me. Oh wells. I eat hiz face after he dyes.

Ohs! Dude gave me magic paperz dat haz my picturez on it. Want see?


Datz me! Section 138 guy wuz crying and had sum hurting toyz. I gotz dem back, tho.

Bai!

Washington Nationals do not lose.

Soooo much to write about. Soooo little time.

I'm trying to knock this post out before my boss sends me another email. We'll see how that goes.

My views from last night's not loss:

• I crushed a six-pack of Reese's peanut butter eggs in two innings. Them fuckers be delicious.
• Adam Dunn is so reliable, watches ask him for the time. (Thank you, thank you. I'll be here all the week. Tip your waitresses.)
  
• Shy Young could seriously do some damage if his three pitches can all be thrown for strikes. He can't bunt for shit, however.
• Zippie chance DOOKS! was taking on that 3-0 pitch. Before Dibble (Who I actually like!) and Carpy (Who I still hate!) had their green light conversation, I beat them to it. I'm in my living room, and I jump up and scream as loud as I can, in my best Bill Alfonso voice, "Green Light Daddy-O!" The man beast swung, and that shit was crushed.
• I think I'm gonna like Joe Beimel. Sure, he might look...um...different (is caveman-like too harsh to say?), but he just made the Phillies look silly in the 8th. The set-up job is his.
• If we just get some consistent pitching, we could be okay. Right now, we rank 5th in the NL with an average of 5.25 runs scored/game. We're dead last in runs allowed per game, however with 7. I'm telling you, this offense can score more times than Mickey Rooney had wives. (He was married 8 times. Seriously. Mickey fucking Rooney. This little guy.)

I know I promised an update last night, but I was so damn excited that I ran to downtown Rockville to celebrate with the other three fans. We were hooting and hollering, and then it turned into a riot donnybrook pathetic display.
We got all boisterous and flipped over a cop car motorcycle moped. Then we stared lighting huge bonfires sparklers. Fucking good times. I didn't make it home until 10:15, so I was dog tired.

Uh-oh, just got an email from the dictator. I'll talk to you deliriously happy folks later.

BREAKING NEWS

Nats on verge of a win. More updates to come.

See ya, Lastings.

I wonder if anyone stored this on Lastings' iPod touch, so he can watch it repeatedly on the sled dog ride to Syracuse?




I know it's seriously lame to repeat post, especially so soon, but I'm just getting massacred at work. I think I just developed carpal tunnel syndrome cause my forearm aches like hell from all this typing. (Hey, I know how Shawn Hill feels now. Cool.) Hopefully I'll find my way out from under these TPS reports soon.

I'm off to the game...

Hopefully I can make it out alive today. Since Stan Kasten went on a Philly radio station and invited the whole fucking city of Philadelphia to come down, I have a feeling I should take massive amounts of antibiotics in advance. Philthadelphians have been known to carry doucheness, stupididous, idiotness, meatballheadidous, and gonorrhea.
I'm bringing a pack of D Cell batteries with Chase Utley's name on 'em. If I don't post in the next few days, it means I'm in jail. Pray for me, oh loyal readers.

Shairon vs. Derek Lowe Tonight.

Which means I get to use the "wife beaters" tag again. Yay! I can also create the "home-wrecker" tag. Sweet.

My main man Shairon Martis, the Curacaoan Killer (Wait, does that sound like he kills people from Curacao? I mean the opposite. He kills people not from Curacao.) is going up against Derek Lowe. A man who is famous for being such a shitty starting pitcher that he was moved to the bullpen not once, but six times. Hell, he actually got punted from the bullpen in favor of Ugi Urbina, who is now serving 14 years in prison for trying to kill a couple dudes. (See what I did there? I equated Lowe to being worse than an attempted murderer. Did it work?)

Also of note for Mr. Lowe? He was arrested for beating on his woman in 1994. I read the transcript of him talking to the cops*, and not only did he admit to beating on her, he used the oldest, lamest excuse in the book. "But officer, dude, she just don't fucking listen!"

Anywhoo, Derek matured a bit, got married, had kids, and then got a chick fired from her job and divorced by her husband cause he played hide the pickle. See, she was a reporter covering the Dodgers, and he was a married dude with two (or three, I'm not known for my fact checking) kids. He thought she looked "neat-o" and was "super hot". They did the deed. FOX fired the reporter, and the reporter's husband filed for divorce. But...this was true love, see, so Derek promised he'd leave his wife for her, just like in all those Lifetime movies. The main difference from them and a Lifetime movie, though? He actually did it. Derek and the reporter (Carolyn Hughes) got married last year. Yay! Everyone wish them well, cause they sure as fuck are gonna need it.

I ran into Derek and his lovely bride** at the ballpark sometime back. I even took this picture, as some groupies were professing their love to D Lowe.



So, in case you needed any more incentive to root for our boy Shy Young, just remember that Derek Lowe did all the above, and kills kittens, too.


* Is a complete lie, but I'm positive that's what's in the transcript.
** I have no clue whether this is wife number one or wife number two. Does it even matter though?

About those statues at Nats Park...

