Yes, another baseball-related rant. It's almost out of my system, trust me...

Take Me Out to the WULAD
Ah, the New York sports media. It’s like a fresh breeze out of a steaming sewer on a hot summer's day. By now, everyone’s aware that Vladimir Guerrero spurned the Mets’ offer that, with health incentives, would’ve been worth more than the guaranteed offer he accepted from the Angels. Let’s revisit what the WULAD Sports Desk had to say about the matter a few short days ago:

As far as I’m concerned it’s a bunch of evil propaganda designed to falsely elevate the hopes of Mets fans before bringing them crashing to the ground, and turn what could be considered a fairly productive offseason into one which could be viewed by the fervently Yankee-biased New York sports media as a spectacular failure.

And here we are. Mike and the Mad Dog spent yesterday drilling new A-holes into Mets GM Jim Duquette, and I find their arguments perplexing. Among them:

It would’ve been better not to pursue Guerrero at all than to pursue him and lose out. OK, maybe this is correct from a PR standpoint, since this allows the fatalistic fans and writers to hold up another example (in the tradition of Alex Rodriguez, Mike Mussina, Lou Piniella, etc.) of the Mets coming in second place because they failed to go the extra mile contract-wise. But Duquette never held out much hope to the fans of signing Guerrero since they had no intention of guaranteeing more than three years to a player who they considered a significant medical risk, in spite of how it might make them look short-term.

Well, if he’s a risk, why did you offer him $30 million? If these guys can’t see the difference to the long-term financial health of the franchise between a three-year, $30 million incentive-based deal gone bad and a five-year, $70 million guaranteed deal gone bad, I don’t know what to tell them. See the Texas Rangers or the Mets teams of the past few years for examples of what huge guaranteed contracts can do to flexibility. I know, Guerrero is more A-Rod than Mo Vaughn, but to imply that there’s no difference between a moderate three-year risk and a heavy five-year risk is absurd.

If the performance incentives would’ve been easy to meet, why didn’t you just guarantee him the years and the money? The incentives would be easy to meet if he stays healthy, numbnuts! If his back gets worse—and the Mets obviously feared it might—they’re screwed. And no one would insure five years in advance.

The Mets offseason can now be considered a total loss. This has got to be the dumbest part of all. Baseball people everywhere consider the additions of Cameron, Matsui, and Looper as definite steps in turning around a wayward team philosophy toward younger, faster, cheaper, giving up fewer draft picks, etc. A month ago, when the Mets were not even considering going after Vlad, no one was talking gloom and doom. This was supposed to be a rebuilding process! But what the media seems to be ignoring is the fact that Vlad was never coming to New York.

Why didn’t the Yankees, absolute kings of getting anything and everything they want, go after Guerrero? Why deal with the headache of Gary Sheffield’s personality for an inferior player when Vlad was available? Because they knew that any offer from the New York teams would only be used as leverage to get a better offer from a team that Guerrero was actually willing to play for. He liked Montreal, for Chrissake! Arn Tellem came to the Mets and asked them for an offer, assuring them that the idea that Vlad didn’t want to play in New York was only a rumor—and Chris and Mike will say that, well, the Mets never made him a substantial (read: guaranteed) offer so we’ll never know—but does anybody really think that Tellem would’ve come calling if there had been anything like the market he expected going into the offseason? Playing in New York was so appealing to Guerrero that he waited to express an interest until the absolute last minute, when Baltimore was the only other team that wanted to take on his financial weight and potential medical risk. And lo and behold, after the Mets made their offer, out comes the new owner of the Angels, looking to make a splash, and does Tellem give the Mets, who figured so prominently in Vlad’s night-before-the-prom date-hunting, a chance to respond to the Angels’ offer? Of course not. Because Vlad did not want to play in New York if at all possible. And see Robbie Alomar as a good example of a player who’s supposedly guaranteed to perform well even in a setting that is uncomfortable to him.

Maybe with a gargantuan contract, the Mets could’ve gotten it done—and I realize that Guerrero is currently one of the best players in the game—but personally I’m glad they didn’t hang themselves out to dry on this one deal. Check with me again in five years, which is the only time we’ll really know who was right on this one.

And speaking of the sweet words of the New York sports media—Roger Clemens goes from beloved hero to cop-killing-traitor in three months. See you on Old Timers' Day up at Yankee Stadium, Roger! Watch those flying tomatoes and batteries!

