2010 MLB Preview - American League Central

There are few things that I hate more than the American League Central. Maybe fat people who walk side-by-side on the sidewalk so you have to run the damn Statue of Liberty play to get around them. Fat people who plop down beside you on the bus and spill their flab all over you, probably. Fat people who beget fat children? Definitely.

1. Minnesota Twins
Somebody's got to get destroyed by the Yankees in the first round, and Minnesota's just the team to do it! Although their new outdoor stadium would be absolute death to dome or warm weather teams come playoff time, they won't finish well enough to win home field.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Janice Dickinson. Frigid bitch.

2. Detroit Tigers
Their pitching staff is young and moderately interesting, and their almost-above-average lineup is just elderly and arthritic enough to fall apart down the stretch. Manager Jim Leyland will single-handedly rescue the tobacco industry by smoking an entire pack every inning.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Paula Abdul. Makes a lot of noise, but old enough that nobody really cares.

3. Chicago White Sox
At least they've got Ozzie.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Fergie. Flat out busted, but not bad if you were to put a paper bag over their head and staple it shut.

4. Cleveland Indians
In three years they've gone from a JD Drew fluke home run away from the World Series to also ran that's lucky they've got the Royals in the division. They've traded away their big names, and not one of their Next Big Things has panned out yet. They canned manager Eric Wedge, but how does GM Mark Shapiro still have a job?
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Brigitte Nielsen. Went from Sly Stallone and "Red Sonja" to Flava Flav to that French dude. What the hell happened?

5. Kansas City Royals
Ladies and gentlemen, the place where replacement level players go to die. Like an elephant graveyard. Or watching lemmings fall off a cliff. Rick Ankiel followed Jason Kendall followed Juan Cruz followed Rowdy Kyle Farsnworth followed Jose Guillen right over those pretty waterfalls in the outfield. Note that the Red Sox have not won a World Series since they hired former Royals GM Allard Baird, who lay the foundation for this vortex of suck, as a consultant.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Tara Reid. Just a complete trainwreck.

2010 MLB Preview - American League East

Just because everybody else is doing it. As a means of better communicating my rankings with those who aren't as baseball savvy I've created a brand new metric: Hollywood Starlet Equivalent, which aims to simplify a club's ranking by equating it to a well-known female celebrity. Baseball Prospectus has already offered me millions for the rights to this revolutionary new system.

American League East
The best division in the league is also arguably the least interesting. The top two teams are obvious; the rest should petition Bud for a transfer to the National League, where they could all potentially contend for the Wild Card.

1. New York Yankees
Defensive upgrades in left and center should mostly offset the losses of Johnny Damon and Hideki Matsui. I Stole Your Lunch would like to thank Hideki for getting the hell out of the division.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Whoever Derek Jeter is banging this week. Unless they suck, in which case they're A-Rod's blowup doll (no, not Kate Hudson).

2. Boston Red Sox (Wild Card)
Mike Cameron? Marco Scutaro? Adrian Beltre? Really? Why not just clone JD Drew and have him play every position on the field? I'm having flashbacks to the Duquette era. At least that pending midseason trade for Adrian Gonzalez will save them, giving them the Wild Card by the skin of their teeth.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Claudia Black. I will always love you, no matter how many shows/movies/miniseries the SyFy channel shoehorns you into.

3. Tampa Bay Rays
No team has a bigger distance between its potential floor and its potential ceiling. They could rack up 100 victories and walk off with the division; they could revert to their devilish ways and drop 100. The combined ages of every pitcher on their staff is lower than my bowling score, and their offense seems a bit overrated.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Ellen Paige. Those "in the know" love them, but I'm not completely convinced. But they're ok; they're watchable and somewhat interesting, and you can see how good it could get. Maybe someday...

4. Baltimore Orioles
Put the O's in any other division and they'd be the new "It" team that would make all the sportswriters mess their pantaloons. If their next pack of prospects comes through, look out.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Mila Kunis. Been trying to steal the show for years, and they're almost there.

5. Toronto Blue Jays
Did they get enough for Halladay? That depends. It's the baseball equivalent of Yoda giving up to hide in the swamp and wait for Luke and Leia to grow up. Had they given it one more good try with what they had, they might've been able to beat the Evil Empire. Their offense was coming around, and they've got a ton of good young arms. But Kyle Drabek and Brett Wallace have the potential to carry this team for years to come. Just not this year.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Linda Hogan, ex-wife of The Immortal Hulk Hogan. Dumped the aging superstar for some punk half her age, tried to steal the Hulk's favorite toilet seat but had to give it back.

