The Wrath

Well, faithful readers of my little column...

Today, I am just flat out irritated. No, scratch that...I'm pissed off is what I am. It is with that in mind that I deem today to be the day for me to get a few things off my chest. The proverbial gloves are off, so don't expect to see any punches pulled in the following. I'm shooting my mouth off here, so prepare yourself for The Wrath.

And now on with the show...

Stupid people shouldn't be allowed in public...EVER. They should all be locked in cages for people like us to mock as we see fit. Zoos across the world survive because hard-working people pay their hard-earned dollars to look at something "out of the ordinary." And, by that I simply mean that normally I don't see any Zebras mating on my front lawn. Well...there was that one time last summer...but that girl told me she'd do anything to see 2 wild animals go at it...so I set it up. The internet broadcast rights alone made the whole ordeal worth the beating I took at the hands of the humane society. Those animal lovers can really kick some tail -- it definitely made me think twice before another game of kitty basketball (oh how those cats can fly). Regardless, that's neither here nor there. My proposal is actually quite simple. I'd much rather pay to see idiots in their natural environment. Put two morons in front of a chess board and I'll happily fork over a buck or two to see the imminent theatrics. Give them a case of The Beast (Milwaukee's Best beer) and one gun and you've got yourself a main event. The world as we know it would be a much better place with these people off the streets forever. So, I say lock them up where we can at least profit of their ignorance. Besides, have you ever tried to catch a tiger? That can be tough. They go straight for the balls, man. Oh, the stories I could tell about my brief stint as animal abductionist...but I'll spare you that horror. Idiots would be much easier to capture. Leave a trail of Jerry Springer tapes from the trailer park to the cage, and, abracadabra...you have yourself another exhibit. The only problem that I can anticipate would be the potential population flux. We all know how those morons like to mate...so we'd definitely have to have some kind of hunting season for them. Can't you just see the trophy heads on your wall right now? Who needs the head of Bambi on their wall when you could have your very own Bubba Joe Numbnuts stuffed and mounted right above the mantle? Are you with me America? Aren't you sick of the idiots that make your daily trek through this life that much more difficult? I am. This whole diatribe was sparked by two absolute "wastes of space" that sat behind me in the theater this afternoon. I was there to see Basic, and they were clearly there to exhibit just how "freaking ig'nint they be." See, the flick is one of those films that tries to pull the wool over your eyes with constant plot twists. Any self-respecting, modestly educated, person would have seen every single twist and turn coming a mile away...but not these two. I was forced to listen to the inner workings of the mind of a moron...and I'm a lesser person because of it. I had to come home and shower immediately just to wash the stench of stupidity off of me. If you are too stupid to figure something out without consulting the mind of the idiot beside you, then shut your freaking mouth. Keep you idiot ideas to your idiot self. When you return to the trailer with your sister/mother/wife, you can talk to your little in-bred heart's content...but, for the love of intellect, spare me...and spare the rest of the relatively intelligent. You're all lucky that we have such tolerance for ignorance -- because without it, you'd all be shipped off to that island everyone wants to isolate you on. So, I urge you all to slap a moron today...just to remind them who the "shiznit" really is. Then, hit them with a barrage of big words and intelligent banter. The mental overload is sure to debilitate them indefinitely.

Enough about that...

On to another topic -- Any fans of the Cowboys, or Mr. Smith, may want to skip the following paragraph.

Emmitt Smith IS NOT by any stretch of the imagination the greatest running back of all time. All of you out there that continue to refer to him as such have obviously never set foot on a football field. Emmitt is good, definitely among the upper echelon of all-time backs, but he doesn't deserve to even be mentioned in any discussion of the greatest ever. Like it or not, Emmitt benefited from what is, arguably, one of the best offensive lines in NFL history. 9 times out of 10 Emmitt did not have to shake or run over anyone. He was met at the point of impact by nothing more than daylight. Emmitt ran through open holes, so it stands to reason that he would rack up yard after yard, touchdown after touchdown. Emmitt's production has dwindled in recent years. Those Emmitt supporters out there place blame on the aging process. Try again. Bye bye great lineman, bye bye massive production. He is a joke to me, and he isn't worthy of the record that he now holds. That said, Emmitt does have two great things going for him. First of all, he has that crown jewel any NFL player enters the league in search of -- the Super Bowl ring. Secondly, he is very tough...which also happens to be something that all Emmitt guys immediately point out. I hate to break it to you, but a majority of football players are very tough. Football is a game of pain, and chances are that for every 100 guys that step on a field any given Sunday, 98 of them are already hurting before the first play ever occurs. The other two are obviously most likely a kicker and a punter, but they aren't really football players so you must ignore them. Every football player worth their weight is tough, and I guarantee you that damn near every lineman in the NFL plays week in, week out with more pain than anything Emmitt's overrated ass has ever played through. Football players are gladiators, all of them...so don't think that Emmitt is special in this regard. As I already said, pain is a part of the game. Players accept that, and use it. Those that can't cut it move on to more friendly games like Soccer, Tiddly-Winks, and Hide and Seek. So, who are the 3 greatest running backs of all-time? Well, here goes, in no particular order -- Jim Brown, Walter Payton, Barry Sanders. Those 3 stand head and shoulders above the rest. After that, you can throw in names like Eric Dickerson, Gale Sayers, Marshall Faulk, and Ickey Woods (okay Ickey is clearly a joke thanks to this Cincy fan). Emmitt might belong in the top 10, but he isn't the Greatest Of All Time. He may be a goat, but definitely not the GOAT. Have fun in Arizona, you overrated bastard.