"Banned CD" presents Spam Subject of the Day: Re: KWXK, the cat raised

Wrapped Up Like A Product Review: Moon Shoes!
Since C-Baby was just the right combination of naughty and nice this year, Santa decided to grant her wish and leave something under her tree which the WULAD Consumer Corner felt deserved to be shared with the great un-bouncing masses—we speak of the intriguing Moon Shoes.

Essentially two mini-trampolines for your feet, these can allow for some pretty serious air, depending on the weight of the wearer and the number of big greasy rubber bands he or she chooses to attach to the shoes. (However—be prepared for a generous helping of pain and profanity as you slowly learn to apply the bands without detaching your fingernails.) While it's true that by the manufacturer's reckoning these little babies will only accomodate someone under 180 lbs. who wears up to a size 9 men's shoe, that probably still includes a great many of our readers of smaller stature. Here's a look at the W.C.C.'s extensive testing process at work:



Of course, the kids on the product's packaging do look like they've been dropped off a roof and photographed just before hitting the ground—but even if such acrobatics are unattainable for the big kid or smaller thirtysomething adolescent, these are still much more fun than a barrel of frozen Chinese cats, and as the photos demonstrate, the hilarity and mayhem is ripe for the pickin'. Four stars on the WULADometer.

Mars Needs Coffee
And if you're truly starved for visual stimulation, Utter Wonder recently called for "Starbucks on Mars" submissions—by the time WULAD's contribution was posted, I'd already realized it wasn't complete. Put on your 3-D glasses and view the new and improved version here.

It’s Friday, and my brain still hurts from crafting the vacation report below, which means it’s once again time for…

WULAD Web Wround-Up
Firstly, Shawn, proprietor of He Is The Man Who Will Fight For Your Honor is back from the Land of the Lost (Domain Name), and will hopefully be wanting to spank J. L. Hewitt for undefined time periods to come. He did put in a few jabs at the WULAD Media Empire while his site was in limbo, however—specifically our gams. I don’t generally predicate my self-esteem on public opinion of my gams (unlike Ann-Margret, star of Viva Las Vegas, which I watched last night along with many ear-splittingly loud amateur commentators), but I can’t let an attack on them go unanswered. So—gaze upon my glorious gams. And just you try to avoid changing your shorts.

Meanwhile, ESPN has some potential Hall of Fame plaques for Pete "Rule Twenty-what now?" Rose. I especially like the one that says, “Employees must wash hands before leaving restroom.” And here's more good news for the nation's number one advocate of collective amnesia. (Also, for anyone not already sick of the subject, I couldn’t resist joining a lively little mini-debate on alicublog—see the comments.)

Via Beck of Twittering Machine (who recently became "Jesus' age, but still younger than Hamlet"), you can now write messages in the snow to your loved ones or enemies. That’ll save me a lot of drinking.

Finally—this is not Web-related, but I send you into the weekend with the following quote which demonstrates just what makes C-Baby C-Baby: “One time when I was little, the bathroom was full of ants, so I squished them all with my tiny hands, and buried them under my brother’s blankets, so that when he went to rest his sleepy little head, his bed welcomed him with a pile of squashed ant carcasses.”

Note: my fellow bloggaz should sign up over at Blog Madness for a chance to be crowned King (or Queen) of the Dorks. Everyone's doing it!

Dungeons & Douches
In each of our lives, there are destinations that beckon, grail-like, to the deepest parts of our psyche—places that call to us but that we do not dare to dream of actually seeing with our mortal eyes. For one soul, that destination might be the Pyramids, for another Mt. Everest, perhaps Paris in autumn or the Sistine Chapel. But C-Baby… her heart pined for one enchanted place above all others—Medieval Times.

Wait, you might think—are you talking about that restaurant with the fighting suit-of-armor overgrown Dungeons & Dragons guys? Affirmative; but it is so much more. Let’s begin…

As part of an impromptu holiday tour of California’s Southerly regions, C-Baby and I made our way down the coast—braving antique-rattling earthquakes in Morro Bay, lightning-fast highway speedsters down U.S. 101, and terrifying abandoned outlet malls in Oxnard—until we found ourselves at the end of our quest: that tourist Mecca of the West Coast, Anaheim. (After a mid-state visit with the extended WULAD Clan to partake in holiday familial festivities, we had decided to kill the twin birds of D’Land and The Grail with one stone of a two-day stop.) As we pulled into the parking lot, her eyes widened at the sight of not the small cult following she expected, but a thousand people—not only nerds, but men, women, and children of every stripe, gathered from far and wide across The Realm—waiting for entry to this magnificent spectacle of medieval cheese and death.