All pictures here have been ripped off borrowed from Nats320, which is a great blog that you all should stop by every chance you get. SBF is a really friendly guy, and his wife is cool, too. Say hi if you run into him at the ballpark.

Now, with that out of the way...

What in the shit is this crap? Seriously.

When the fuck did the Big Train grow extra arms? Is that Walter Johnson or Dr. Octopus?


Is this Josh Gibson? What in the hell is that growing out of his butt? Is he a peacock?

Hondo, buddy. So sorry. It appears you have a few arms and bats shooting out of your chest. Maybe you can head to the Doctor and get an ointment?



It seriously hurts my head when I try and wrap my brain around what the extra appendages are for. Look...I'm not the biggest expert on art. I mean, my favorite painting is Starry Night, by Van Gogh, which may - or may not - actually have been drawn by a 3rd grader. So I like my stuff simple, I guess. I'll never understand the finer points of art.

::sigh::



Quick tip o' the curly W cap to DCProSportsReport. They review Nationals' blogs, and I was lucky enough to have been reviewed recently. It's a brief review, but they do say this:

Kind of an interesting blog.

Thanks for that, guys. I appreciate it. And in order to keep on topic with the review... can I interest you in adding a God damn star or two to that rating?

Lastings Milledge = a circus.

So, I'm watching last night's game train wreck, and I notice a lot of things. The most glaring, however, was Lastings Milledge's defense. I wrote in a post from last year about the rumors of Dukes going to center field:

Look, I'll admit Milledge didn't play the best CF in the world last year. I do contend, however, that he made tremendous strides out there. His defense at the end of the year was waaaaay better than his defense to start the year. He used to track fly balls by guessing where it might land, and make the biggest circle possible to get to said landing point. At the end? He would guess where it might land and make a neat little... arc. But, hey, it's progress, right?

Honeslty, folks, I am a huge Lastings fan. But I don't know what to do about his defense anymore. I'm watching the last two games, and see Lastings just getting horrible jumps and taking brutal routes. I swear to Flores, every time a fly ball was hit his way last night, I just thought "Someone cue Yakity fucking Sax." Sure enough, he misplayed one.

So. Since I love you guys, I now present to you what I like to call, "What Goes On In My Head Every Time a Fly Ball Gets Hit Lastings' Way."

Now, get some popcorn, your favorite beverage, and prepare to enter my world. Enjoy.

Ryan Zimmerman = Smiley Gonzalez??

My heart sank when I saw this graphic pop up on yesterday's (CRAPPY NON-HD) masn broadcast.




I'm sure we're all still reeling from the Smiley Gonzalez (Did we ever figure out his name? Carlos Alvarez? Daniel Lugo? Carlos Lugo? Alvarez Daniel? Sarunas Jasikevicius?) fiasco, so I know this must be like Ray Lewis' stabbing of that guy who was already beaten up by his posse and couldn't defend himself. A sucker punch. Right to the groin.

But...if there's one thing I've learned, it's that the media is never wrong. Ever. So, I'm sorry to break it to you guys...but Ryan's really 49 years old. (Okay, I may be nit-picking a little. It's only his fourth opening day start, but it is his fifth season. No. Fuck it. I'm not nit-picking. These people get paid to do this shit. Why in Flores' name can't they get things right?)

And to answer your question...No. I will not speak of last night's game debacle. I do not feel the need to regurgitate that stuff like I was the daddy eagle, and you're the babies. You're big folks. So stop crying. Please?

My first "over reacting" post

...and not even one game in.

Look, my love for Emilio Bonifacio was well known last year (nine posts about him in 41 games played last year). I didn't like the trade then, but am vomiting at it now.

Boni is 3 for 3 with two SB and an inside the park HR. Anderson Hernandez is on the DL. Belliard has an error. Nope, didn't need Bonesy at all, did we. (Oh, yeah...Willingham is on the bench, with Olsen to go lose tomorrow.)

So, I've decided to start drinking heavily rather early. I just found my cat in the corner, and took a picture, too!



8-2 Marlins after 5 innings. Mr. Yuengling is gonna get rich as shit off of me tonight.

Yeeeeeeeee Hawwwwwwww

Opening Day, Bitches!

Eyebrows is on the bumb vs. Tobasco and the Marlins.

Johnny boy's gonna hook the Fish, haul 'em in the boat, and give them to Dmitri Young Ray King Adam Dunn to eat. (It's pretty amazing that he's considered the fat body on the squad, no?)

Anyway, to recycle from last year's Nolasco post (cause I'm TOO GOD DAMN BUSY AT MY SLAVE JOB!):

Lannan for the good guys, against stinky ol' Ricky Tabasco for the Marlins. Ricky is from Corona, CA, and is sporting a wickedly hairy chin, and a nasty snarl.


Ain't he a tough looking one? Cheer up, Ricky. You're from Corona, CA. Home of The Golden Cheese Company of California, one of the largest cheese factories in the world!

(And I'd be remiss if I didn't say this... Really, guys? Kearns in right over DOOKS!? Ya'll are gonna get a text message from a certain guy whose name rhymes with Smoliga Fooks. God. Dammit.)