Now that I have "cleansed myself" of those negative thoughts, I can move on to what I really had in mind for today...

Let me put on my Miss Cleo outfit...

I see...Midgets...a whole gaggle of midgets...they're attacking someone in a red and white uniform. Oh, I feel hot. We're somewhere in the desert. The "monkey theme" from The Wizard of Oz is playing. Oh, my god...it's Emmitt. He's being viciously beaten by a gang of midgets. They're starting to chant something. Oh no, it's "choo-choo." They're going to run...a...

Oh, the horror...

Is it obvious that I'm not a big fan of the Cowboys?

Anyhow, my initial intention for this week's column was my predictions for the year to come in baseball. Tomorrow marks the beginning of yet another campaign, and all I have to say is this -- screw everyone else, the Reds are definitely going undefeated.

On a more serious note, away we go...

These are nothing more than my opinions. I didn't do any research, and I'm not going to back up my choices with any kinds of stats. Stats, schmats, I say. If you interested in the opinions of someone that has put a lot of thought into their prognostications, look to some of my distinguished colleagues on this site. As for my prediction techniques, they shall remain a secret, provided that damn duck-billed platypus keeps his mouth shut. But, you all know how much you can trust a platypus...so I'm not holding my breath.

Here we go, my predictions for 2003.

AL MVP -- Jason Giambi NY Yankees
AL Cy Young -- Bartolo Colon Chicago White Sox
AL Rookie of the Year -- Hideki Matsui NY Yankees
AL Fireman -- Billy Koch Chicago White Sox

NL MVP -- Jim Thome Philadelphia Phillies
NL Cy Young -- Randy Johnson Arizona Diamondbacks
NL Rookie of the Year -- Brandon Larson Cincinnati Reds
NL Fireman -- John Smoltz Atlanta Braves

AL Playoff Teams
Yankees, White Sox, A's, Twins

NL Playoff Teams
Phillies, Astros, Diamondbacks, Cardinals

World Series
Houston over Oakland

There you go, I'm clearly delusional, right? Probably. At the very least, you can expect to see all of my individual picks suffer some type of serious injury in the coming weeks. That is the type of luck I have. There are some significant omissions here. I think that the reign of the Braves is over...finally. Mr. Hampton shall bring satan's minions to Atlanta with him, and the team shall appropriately go up in flames along with him. Also, no Barry fricking Bonds. Well, I hope and pray that this will be the year when someone, finally, puts Mr. Bonds in his place. God willing, his blatant "crowding the plate" will finally be stopped, once and for all. One of the "old school" guys has got to be fed up with all this Barry-mania. Someone needs to throw at this guy...if not for the integrity of the league, then at least for my own sanity's sake. Imagine if Mr. Joe Blow, fresh out of the bush leagues, stepped into the box and proceeded to emulate the approach of Bonds. He'd have his head knocked off...as should Bonds. Enough is enough...Randy Johnson...I'm talking to you here. Take aim. It'll make your playoff run alot smoother anyway. You'll be publicly chastised, but in private you will be hailed as the savior of baseball. Oh, how I wish that Bob Gibson would set foot on the mound just one more time. Mr. Bonds, meet Mr. Gibson. Better yet, Mr. Bonds meet Mr. Coma.

Well, there you have it...the simple thoughts of one "raving looney" for this week. I'm off for my date now -- and I pray that Ms. J-Lo will forgive my tardiness. By the way, they really should call her J Down Low, because that's where she spends a majority of her time, at least when she's in my company. I hope she remembered her kneepads this time.