We managed to take a short-cut past the horrendous line—we had purchased the “Royalty Package”, after all—and as triumphant red and yellow paper crowns (constructed á la Burger King) were placed atop our heads, I surveyed the less regal souls surrounding us in their inferior blue, red, green, etc. crowns. “I can’t believe,” I remarked with pinched nose, “that they make us mix with all these commoners.” On to a quick photograph with “the Princess,” a heavily made-up tart who called me “M’Lord”—and don’t tell me she didn’t have the hots for me, as resplendent as I was in my crown—and flowed with the crowd into the large outer hall, where we viewed all manner of medieval Taiwanese merchandise available for purchase. (C-Baby decided on twin inflatable weapons sets with the intention of staging chivalrous battles among her friends.) We sidled up to Ye Olde Margarita Bar to refresh ourselves with authentic period cocktails—a Dragonslayer for the Lady, and an Executioner for myself, in authentic plastic goblets and tumblers, although we declined to splurge on the golden knight-head beer mug—and listened to our Master of Ceremonies milk the expectant crowd in his booming baritone, which was evocative in equal parts of Shakespeare In the Park and WrestleMania XVIII.

"Now, my Lords and Ladies," he bellowed, "I have heard tell that Valley High School is a meek, quiet, lot—have I been misinformed?" (Roar, roar.) And so on. Finally we were ushered into the arena, which had already begun to fill with a billowing dry-ice fog that would eventually become so thick as to cause us to doubt whether we would even be able to see the bludgeoning that would presumably be taking place under the clouds—and were seated at a long no-you-can’t-go-to-the-bathroom table and given little flags to cheer our champion. As the lights dimmed, the Robin Hood-esque soundtrack began to drown out the shouting of our Polo-shirted serf-waiters, who were attempting to explain that—in the interests of authenticity—although we would not be given silverware, a (medieval) wet-nap would be available following dinner.

The following quotes occurred during the show and its immediate aftermath:

C-Baby: Is this a medieval light show?
Waiter: Some Coke, M’Lady?
C-Baby: Our knight looks like an REO Speedwagon fan.
Me: Is that horse supposed to be drooling so much?
Her: Is this a medieval toaster strudel?
Some kid: Dude, I like, ate so much, my stomach’s full.
Me: Are those guys medieval ninjas or something?
Some old guy: He shoulda just pulled out a 9mm and capped his ass.
Some other kid: The Blue Knight rocked, until he died. And then I was sad.
Same old guy, 30 seconds later, louder: He shoulda just pulled out a 9mm, and capped his ass!

At the end of the show—after the various intrigues had been played out and the medieval ninjas defeated—the victorious knight rode his steed into the center of the arena, inexplicably holding aloft an American flag to cheers from the greasy-fingered crowd. “All hail the King of America!” said C-Baby.

We made our way towards the entrance of the nightclub (cocktails and dancing with the Knights of the Realm until the wee small hours) to meet our Red and Yellow hero—who was robbed, incidentally, by the script—and memorialize this moment. Note how tall he is.

Personally I was so won over by the experience that the following day, when we spotted Kobe Bryant and Mrs. Hotness Bryant being hustled out of It’s a Small World, I couldn’t help but unfavorably compare the star-power of that basketball and courtroom luminary to that of Sir Dies-A-Lot and the other celebrities of the Dark Ages who had so valiantly hammed it up on our behalf the previous night. “I don’t care,” said C-Baby as Mr. Trial of the Century and spouse disappeared into the Disney night, “If you cheat on that, you should go to jail.”

Whet your appetite for medieval pageantry and light shows? Watch the mini-feature here. Our knight was the French dude who I must admit does look like an REO Speedwagon fan.

Take Me Out to the WULAD, Continued
I’ve heard the rumors, and I want to go on record saying that until I see the signature of That One Dominican/Canadian Guy Who Shall Remain Nameless on a contract, I don’t believe a damn word, nor will I dare to entertain the possibility in my increasingly paranoid mind. As far as I’m concerned it’s a bunch of evil propaganda designed to falsely elevate the hopes of Mets fans before bringing them crashing to the ground, and turn what could be considered a fairly productive offseason into one which could be viewed by the fervently Yankee-biased New York sports media as a spectacular failure. So, Mets fans: plug your ears, hum “Meet the Mets” loudly, don’t read a newspaper or turn on the news, and—if I may modify an old Zen proverb—if you meet Budd Mishkin on the road, kill him.

