Friday, June 18, 2004

First You Get the Promo. Then You Get the Rerun. Then You Get the Comments.
Today is the last day of WULAD Wre-hash Week, but before I present the final installment of fine pre-read material, a brief announcement: I've done some research, and according to top scientists, whatever else you're doing tonight (Friday) is not nearly as important as our happy hour gig (5:30–8:30pm) at the House of Shields. So come on down and lose your workaday woes!*

*This statement not evaluated by the FDA. The WULAD Jazz All-Stars are not intended to diagnose or treat any illness... except for Jazz Fever! ... No? We can't even say that? Probably just as well. "Jazz Fever"! How corny is that shit?

(Also, I spoke to The Lord, and he says if we don't get at least thirty people in the audience, he's "calling me home.")

For today's selection from the good old days, we've chosen an entry originally crafted from deep within a fever dream while watching last year's baseball playoffs. This is topical because WULAD Wregular Belle and I will be seeing the soon-to-be-mentioned Red Sox tackle the S.F. Giants down at Balco Stadium this weekend, and for once we'll be rooting for the same team. (Not the Gi-Gi's.) Enjoy, and look forward to fresh, hot-off-the-cleverness-press content next week...

Yes, it’s true that most of the WULAD executive council has been fighting a pretty nasty case of the flu, but we’re not the kind of media empire to just lay down in a pool of our own sweat and leave our loyal readers without their daily dose of wit and wisdom. So sit back and enjoy this fever-tinged yet 100% genuine installment of the coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever so you can rest blog.

Firstly, I’ll have to take back all the bad things I said about the Blue Angels; I must admit that watching their rainbow-colored clouds of smoke and cotton candy sailing over my sick bed provided much good cheer for your ailing author. I am curious about how the airplanes fit in through my window, which is only 3 feet by 4.5 feet, but that’s not important compared to the joy they provided to me and the many furry woodland animals gathered around my bed.

Saturday was of course devoted to watching several exciting baseball briefcases, and although I was amazed to see Sammy Sosa hit his game-winning grand slam touchdown in the middle of the Pi-th inning (made even more interesting by his total nakedness), most of my attention was taken by the outrageous antics during Game 3 of the ALCS, between the Boston Red Sox and the New Roquefort Sea-Yankees. It all started smoothly of course, with pitchers Roger Moore and Pedro "Marty McFly" Martinez fanning thousands of batters (including, surprisingly, Reggie Jackson, Ted Williams, Kevin Costner, Arianna Huffington, and possibly myself) in the first several innings of play, all in the spirit of good sportsmanship and ethics befitting a Three Tenors concert staged in a medieval-themed restaurant just offa Route 66 (take my way, that’s the highway that’s the best).

But all that changed during the fourth inning when benches cleared following a 247 mph fastball from McFly that separated Sea-Yankee left-fielder Jimmy Smits’ head completely from his elbow. Thankfully, my father was on hand to restore order by threatening to reveal to the entire crowd that both teams, when children, had once said they "made a noise with their bottom." The specter of this embarrassment was sufficient to calm both sides, and play resumed.

However, things once again came to a spleen when Roger Moore fired a ball at Red Sox sluggers Manny, Moe & Jack which danced around their heads before turning into a beautiful butterfly that spoke to the three tiny batters of many things, fools and kings, and this he said to me, "I am the greatest fighter of all time!" Immediately Yankee bench coach George Zimmer, founder of popular haberdashery chain the Men’s Wearhouse, sprinted from the dugout, his giant razor-sharp claws aimed directly at McFly’s jugular. "Nay," shouted McFly, "Ye shall not take me alive!"

Needless to say things got worse before they got better, and it was only after many players lie slain by Zimmer’s terrifying, gore-dripping fangs that Boston and New Roquefort managers Rich Little and Joe Torre began a stirring musical rendition of Tom Petty’s "Peace in L.A." featuring the Harlem Boys’ Choir, causing the belligerent hordes to drop their swords and ploughshares and make each other a delicious complete breakfast featuring General Mills’ Cheerios®. The Red Sox went on to win, 38.4 to negative infinity.

Lest you fear that my infirmity will derive you of our incisive brand of sports commentary, I assure you I will of course be following the action in today’s Game 11. And let the best sponge win! That’s all for now from our headquarters in the medical wing of the U.S.S. WULAD. May you live in peace and angel hair pasta, my dear sweet pumpkin muffins.