What a crummy Woot Off!

It's like they're just throwing up the slightly-techie crap they found behind the counter at CVS. It's also possible that they're selling off the last remaining scraps of Circuit City. I realize today's harsh economic climate has hit everyone hard, but Woot! has always been a beacon of hope in a sea of douchebaggery, a pusher of moderately useful or at least somewhat amusing merchandise. For fuck's sake, I spent three hours today refreshing the page just have the same stupid MP3 players with Mickey Mouse ears tearing apart another little piece of my soul every time. All that's left is a mushy little chunk that looks vaguely like Tara Reid's last movie.

But I still have hope. As yet there has been no sign of either Bag 'o Crap or the Screaming Woot! monkey; hence we may only be in the second leg of the fabled three-day Woot Off! C'mon, baby, daddy needs Star Wars undies that double as a node in a wireless mesh network...

(Author's note added fifteen minutes later: catastrophe averted. Just bought an electric stick mixer with whisk and chopper attachments. Now I just need a blonde dye job and I can finally take Alton Brown's place.)

Artsy Fartsy

I spend a lot of time in trendy Somerville coffee shops, the kind where everybody's glasses are square and they charge you extra if you don't have a tattoo or some sort of brown cardigan. I was unable to fool the clever waitress with a set of temporary red-and-black stars on my neck, but they can't argue with the brown cardigan I found in the dumpster out back even though it smells like overcooked hobo in melted cheddar cheese with a side of An Tain.

Said coffee shops tend to feature paintings from local artists. Some of these are nice, normal, pretty things, like houses or seascapes or ponies. Most look like someone shoved a few different colors of paint up their rear end and farted in the general direction of a canvas. Many of them are on sale - for six hundred dollars.

Originally, this was going to be a rant about how no one in Somerville would pay six hundred dollars for a piece of fartwork by some dude no one's ever heard of. But then I realized that's not true; my time on Winter Hill has blinded me to Somerville's seething subculture of hippies, yuppies, hipsters, yippies, huppies, puppies, and whatever else they call themselves these days that percolates beneath Somerville's working class majority like a steaming miasma of irony and PBR. They would pay their entire barista/bike mechanic paycheck for an inkblot on a canvas. They'd also pay six hundred dollars for:

• Square things
  
• Organic fish chow
• Particle board furniture from Scandinavia
  
• Swoopy haircuts
• Used bicycles
  
• Tattoos: aforementioned red and black stars, random crap from the fifties, talking chair from Pee Wee's Playhouse, string of cool looking Japanese characters advertised as an ancient proverb that actually translates roughly to "mama soap swine licker"
  
• Ganja

Meanwhile, the list of things on which the locals, the Real Somervillains, would be willing to spend six hundred smackers is quite a bit different:

• Used Honda
• Thumpin' sound system for used Honda
• Ground effect lights for used Honda
• Bail
• Tattoos, male: tribal triangles, flames, used Honda, Pat the Patriot
• Tatoos, female: fairy wings, "Princess," unintelligible tramp stamp with some sort of heart
  
• Tab at On the Hill Tavern to impress that one girl that's uglier and skinnier and has more teeth than all her friends and is in good standing with her parole officer
• Operation performed behind On the Hill Tavern by One Eyed Dr. Sully and his trusty coat hanger
• If unable to convince above girl that One Eyed Dr. Sully is a legit medical professional, game-worn Patriots jersey to wear at shotgun wedding
• Ganja

This concludes today's examination of the geosociopoliticaleconomic climate of Somerville.

Also, my campaign Dream Team has imploded. Chief Political Strategist Levi Johnson and his hockey stick dueled with Special Enforcer Jose Offerman and his baseball bat over a supposedly stolen bottle of tequila. Both are in intensive care. Economic Advisor Bernie Madoff took off with the ten bucks I loaned him. And the girl at the bus stop hasn't been at the bus stop for a few days. Things are looking grim for my Supreme Court Challenge.

I Demand a Recount

Coakley may have given her consolation speech, but the Colby campaign has yet to throw in the towel. Recount, now.