Note: Don’t really kill him. It’s just an expression. It means don’t listen to him fill your head with a bunch of fantastic nonsense about some guy taking less money to sign with some team because he wants to be near a community of some cultural group, etc.

Also, Pete Rose is to jerks what Arnold Schoenberg is to 20th-century composers who pioneered the use of atonality and dodecaphonic composition. Later, kids!

Take Me Out to the WULAD
Rather than thicken the fog of opinion surrounding recent revelations of Pete “Never Mind What I’ve Been Saying for the Past 14 Years” Rose, the WULAD Sports Team has decided to publish a document which was recently provided to us by an anonymous baseball official whose name rhymes with “Mud Zelig.” Therefore we proudly present the never-before-seen Official Report Card of the Hit King…



P.S. As a character contrast, we salute the legendary Tug McGraw, gone to the great ’69 Mets reunion in the sky. “Ya Gotta Believe.”

The Return of the Douche
That’s right, we’re back, Large and Recharged. Coming soon: highlights from WULAD and C-baby in the Southland, as well as the usual hummuna-hummuna you’ve come to expect from our crack editorial staff. But first, it’s a truncated version of…

WULAD Web Wround-up
Martin Bihl has recently discovered some never-before-seen effluvia of genius: James Joyce’s postcards to brother Stannie. Read them at McSweeney's.

And several sites have recently added themselves to the elect group of bloggaz who’ve been sending visitors our way: check them out here, here, and here if you like.

I will now warn readers that the following segment is very wordy, but those who brave it in its entirety will reap great artistic and cultural rewards, or at least use up some time they might otherwise spend obsessively pondering our relentless march towards death. Enjoy!

Breakfast Meat or Self-Expression?
C-Baby got a can of Spam for X-mas, and plans to fry it up with some soy sauce and a fried egg (It's Crazy Tasty™!). Speaking of which, my inbox has recently been filling up with a very creative and unintentionally poetic variety of e-mail solicitation—the spam-wizards have obviously been hard at work finding ways around the tightest of mail filters, and this particular method seems to accomplish the task pretty well. First, the subject line follows the formula of “Re: [Acronym-like series of capital letters], [Three random words].” This can occasionally produce interesting results, such as:

Re: JBB, himself on kept
Re: KZUKKE, nodded and sent
Re: BWWQU, knife and blind
Re: LSGAJ, here homeless made
Re: GMXZVVBO, off his trousers
Re: DH, she was gently
Re: ORWC, the sparrow meanwhile
Re: ZIZ, does your husband
Re: JUM, may the gods
Re: ELIC, barrelorgan was worth
Re: COVWYRG, a minute later
Re: PLRP, rested his chin
Re: WG, fool!' the girl
Re: TDJK, about what? About

The body of the e-mail consists of an image—the actual ad, something about a banned CD the government doesn’t want you to have—followed by several paragraphs of miscellaneous words to give the illusion of an actual message. These are so random that the WULAD Literary Squad felt the need to arrange them into found-art poetry for your perusal. So without further ado…

The Banned CD Poetry Collection, Part 1: the Haiku

Commentary, soar
alimony sensory
stick, forfend Laurence

Chateaux history:
Individuate, Preston—
sheepskin pier, wiener

Apostle triad,
aerobic Armenia—
delouse obverse poop

Part 2: the Free Verse

I. DIMPLE, THRUM

Dimple, thrum.
Lucrative break
Gaul, weierstrass, Lauren,
kingston bishopric “bloop” depressor—

Martha suzerain Loomis duplicity,
furthermost truancy ross:
Tegucigalpa!

II. GOTHIC PROTEIN

Giddy Christ
(burden) solo Gladys cupidity,
conscience kept.

Aitken Jimenez,
infinite nature disastrous—
chilblain tweedy, bud. Genre picnicked
transmission flautist radar,
“tide folksong,
necromantic Bangkok.”

Accolade backboard, gothic protein,
dewy consort cannel.
—Acquisition sigma hying,
aspirate clothesbrush,
prescriptive Carlisle,
circuitous Denmark, disambiguate.

III. GIANT BEARD SHACKLE

Jubilate rosary morrison auric.
—Gabrielle Newman

Barrage fungi hobble pease estate barium chorale, Patty depute eerie—Hearth, homeown bona toenail, roulette vascular (cheery Pickford dobbin catcall: “Myopia hepatitis spirit!”). Desmond uniform infantile, Bayport Holm filmstrip—Merganser Serviette Assess—bicentennial depend seismography fusiform, forever sowbelly teacup, oxalic mudguard drudgery.

