Brewers at Height of Desperation

The Milwaukee Brewers (65-66), after blowing a Major League leading 14th game in which they held at least a three-run lead, sunk to third in the NL Central standings after their latest choke job debacle against the front-limping Chicago Cubs.

Meanwhile, the St. Louis Cardinals, only two games back and now second place in the division, continued their steady and improbable ascension with a 7-0 thrashing of the Houston Astros on Tuesday night.

The Brew Crew also fell below .500 for the first time since April 9th--a mere seven games into the season. The Farley-Foley flailing dive has been headlined by a string of comedic struggles, largely starring a pathetic cast of the Brewers' top three starting pitchers, whose collective efforts have yielded a whopping zero victories since June 30.

But the Brewers and endangered Manager Ned Yost don't know schtick, and the breakaway table of this nightmarish slide refuses to slacken.

Truth be told, the beleaguered Brewers have the worst record in baseball's worst division during the second half--this, after such a promising 24-10 start that offered hope to the glass-half-empty fans of this perennial losing ballclub that hasn't seriously sniffed the playoffs since the Fraggle Rock era.

Epitomizing the wicked turn from good to bad is Chris Capuano's Reuban Stutter like disappearance from a once bright foray into the limelight. The ex-starter began the season with five straight victories before Judge Yost sentenced him to the dreaded demotion of bullpen duty after losing an astounding 11 straight decisions, a dubious franchise record.

Capuano, in one relief appearance, is 0-1 with a 7.20 ERA. Not too shabby, considering his 8.10 ERA in August.

Jeff Suppan's story mirrors Capuano's, with only a slightly less calamitous downturn. Sup (pronounced "Soup," as in, "After another ninth inning meltdown, Ned Yost wants to drown himself in a bowl of scalding hot soup.") is a comparatively respectable 8-11 with a 4.78 ERA in 2007.

Suppan, however, has also failed to earn a victory in nearly two months despite an impressive smattering of average performances.

Resident staff ace and oft-injured All-Star Ben Sheets, 10-4 with a 3.39 ERA, is the only Brewer in the rotation to consistently win games with effective pitching (in stark contrast to freshly injured foil, Clardio Vargas, who has a record of 10-4 despite a 5.04 ERA). Milwaukee's latest protracted slump can be traced back to the sprain of Sheets's middle finger on July 15th. Coincidentally, many fans' middle fingers have recently shown signs of life at the ballpark as hopes for an unlikely playoff appearance -- it would be the first postseason venture since 1982 -- continue to wane.

"It sure is a fantastic sign of support," Sheets, a native of Louisiana, told reporters with a confused look on his face.

Sheets is set to take the mound in game two tonight against the Cubs, but some fans are worried not only that the potential messiah's return falls into the category of too little, too late, but also that the leafy-weak hurler, with southern winds expected to be in the 5-10 MPH range, will crumble and flitter away in pieces, along with the Brewers' pennant hopes, in the lazy breeze during warmups.

"We just have to keep playing day to day," said struggling outfielder Kevin Mench, who is batting a mediocre .265 this season.

After a recent slump, Mench transitioned from his typical batting stance to one suggested to him by Willy Nervis, 32, whom Mench visited as part of his routine charity work at Cedar's Square, a center for the mentally handicapped located in downtown Milwaukee.

"So far no luck, but anything is worth a shot at this rate."

At batting practice, Mench tried out his new stance, carefully extending his right arm while patting himself on the chest with the left, just as Nervis demonstrated to him.

As the ball flew through the air toward him, Mench yelled, "Nuurrrrp!!"

He swung and missed.

And so, thus far, have the Brewers on the golden opportunity presented by their early season success.

The Milwaukee Bucks Should Tank the Season

I started a group on facebook to rally like-minded folks to my cause. Following are some rants of mine on the subject. Consider this a continuing blog.

3/15
Firing Terry Stotts is a step in the wrong direction. The Bucks will be hard pressed to find another coach as adept at losing as Stotts, notorious for encouraging reckless activities such as riding motorcycles without helmets, snowboarding during the season, and bathing with toasters. There is a very real possibility the Bucks will rally around this new coach, Krystkowiak (having a Coach K alone sounds impressive), and play inspired ball.