I don't blame people for not voting for her. Holy crap, what an unlikeable shrew. I do, however, blame people for voting for Scott Brown (previously known as That Yuppie Looking Dude). If I could put it into words, I would...but I can't. Just know that a vote for Brown was a vote for dumb, a vote for the status quo, a vote for being tricked and exploited. If the Republicans were actually the party of being smart about spending, I'd vote for them; but just like the Dems, and perhaps more so, they're just the party of selling out Real Americans like you and I and Hulk Hogan and Chuck Norris. Look at Rush Limbaugh; by the Force, look at Sarah Palin. What a bunch of terds.

Unfortunately, Chuck Norris can't do it on his own, and the Hulkster's had a few too many hip surgeries to help out. Until we wake up, we're going to continue to get screwed over by the same douche bags again and again. For all those who forgot, the current economic mess was caused by the lax policies of a Republican regime; hence, because a Democratic majority was unable to fix it in a year, the answer is obviously more Republicans. (end sarcasm)

I Stole Your Lunch will continue to withhold its vote until the day it does not have to choose between the herp and the syph. Someday, a man will burst through the curtain to a booming rock anthem and a terrific display of pyrotechnics to save us all...

...AND THAT MAN WILL BE SCOTT COLBY, and you will all do the chants and the hand signs and love every minute of it.

J-E-T-S SUCK SUCK SUCK

Sunday's epic confrontation between the Bolts and Gang Green set offensive football back a good twenty-five years. New York's entire game plan can be described as thus:

RUN-RUN-INCOMPLETE PASS-PUNT-HOPE FOR INTERCEPTION IN OPPONENT'S TERRITORY-RUN-RUN-REX RYAN EATS THREE BACON AND LARD PIES-INCOMPLETE PASS-FIELD GOAL-REPEAT

The Chargers, conversely, thought they could win simply by having head coach Norv Turner make constipated faces on the sideline. Somehow, that failed.

Which leads us to this coming Sunday's AFC Championship game between the Jets and the Colts. Normally, I'd pretend that this match up between my two least favorite teams simply didn't exist. But in this case...

...deep breath...

But in this case, I'm going to pull for...

...deep breath...

In this case, I'm going to pull for the Jets. The Colts DESERVE to lose. They're the reason this abortion of a team is in the playoffs in the first place. They completely rolled over at home against New York in Week 16, keeping the Jets' playoff hopes alive. This is their fault, and the Force will see to it that they get what they deserve.

I Stole Your Lunch maintains that going undefeated and winning the Super Bowl is more important than just winning the Super Bowl. Somebody wins the Super Bowl every year; that somebody is then forgotten within a few seasons. But go perfect, and everybody remembers who you were and when you did it. Who won the Super Bowl in 1971? Nobody gives a crap! But everybody knows the Miami Dolphins were perfect in '72.

This will be the only time I will root for the Jets unless they somehow end up playing a team entirely comprised of Mannings. Also, if the Saints fail to beat the Vikings, I'm going to pretend the Super Bowl was cancelled this year due to the field collapsing into a giant singularity of Favrian suck.

Vote Awesome; Vote Colby!

Few elections have cried out for a viable third candidate like this Tuesday's showdown between Martha Coakley and That Yuppie Dude for dearly departed Ted Kennedy's seat in the Senate. The Facepage and the Twatter have been abuzz lately with people who can't decide between the two. It's like picking between JD Drew and Jeremy Hermida; somebody's got to play right field, but neither option is particularly attractive, and both are apt to hit into a double play while sitting in the dugout. Part of that, I suspect, is the overall air of complete fakery surrounding each candidate. They couldn't be more contrived and manufactured if they were Backstreet Boys.

I'm kind of strange, so I like to pretend that both were injected with magic truth-and-candor dust and forced to film new commercials:

"Hi, I'm Martha Coakley. I'm that maybe-once-was-kind-of-attractive-if-it-was-dark-and-you-were-loaded woman running for State Senate. I enjoy pantsuits and getting my hair did and watching reruns of Golden Girls. I took my husband's manhood, but sometimes I give it back to him for an hour or two on the weekends. Even though I'm an overbearing shrew and I've crushed his spirit, when we're in public we love each other so very very much oh yes we do. I think my opponent is a moron for going out in the terrible cold to shake hands with the disgusting rabble. I'm a Democrat, so I'm directionless and out of touch with real Americans."