Elysian dowager Jackson silkworm, replicate honorary, hadn't sparrow Brazil negroes? Disturb, derogate, creon Alison—Gilligan (thematic Vivaldi), neurotic airspeed, achieve!

“Bibliophile compositor,
downtrodden poop antelope,
roundhead Anderson,
priggish cursor Neva,
demo seismology bolt anent, ideologue!”

Muscovy Confucian stumpy heublein chignon; water cilia rotor micro buss, duress (giant beard shackle): Client said “probe!”

Appendix: the Good Names for a Band

Depth Arrival
Lipschitz Strobe
Anticipate Gypsum
Schmidt Speck
Elder Lettermen
Pumpkin Inexpedient
Juju Diopter
Scatterbrain Shadflower
Groan Tic Stylus
Pessimum Particulate
Crestfallen Blitz
Glyceride Bleach Continuation
Malefactor Embouchure
Difficult Clamshell
Caveman Arsenal
Chronograph Campsite Miracle
Lucrative Horsewoman
Footstep Rumple
Sourberry Migratory Collegian
Oregano Veda
Bureaucratic Afro

WULAD Web Wround-up
George Pataki pardons Lenny Bruce, and makes it that much harder for me to dislike the Guv'nuh. Wish he'd come up with a better name than "Freedom Tower", though.

Showcasing its brand of hard-hitting journalism, AOL News is your source for the latest in natural disaster and shopping updates:

"It was horrible, the roof was caving in on us," said Madge Woolsey of Paso Robles, whose home was destroyed in the quake. "And what are the nation's hottest toys? What are they, for God's sake?!" She then began to weep silently as the wreckage of her house was thrown on the scrap pile.

And in the Wish-I'd-Thought-of-That Dept., C Monks has his complete Blogvent calendar available for viewing. Well, view it, damn it!

Wrapped Up Like a Calendar Year
This will be the last post until the New Year, and I believe I speak for the entire WULAD Media Empire when I wish you and yours the jolliest of winter merriments. Click here to view the Official Holiday Greeting of DoucheCo and its associated subsidiaries. Catch you on the flip side, mammajammas!

Wrapped Up Like A Guest Blogger: Roger Cedeño
Hi, everybody, I’m Roger Cedeño. You may know me from my days as the wacky, fun-loving right fielder of the New York Mets. But since it seems those days may be coming to an end, I’ve decided to try my hand at a few other trades, and WULAD’s board of directors was kind enough to give me a shot while I consider how to make use of the months of inactivity to come during which I will be earning five million dollars. Thanks, guys! Hope you enjoy the Beluga I sent over!

Now let me start off by saying that when I’m not dropping easy fly balls or driving recklessly, I always make it a point to chow down on as many PowerBars® as possible. Mmm, PowerBars®. They’re like a 95 m.p.h. fastball for your stomach. No, that's no good. Maybe a shot of tequila that doesn’t get you drunk and is made out of nuts and grains instead of whatever they use to make tequila. In any case, PowerBars® get my full endorsement until March 31, with renewal option at fifty grand per year. OK, thirty-five. Call me.

Anyway, I’m really here to inform and entertain in much the same manner as your usual WULAD editorial staff—I want my Ferrari back in the same condition I left it, bizotches—so I’ll start with a little round-up of current events:

According to Some Government Guy, the U.S. is under imminent threat of a terrorist attack, with Washington D.C. and New York as likely targets. Lucky for me, I’m wintering here in my native Venezuela. To all of you who booed me at Shea Stadium: Good luck with that, fellas! But seriously kids—terrorism is no laughing matter. And neither is my batting average! Ba-dump-BUMP! Stay in school.

Looks like Michael Jackson is having some problems with the law again. Having been there, I can only tell him to be strong, Bro, and don’t resist when they want to do the cavity search. It’s no fun driving a Maserati on a donut cushion! Also I have a demo tape, maybe you could pass it along. [Sings] “I’m an… OUT-fielder, GLOVE-wielder, SONG-stealer, don’t ya mess around with me..” What’s that? Copy-what Infringe-what of the what now? OK, never mind. Call me, though, Mike.

And I heard that Joe Namath told some sports-news chick that he wanted to do the quarterback-sneak back in her hotel room—hey editor dudes! I came up with that one! I told you it'd be a riot! Anyway, as Joe and I have both been professional athletes for New York teams ending in "-ets", I can say that the temptation is always there, although I've seen quite a drop-off since I became the laughingstock of the league. But the trick, Joe, is to wait until the camera's off, big guy. Then you can let the love... flow.