The Bucks should re-hire Stotts forthwith and retain his services until the end of the season. I fear the organization is steering this squad toward meaningless late-season victories. Then again, signing an in-house man was pretty ingenious; it's like hiring coordinators from the Bill Walsh system in football, except the exact opposite.

Later that night, the Bucks went on to defeat the San Antonio Spurs (47-20).

3/17:
Tonight the Bucks have a critical home game against the Charlotte Bobcats in a matchup between bottom-dwellers. The Bobcats currently hold a 0.5 game advantage over the third spot in the lottery. A timely defeat tonight would usher the Bucks closer to the Oden/Durant holy grail.

This is clearly a must-lose game for the Bucks if they are to entertain serious hopes for a #1 or #2 pick in the draft.

May the luck o' the Irish be on their side, and let us all say a prayer (or limerick) that the new coach smell that has the Bucks playing like roses will have worn off by tipoff.

Go BOBCATS!

Later that night the Bucks defeated their rivals 97-91. A two-game winning streak. Great. Desperate times call for desperate measures. (I just made that up.) On orders from General Manager Larris Harris, Coach K takes matters into his own hands to ensure "victory".

3/22:
MILWAUKEE--The Milwaukee Bucks were defeated Wednesday night 104-103 by the L.A. Clippers on a last second buzzer beater. Outscoring the Clippers 32-14 in the fourth quarter, the Bucks slyly slipped on the veil of a comeback with its furious late-game surge prior to calling off the horses just in the nick of time.

"We did a great job coming back," said Bucks All Star snub and star shooting guard, Michael Redd, oddly grinning despite the thematic heartbreaker. "But you've got to look at the first three quarters," he added, winking.

Milwaukee (25-42) has a three-day respite before playing three days out of four--at home against Detroit, and then on the road against Western Conference powerhouses Houston and Dallas.

Bucks officials also announced Wednesday center Andrew Bogut and forward Charlie Villanueva will miss the remainder of the season due to injuries.

Bogut was last seen clutching a toaster in the locker room. G.M Larry Harris has refused comment.

Victory Sealed with a Kiss

After guiding an 83-70 upset over #1 Florida Saturday afternoon, showing off an incredible feat of athleticism, Shan Foster simultaneously chest bumps and passionately open-mouth kisses another member of the victorious Vanderbilt squad, which improved to 18-8.

Some believe the creative ad hoc celebration could very well be the next "Lambeau Leap."

The stunning PDA -- public display of affection -- comes less than a week after ex-NBA great Tim Hardaway told Miami Herald radio host Dan Le Batard, "You know, I hate gay people, so let it be known. I don't like gay people and I don't like to be around gay people. I am homophobic. I don't like it. It shouldn't be in the world or in the United States."

Foster and Derrick Byars, 24 points, led the Commodores in scoring.

After receiving a maelstrom of criticism, Hardaway later clarified his remarks through a press release, "Those comments man, shit, that was my bad. I meant to say that I love gay people. The funny thing is, I am the least racist man I know. Let it be known. Tim Hardaway thinks gays are rad."

The victory marks the sixth time Vanderbilt has defeated a ranked opponent.

Giuliani's Got the 'Big Mo' on His Side

Rudiger William Giuliani, known simply as "Rudy" to friends and beloved masses, or "Snuggle Wuggles" to girlfriend Gina Fraiser, declared on CNN's Larry King Live on Wednesday that he will be running for President in 2008.

"Life is great!" said Time's 2001 Person of the Year, who has since fallen to what he deems a "still respectable" 18th on the list, behind such notables as Singer/Songwriter Nelly Furtado, rap artist Ludacris, and hot baseball agent Scott Boras, who brokered a deal for the purported Japanese gyroball hurler Daisuke Matsuzaka.

"Kobayashi is a greater man than that Mitsubishi bum," the lifelong Yankees fan stated.

After King probed him on the descent, questioning how great life could really be for a man so clearly plummetting down Time's POY list, Giuliani said, "Who cares? I'm rich, I'm in love, and guess what, Lar?"--he affected a Dick Vitale voice--"I'm running for President, baby!"

His face scrunching around a smirk and his voice switching to his notorious Austin Powers, he added, "Yeah! Does that make you randy? Does it?"

The confirmation comes after years of speculation.

After courageously leading New York City in the wake of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, when the former mayor of the Big Apple was often seen at the site of the Two Towers offering support and encouragement to rescue workers and victims, Giuliani's popularity soared to unheralded, "re-fuck-diculous" heights.