"Hi, I'm That Yuppie Guy. I work hard to be non-threatening in every possible way. I keep a touch of gray in my hair to leave my age ambiguous; I could be a wise, experienced old man, or I could be a rebellious free spirit whose slightly aged coiffure belies his youth and vigor. My fake smile was grown in a vat in California. Sometimes my wife gives me my manhood back on the weekend for an hour or two. I'm so white that even my dookies are pasty. I'm from Wrentham, but I don't shop there because I'm too good to wear the same sweater vests as the rest of the rabble. I'm a Republican, so I'm batshit insane and out of touch with real Americans."

Bleh. You know the drill. There's got to be a factory somewhere that churns out these cookie cutter politicians (they all fall apart at some point in their careers, so they must be made in China). They're all the same, and none of them is ever going to accomplish anything of consequence, and we vote for them because it's easier than looking for an alternative.

So instead of allowing you to sit on your butt and not look for an alternative, I'm going to hurl one at your face through the magic of the Interwebs. On Tuesday, vote awesome; vote Colby!

This wouldn't be possible if I were working alone. I've assembled the greatest campaign team known to man:

• Head Political Strategist Levi Johnston, who brings a wealth of campaign experience to the team.
• Chief Economist Bernie Madoff
  
• Military Advisor Sergeant Slaughter
• Director of Being Female So My Campaign Is Not Called Sexist the girl who's at the bus stop sometimes
  
• Special Enforcer Jose Offerman
  

As a United States Senator, I promise to...

• Finally wrest the Congressional Beer Pong Championship from John McCain.
• Commit a hilarious practical joke on my fellow legislators by shoving a bunch of pulled pork inside the pages of a bill.
• Prevent further economic chicanery on the part of the financial sector by implementing Bitchslap a Banker Day.
  
• Build a giant fence on the Somerville border.
  
• Only screw around with good looking interns.
• Refrain from use of tobacco products when screwing around with interns to avoid giving impressionable children the wrong idea.
• Take money from lobbyists, not vote the way they want me to, then laugh in their faces.
• Implement EVERYBODY FLIES NAKED plan to secure our skies (see previous post for details.
• Give tax breaks to people who take their money out of the banks and out of the stock market and bury it in a coffee can in the backyard.

In short, my platform can be summed up in two words: High Life.

"But you're not qualified to represent my beloved commonwealth in the Senate!" I hear some of you moaning. "We need someone who really understands the plight of the average Massachusettsian." Luckily, I was prepared for you peons.

Scott Colby's Qualifications to Represent the Commonwealth of Massachusetts in the Senate

• Can consistently name all members of the Red Sox starting rotation.
• Knows all the words to several Dropkick Murphys songs, including "Shipping Up to Boston."
• Enjoys grinders and frappes.
• Went to Revere Beach once. Survived.
• Supports the local economy by choosing Dunkin' Donuts over Starbucks.
• Watched that "Schoolhouse Rock" show about "I'm Just a Bill" once, maybe twice.
  
• Probably won't do a worse job than the posers already there.
  

I think that about says it all. You can tell I'm serious about this because I used three seperate bulleted lists. Vote awesome; vote Colby!

And if you don't, the last words you'll hear as you exit the voting booth will be "Jose, bateador arriba..."

Undie Bomber

I know the topic's a bit passe (stupid Blogger won't let me put an accent over the e), but few things gave me more joy during the holiday season than this idiot. Like any sane person, I burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter when I first heard the news. I laughed even harder at the ensuing brouhaha about security and it all being Obama's fault and such. I mean, really, people: Al Qaeda's master plan was to stick a bunch of firecrackers in some moron's underwear and try to blow up a plane heading for Detroit. Really? You're concerned by this? This is "the greatest threat currently facing our nation?"

I've always been of the opinion that the best way to eliminate unwanted behavior is to ridicule it. After all, it was ridicule that ended my love of jean shorts and will hopefully some day curtail my my music-fueled transformation into a black clad emo girl with two tramp stamps and a pierced left butt cheek. I firmly believe that if Obama sent Bin Laden a letter telling him how much of a dumb ass he is every time Al Qaeda pulls one of these ridiculous stunts he'd shave, take a shower, put on some respectable looking clothes, and get a real job, potentially replacing the dearly departed Billy Mayes as the king of infomercials.