Lastly, those WULAD dudes—who best be taking good care of my car—would like me to remind you to check out the Bach Festival. You know, my soon-to-be former teammate Mike Piazza really likes that classical shit. Now I know what they say about him, but let me tell you, he never did anything like that around me, and I consider myself a handsome man, you know. And so what if he keeps a shirtless photo of Richard Marx in his locker? I told you the man loves music.

So that’s it for my first stint as guest blogger here at WULAD—if you like what you’ve read, be sure and let the management know, so they can present me with an offer that doesn’t insult my intelligence and the intelligence of my agent. I mean, let’s be reasonable, people—I know Giambi’s getting $2.5 over at his guest-bloggin’ gig, and I’m much funnier than him. Call me, though. Peace out.

Disclaimer: Parody, not really written by Cedeño, blah blah, any similarity with crappy outfielders living or dead coincidental and not affliliated with blah blah blah, etc.

If It Ain’t Baroque, Don’t Play it for 168 Hours
WKCR, my favorite radio station, has begun its annual festival dedicated to Bach, my favorite composer, during which they play his music continuously for a week, my favorite duration, from New York, my favorite city. It features such music-nerd-friendly events as nightly Cantata Request Hours, the Jazz meets Bach show, and interviews with über-music-nerds whose Bach Fu is so superior to mine that it leaves me to weep silently while listening to the Chromatic Fantasia and Fugue in D Minor by the light of a single candle, a broken shell of a man. Along with (non-yellow) snow and crates of clementines, it’s one of the highlights of the holiday season back there. (As opposed to San Francisco, where the holiday highlights include manger scenes constructed out of discarded drug paraphernalia and chestnuts roasted over an open hibachi with mango-chipotle compote.) If you’re in the NYC area, tune to 89.9 FM, or listen to it on the web here.

If the National Review Printed This, I’d Protest
We lead you into the weekend with a bit of “foreigners are funny” humor that’s acceptable because everybody knows I’m not a racist even though I did once drunkenly remark that “those Koreans sure like their restaurants brightly lit” and I may have pretended to be Black to get into college where I had a brief romance with Rae Dawn Chong before being exposed as a white guy in front of my teacher, James Earl Jones, and it’s true that I was once in the Klan but that was only to meet women. That said, WULAD presents...

The 5 Most Entertaining Items on a Thai Menu I Got Recently

5. Rare Naked Shrimp with Spicy Paste (Ten bucks extra if you want a lap dance.)

4. Pork Rib Pickle (“You got your pork rib in my pickle!” “You got your pickle in my pork rib!” Both: “Heyyyyyy…”)

3. Angle Wing (About 45°, I think.)

2. Lord (No thanks, I ate God for lunch.)

And the Number One Most Entertaining Item on a Thai Menu I got Recently:

1. Deep Fried Balls

OK, this is a sub-par post. I admit it, I'm coasting. So just allow the dulcet tones of the Bach Festival to drown out the screams of my joke writers while I beat and coerce them into squeezing more ideas out of their tiny, mashed-potato-like brains. Cheers!

The brains of the WULAD Cleverness-Wasting Council are still sore from crafting the Neal Pollack acrostic, so while their synapses refresh themselves, we humbly pour you a big cup of…

WULAD Web Wround-up
First on the menu: This is the sort of thing that made me an atheist.

Platypuses hunt with electro-sensors… and they will never stop hunting you.

Will Carroll of Baseball Prospectus (who makes occasional use of the nickname I suggested for sports-medicine-enthusiasts, "MedHeads") has got great overheard quotes from baseball's winter meetings.

I neglected to mention the other day how much it bothered me that the operation which resulted in Saddam Hussein’s capture was named after a Patrick Swayze movie. Luckily, Chatterbox is all over that shiznit.

Dances With Stereotypes
The Times had a piece yesterday about the ongoing battle of Little Big Mascot, which introduced me to my new favorite white Midwestern idiot, loudly proclaiming his unawareness of said idiocy:

John Gadaut, a lawyer in Champaign, said he had spent more than $5,000 on keep-the-[Illinois mascot] chief billboards and buttons. "I'm a Native American," said Gadaut, who is white. "I was born and bred in Illinois. The chief means something to me, too. People keep saying we have a mascot. No, we have a symbol. … It's my whole heritage in front of me. Hey, these people can be my heritage even though this guy's skin is not my color." He dismissed … opponents of the chief as "leftist social engineers."