A Gallup poll conducted last week indicated sixty-nine percent of Americans believe Giuliani could shave off what remains of his hair, and actually pull it off. At this, Rudy nodded and smiled. "Aw yeah. Sixty-nine!"

He then winked and offered an impromptu wave to an off-camera Mo Vaughn, who shaped his hands into guns, winked, and pulled his thumb-triggers. Giuliani revealed the former Red Sox slugger as his running mate for '08, saying, "I'm willing to cross party lines, Lar."

He added with a whisper, "Plus, it's a hoot hanging around Mo and his posse of ho's."

Short Story -- Just Friends

I wrote this story a year ago. I randomly happened upon it when digging for old stories of mine to peruse. It was well hidden in some poorly titled folder. Brady remembers reading it way back when and gave it the flattering review, "it was good (a little dated now)." You be the judge!

Just Friends
by Me, BT
~1100 words

“Welcome to Fast Food Escape,” said Jerry Foster, once again forgetting the last part of the greeting. Loneliness caused concentration to dim and flicker like a low-battery flashlight. As he jammed a burger in his mouth with one hand and sucked up a steady stream of chocolate milkshake through a straw, Jerry’s mind raced with notions of fancy. More than anything else this world had to offer, he desired the companionship of a warm-blooded human being. The comforting touch of a woman. Or a man. Anybody with a pulse would suffice, though he would prefer to experience the virginity-slaying act with the fairer sex, since that was the more societally acceptable choice.

He felt alienated as it was—like most minorities, he figured.

The customer, a beefy jock wearing a University letter jacket, studied the overhead menu with a vacuous gaze common among the media-brainwashed masses. The man said, “I’ll have,” before drifting off, entranced by the many sundry delicious options from which to choose.

Jerry smiled. Then he felt that upside-down frown turn right-side up as he heard the disconcerting slurping sound beneath his chin suggest he might be forced to abandon his register to refill his shake; he kept a cache of two emergency milkshakes in a mini-refrigerator beneath the counter. At an arm’s length distance, he was loathe to keep a customer waiting. However, as fate would have it, on this particular day, Jerry had already resorted to this measure of desperation twice before, and he had yet to replenish his emergency stash.

“Would you excuse me for a moment?” Before hearing an affirmative, Jerry dashed spang for the milkshake machine. He grabbed a new cup. Rocking back and forth on his feet from heel to toe, toe to heel, as if riding an invisible surfboard of indecisiveness, he glanced back at the man. Still deciding. Suddenly the strawberry swirl appealed to him. But the chocolate had never let him down. Simple vanilla might be a nice change of pace, too. No, not today. Today he needed his chocolate.

After snatching a cheeseburger, he rushed back to his post.

The man stared dubiously at Jerry as he crumpled the cheeseburger wrapper and hurled it blithely over his shoulder. Jerry took a hearty bite. Washed it down. Then he moaned. A few deep breaths later, he said, “Are you ready to order?”

“You should not be working here,” the man said, his voice a mix of incredulity and admonition.

Jerry slowly removed his lips from the straw. Hoping to change the subject, already feeling the effects of withdrawal, he guessed, “Would you like a quarter-pounder?”

The man, a well-sculpted specimen who likely never had so many as five extra pounds of flab on his frame, crossed his arms, waiting.

All that waiting made Jerry nervous. He returned his lips to the straw.

“See?” the man blurted. “You couldn’t stand there ten seconds without stuffing yourself. Look at you. That gut—it’s immense!”

Jerry said, “I eat because, well, it’s so lonely here. Nobody loves me.”

The employees manning the other two registers briefly glanced at the developing scene. Their eyes scrunched and their brows wrinkled with concern.

“No friends, huh? What, did you eat them all?”

“Stop doing that.” Jerry felt the all too familiar urge inside of him battling to escape. People constantly teased him. He could only take so much before he tore himself apart, shame a monster dwelling deep within that scraped and clawed inside whenever someone poked fun at his weight issue. Okay: weight problem.

“Stop doing what? Listen, tubby: there’s nice and there’s the truth. And the truth is you are one fat fuck. How does the manager let you eat all that food? It must be costing him a fortune!”

Sipping on his milkshake, Jerry turned around, head cast down sulkily.