But instead, everybody's in a giant tizzy about this reject and his tighty whities. Earth to America: this is essentially the plot to a terrible SyFy channel movie called "Fruit-of-the-Booms: Terror in the Skies" featuring Lou Diamond Phillips, but with worse special effects. It wouldn't fluster LDP. It shouldn't fluster you.

So now we get to have a "national conversation" about how to improve airline security in response to this new threat. Seems to me the existing "If you see a Middle Eastern looking dude holding a match and laughing maniacally, punch him in the face" rule worked pretty well. Which leads me to an extremely important question that no one in what passes for the media elite bothered to ask: why did this genius try to light his thong-th-thong-thong-bomb in the cabin instead of in the privacy of the bathroom? Idiot.

But if the powers that be insist on taking this crap seriously, there's only one real option: EVERYBODY FLIES NAKED. Do not allow any clothing within a one mile radius of any airport. This will stop known threats like shoe bombs and C4-strings as well as theoretical threats like manssiere machine guns, adult diaper land mines, and laser-equipped chastity belts. It's the only way we can be truly safe when we fly, although I suspect it will lead to a greatly increased use of barf bags.

Time for football. Saints-Cardinals looks like it should be a great game, but it's been made even better by a reported wager between Kurt Warner and Reggie Bush. If the Cardinals win, Tony Siragusa eats Kim Kardashian; if the Saints win, the Goose eats Mrs. Warner and whatever crazy hairdo she's sporting this year. Family fun for all.

This is all your fault, J$

I know what you're thinking. "Oh, not this again. I was hoping we'd get to skip the Forty-Sixth Annual Relaunch of I Stole Your Lunch this year. This is a worse tease than my hot neighbor who always remembers to close the shades AFTER she's undone a few buttons. How is this time going to be different?"

It probably won't be. There's a good chance I'll keep up with this for a few weeks then completely forget about it; there's an even better chance that this will be the only update you get for the next year and a half. There's a possibility that the Interwebs, already stacked to the gills with retarded crap, will finally reach the point where it can't possibly contain another word of bullshit and regurgitate I Stole Your Lunch all over your keyboard. There's a possibility that I'll finally drink enough to actually lobotomize myself and wind up posting an update that consists of "aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaajlkjflkajsflkfjalksfjlakjsfldkjaoieja crowofoiwhfuwehauhtoqhoqhohvoahvohauhvdnvwqnvcgwbe Keira Knightley." Whatever happens, I promise one thing: something's going to happen, and it's going to be about as pretty as that thing you took home from Ai Tain after your seventeeth dollar Miller Lite.

But potential carnage be damned, my legions of loyal blogonauts (on the Interwebs, three now constitutes legions) have spoken. They miss me, and they've cried themselves to sleep every night since last I posted, often huddled together in a tangled mass of vaguely cheese-scented manhood as they attempt to soothe each other's pain. At least bringing that to an end will accomplish something positive.

A lot has changed; a lot has stayed the same. And the only way to properly examine both a lots is with a pair of bulleted lists.

The Same

• I Stole Your Lunch maintains that the MBTA could get itself out of debt in two weeks if it charged by the pound.
• Lard asses need to learn how to walk.
• My grammar and spelling are both better than yours and I will judge you harshly because of it.
• The yacht of any potential betrothal must measure at least 90 feet from bow to stern and feature a bowling alley, a helipad, and a towering mast on which epic duels with pirate captains can be fought.
• You buy the booze, I'll write the blog.

Different

• The Foggy Goggle has been vanquished not by fire nor by exorcism but by an Irish-themed punk band with one big hit. Henceforth, the Official Slimy, Disgusting Watering Hole of I Stole Your Lunch is the Hong Kong in Harvard Square. The Golden Temple in Washington Square was a close second, but it's hard to beat three whole floors of skanktastic good times.
• I Stole Your Lunch Headquarters has relocated to a lovely Winter Hill. Rest assured that the local townies, intelligent and sophisticated as they are, will provide ample blog fodder.
• I'm not paying for hosting anymore. Blogger is good enough.
• Google Ads, which base themselves on the content of a given site, will soon provide hours of additional entertainment to my loyal blogonauts.

Stay tuned...