(See here for some examples of rightist social engineers.) I suppose he’s correct in a sense; mocking and denigrating minorities while appropriating romanticized caricatures of their culture is definitely a part of his heritage. However, the article failed to mention far and away the most heinous—yet most widely accepted—example of Native American minstrelsy in the sports world: Chief Wahoo of the Cleveland Indians. Although the esteemed Chief has been ostensibly replaced in his “official” capacity as mascot—by a ridiculous Youppi-esque monster called “Slider”—his toothy, blood-red mug adorns the team’s caps, jerseys, and nearly every piece of fan merchandise. In addition to its general offensiveness, I also hate that shit-eating grin because it makes me dislike the Indians (the team, not the ethnic group)—one of the younger, scrappier, and more exciting teams in baseball—intensely.

But I digress. For my final no-new-effort-required item, we continue the series begun Monday:

Wrapped Up Like An Internet Search, part II: The Douche
The following are 100% genuine searches that have led (presumably disappointed) searchers to this tiny shack by the internet tracks:

• Origin of douche
  
• Why we douche
  
• Douche for sexual pleasure
  
• Do they say douche?
  
• Forced douche
  
• Picture of douche bag
  
• Douche pictures
  
• Douche container
  
• Crack up like a douche
  
• Wrapped up like a douche meaning
  
• Wrapped up like a douche bag
  
• Douche bug
  
• Douche bagel
  
• Douche the Marlins
  
• Great douche
  
• Erotic douche
  
• Android 18 douche
  
• Monolith douche
  
• Chicken douche
  
• Douche for dogs
  
• Dancing douche
  
• Douche Bag Dave
  
• Dave is a douche
  
• Steve is a douche
  
• Brad is a douche
  
• Neil is a douche
  
• Steve Bartman douche
  
• Rupert Murdoch douche
  
• Ann Coulter is a douche
  
• John Kerry is a Douche
  
• George Bush is a douche
  
• Have A Douche Break

Well, if this has tought us anything, it's that everyone—whether you're Steve Bartman, George Bush, Android 18, or even Douche Bag Dave—could use a Douche Break now and then. Don't forget to write!

Wrapped Up Like A Roast: WULAD Salutes Neal Pollack
It may be reasonably asked why I, a relative slime mold on the evolutionary ladder of literature (of which the Right Honorable Mr. Pollack is the slippery topmost rung) am qualified to contribute to his Celebrity Roast; after all, I have never met the man, nor shared his bed at the fantastic ranch and amusement park which bears his name, nor even felt his gentle, clammy hand clasp the nape of my neck in the most stepfatherly of manners. This concern is appropriate; but before I attempt to befoul the great litany of tributes preceding this one with the stain of my sophomoric pen, I ask that the assemblage consider the tale of the following missive I received from He Whose Tea I Am Not Worthy To Bag, which I believe amply demonstrates the depth of my connection to this brilliant, pasty man.

I cannot describe the elation I felt upon the appearance of the name “N_Pollack” in my inbox one shimmering day; it was beyond my wildest expectations that my PayPal donation of $13.56 would prompt a personal reply from the Man Himself. No, thought I, it must be a form letter from some anonymous lackey, a pale and pimply coffee-runner in the lowest basement of the Pollack Media Empire’s most remote outpost. I did not dare to dream that a lowly scribbling piss-ant such as myself would be the recipient of a personal reply from one who obviously wipes his brain’s nether regions each day with writers exponentially more prominent and talented than I, checking to make sure they have removed all traces of metaphorical stool before consigning them to the septic tank of his subconscious. But I was mistaken.

“Thanks, Ian,” the G.L.A.W. wrote—immediately uplifting me by typing my pitiful name with those glorious, if warty, fingers—“whoever you are!” (The warmth! The wit!) Mr. Pollack, or “Dad,” as I have taken to calling him, then closed with an exhortation to a Higher Life:

“Rock on,” he wrote, and signed with the touching sobriquet “NP.” Needless to say I needed an extra helping of yams that night, if you know what I mean. So without further ado, I give you my own humble homage to the man who may be the suppository cure for the cultural constipation of our society:

N is for the Need which he ably fills
E is for Eczema, and his plethora of ills
A is for Awe which spreads, tumor-like, as we read
L is for the Lard he devours while on speed

P is for the Pride which he humbly swallows
O is for Orgasm, which inevitably follows
L is for the Love which he showers on the reader
L is for the Lubricant this requires by the liter
A is for All of his appreciative progeny
C is for the Codpiece which hides his androgyny
K is for Knowledge, his work’s very crux;
...and these are the reasons why Neal Pollack Sucks.