The manager, overhearing the hubbub, came out from the back. “Is there a problem, sir?”

The entire restaurant focused in on the conversation. Such a hush befell the room that the soft, gasping sobs which Jerry attempted to stifle were carried to the ears of each audience member of the cruel exposé.

“Now you’ve gone and upset him,” the manager said. Jerry felt a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t let this guy bother you, Jer. He’s an idiot.”

“Whatever happened to ‘the customer is always right?’ The man’s a rhino! Am I right or am I right? Fat fuck needs a date with Jenny Craig.”

“Who is Jenny Craig?” Jerry asked, having spun around with a look of innocent curiosity. “Can I meet her? Is she nice? Will Jenny Craig date me?”

The manager slunk to the side, a hand visoring his eyes, his head shaking.

“You’re single? A handsome man like you?”

Jerry perked up. “It is hard to believe, isn’t it?”

A nineteen-year-old co-worker, Jessica Franklin, butted in to his defense. “Just leave him alone, you idiot!” She canted her head, rounded her eyes, and nodded sharply with each subsequent syllable: “Can’t you see that you’re upsetting him?”

“Yeah!” exclaimed a chorus of defenders.

The man with a giant ‘W’ on his red sweatshirt—which Jerry knew to be short for “Wisconsin”—took one determined forward step, leaned in toward Jerry, placed both hands flatly upon the counter, and said contemptuously, “Jenny Craig is a diet program you lardass.” Then, spoken deliberately: “There is not one single woman on this entire planet who would fuck you.”

“Oh shit,” offered a woman’s voice. “There he goes!”

The manager yelled, “Everybody stay calm! Everything will be all right! Don’t panic!"

Jerry felt the familiar twitch again. He looked down, placing a hand on his bulbous gut. The monster’s three-pronged talons ripped away the flesh at the navel. Outpouring innards splashed wetly on the floor as it worked itself free.

The no-longer-inner demon launched itself upon the counter.

The student stood, tottery, before the creature.

It coiled, primed for attack.

The manager sidled up to Jessica. He whispered: “Man, that thing really needs to get laid.”

“Don’t look at me. We’re just friends.”

The Fountainhead

From The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand:

The world of the future. The world I want. A world of obedience and of unity. A world where the thought of each man will not be his own, but an attempt to guess the thought of the brain of his neighbor who'll have no thought of his own but an attempt to guess the thought of the next neighbor who'll have no thought--and so on, Peter, around the globe. Since all must agree with all. A world where no man will hold a desire for himself, but will direct all his efforts to satisfy the desires of his neighbor who'll have no desires except to satisfy the desires of the next neighbor who'll have no desires--around the globe, Peter. Since all must serve all. A world in which man will not work for so innocent an incentive as money, but for that headless monster--prestige. The approval of his fellows--their good opinion--the opinion of men who'll be allowed to hold no opinion. An octopus, all tentacles and no brain. Judgment, Peter! Not judgment, but public polls. An average drawn upon zeroes--since no individuality will be permitted. A world with its motor cut off and a single heart, pumped by hand. My hand--and the hands of a few, a very few other men like me. Those who know what makes you tick...

Then, I thought this a tad queer, she proceeds to go on for three pages straight about masturbation. Huh.

I'm Still Alive

A brief update.

I am still alive. Brady has essentially conceded the 15K writing challenge to me. I have about a thousand words to go. I've written at least 250 words every day this new year, and I hope to continue this consistency. After all, persistence is key in life's pursuits.

As I thought to myself: 'If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.' Feel free to use this in conversations; I just made it up.

Great American Novel

I wrote this in an email earlier today, and I think it's worth sharing.

If ducks could talk, I wonder if, during the breathless moments before a sexual encounter, one would look into the other's eyes and whisper, "Girl, you ruffle my feathers." I have no idea what made me think of that. Maybe I should write an erotic allegory along the lines of Animal Farm, except with more hot, raw sex. Quack, quack!

If there is any interest from a publisher happening to peruse my blog, drop a line and I'll get on it right away!

Happy New Year

15K Writing Challenge: I'm up to 3402 words through day 13.

I'm in Florida, staying at my parents's new home in Fort Myers, through next Saturday, so to all you suckers stuck in the Wisconsin cold: stinks to be you.

Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for me to take a bath. Just kidding; a dip in the porch pool is in order.

Go Badgers!