Godspeed, you great doughy, balding avatar of American prose.

Random Mockery of ESPN to Distract You From Bush/Saddam Victory Parties
I’ve never thought that Jayson Stark was a great baseball writer, but did he really pen the following sentence?

And now, if Pudge [Rodriguez] also signs on, [Vladimir] Guerrero will be able to smell the sweet scent of two fellow Latinos deciding that Baltimore is their kind of place.

Yes, he did. Smell those Latinos, Vlad. Mmmmm.

And does the lack of capitalization in the following tagline not make it seem like a radio station is offering to perform oral sex on Roger Clemens?



That’s all. You can go back to watching them trim Saddam’s eyebrows now.

Nefarious Despot Celebrates Capture of Nefarious Despot
Well, you’ve no doubt already heard that Saddam Hussein—who you may recognize from the South Park movie—was found at the Command Center Dirt Hole from which he was leading Iraq’s insurgency with an iron fist, so his capture will of course result in the cessation of hostilities. Within a few hours of President Action Figure’s PR victory, the local news teaser was already asking, “Does the capture of Saddam Hussein now guarantee President Bush’s reelection?” (Do I detect a Fair and Balanced hand in crafting this question?) And double agent Joe Lieberman, still smarting from the symbolic foot Al Gore recently inserted in his hoo-hah, used the opportunity to resume his pummeling of candidates critical of the President—although this approach may hurt him when he gets around to asking voters to support the President by voting for Joe Lieberman. Shortly after hearing the news, I spoke to WULAD Wregular Shan-bear.

Me: So, what do you do now if you’re the President’s handlers?
Shan-bear: Masturbate.
Me: No, after that.

I went on to say that I wouldn’t be surprised to see the Prez’s people start negotiating with Saddam, to talk him into copping to involvement in the September 11 plot in exchange for not being executed. (That is, after they finish touching up the the "MISSION REALLY ACCOMPLISHED THIS TIME" banner for the deck of the U.S.S. Photo-Op.) I felt like quite the cynic for immediately bringing this up—even people as colossally dissatisfied with the direction of the country as I am can agree that Saddam is an evil murdering butthole and that Iraq will be better off without him running around—but soon saw that I wasn’t the only one who thought of this one. People like us should really be working for the Action Figure administration, since we can clearly think like the Bad Guys when properly motivated (wink wink, my own island kingdom, nudge nudge).

"But what kind of sanctimonious political claptrap is this," you might ask, "We come to WULAD to be entertained!" Well, to fight off the Guaranteed Reelection Blues, we’ve decided to recycle an already tired idea by posting the first part of a comprehensive report of Exciting and Confusing Searches which have recently led inquiring minds to our virtual doorstep, along with the kind of incicive commentary you've come to expect from our highly trained, slave-wage-earning editorial staff. It's...

Wrapped Up Like An Internet Search, part I: The Perverts

• "having sex with twins" (OK, standard enough in the greater scheme of things.)
  
  
• kinky slideshows ("And that's Uncle Bill in the body stocking next to Suzy Mae and her goat boyfriend. Next slide...")
  
  
• "crushing things" woman videos (Getting farther afield…)
  
  
• girls wrapped up (Let’s see them go to the prom without me now!)
  
  
• woman pull up shirt ballgame (Not often enough, unfortunately.)
  
  
• hairy nude coed girls (Try the international dorms.)
  
  
• mamby girls sex (But keep those pamby girls away from me.)
  
  
• anal cavity searches at customs (Only if you ask nicely.)
  
  
• Neil Bush Sex Romps (See also Embarrassing Presidential Brother Syndrome, or Roger Clinton’s Disease.)
  
  
• "Laura Bush naked" (Shannen Doherty's got the pictures.)
  
  
• naked blonde NY hotel heiress (Yeah, what was her name again?)
  
  
• DID MAGIC JOHNSON HAVE A HOMOSEXUAL ENCOUNTER (He might tell you if you stop shouting.)
  
  
• Magic Johnson + group sex (Busy guy.)
  
  
• c-baby nude (Hey now! Getting a little out of line!)
  
  
• free c-baby panties (Callin’ the cops now…)
  
  
• People wrapped up in bags (And lovin’ it!)

If you, the loyal readers, find this incredibly tiresome, make sure to drop by my spider hole and voice your concerns so I may ignore them accordingly. Good day to you, and to the woman this morning who said, "What an annoying bus driver."