Why I'd rather go to a Nationals game

At a Red Sox game, you're trapped shoulder to shoulder with a bunch of drunk douche bags afraid of the letter R. At a Nationals game, you're shoulder to shoulder with a bunch of empty space and every letter in the alphabet gets equal respect.

At a Red Sox game, if you get in a fight with someone, the drunk douche bag probably deserved it. At a Nationals game, there's a chance that your opponent is a lobbyist, in which case serving him up a heaping helping of knuckle sandwich will help make the world a better place.

At a Red Sox game, you get classy, modest, polite young ladies in pink hats and Uggs who don't know what OBP stands for but know all the words to the Neil Diamond sing-a-longs. At a Nationals game, well...you don't.

At a Red Sox game, you have to live down the fact that the Sox were one of the last franchises to dispatch with the racist bullshit. At a Nationals game, you have to live down the fact that the Nats were once the Montreal Expos. But at least you can laugh at that.

At a Red Sox game, you have to watch the shell of Big Papi and whatever ancient former slugger the other team is trotting out at DH strike out three times and/or hit right into a ridiculous shift even though the opposite side of the diamond is open wider than Paris Hilton's, um, hotel. At a Nationals game, you get the bunt and the double-switch, neither of which is a euphemism. Although double-switch might work.

The nail in the coffin: At a Sox game, you get Wally the Green Monster. Meanwhile the Nats trot out the biggest bad ass in all of American history: Teddy F'n Roosevelt. Deeeeeeeeeeeeeee-lighted!

Popapalooza

While we're on the subject of fixing things, let's talk about what I can do to help the Catholic Church out of their latest bugaboo. It turns out that the clergy's inability to keep its hands to itself was not exclusively an American problem; reports of abuse are pouring in from every corner of Europe, including the church-thingy where Pope Eggs Benedict was once in charge - while he was in charge of it. They've got a shit storm on their hands, and they're dealing with it in the typical Catholic manner: trying to pretend it never happened.

But there's a better way. The Church needs to make a radical change. It needs to replace the Pope. Just not with another scary old white guy. They need someone young and vibrant who looks like he might have a pulse, who's accepting of the modern world and understands the unique challenges faced by today's flock. Luckily, I Stole Your Lunch has the perfect candidate. He's even got a year of Poping experience under his belt.

So we're going to replace this guy, who may or may not fight back by shooting lightning from his fingertips:








With this guy:



Ladies and gentleman, loyal blogonauts everywhere, I present to you the new leader of the Catholic Church: "The Pope" D'Angelo Dinero. Replacing old Ratzy with the above professional wrestler is a great idea because:

• It rains money wherever he goes.
• Gives away his awesome sunglasses to one lucky kid in the crowd when he makes his entrance, potentially drawing the younger generation to Catholicism.
• Would have the best Popemobile ever, with 22-inch spinners, ground effects, and a gaggle of ho's I mean nuns to ghost ride that whip wherever it goes.
• Would have no trouble dispatching lunatics who jump the barrier to attack him.
• Effective, engaging public speaker who gets the crowd involved and delivers his message in a memorable way.
  
• This Pope is pimpin'.
• And Popetacular.
• And will not scare away small children with Uncle Festeresque grin.
• Imagine the drama when he's giving the Easter address to those gathered in the Vatican and all of a sudden Ric Flair's music hits and the Nature Boy comes out to start a rumble.
• No need to worry about little boys; comes with his own stable of ho's.
• Sells lots of t-shirts.
  

And those handsy priests? Put 'em in the ring and the Pope will pimp slap them into oblivion. Jesus couldn't ask for a better tag team partner.

As like anything in life, accepting Dinero as the church's savior does come with one difficulty: a potential increase in steel chair attacks upon clergy, likely from that bastard The Phenomenal AJ Styles.

Smells Like Teen Sparklies

The Interwebs were abuzz today with the news that Robert Pattinson of dumbass vampire movie fame is the leading candidate to play Nirvana front man Kurt Cobain in an upcoming biopic. Word is Courtney Love approves. People everywhere who are actually old enough to remember Nirvana emitted a collective "WhaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaat???" that gave Dick Cheney a mild stroke.

Needless to say, this pretty stupid, although I suppose any of us with a passing appreciation for the band should just thank our lucky stars they didn't pick Nic Cage. It's a classic case of Hollywood suits who think they can shove a square peg through a round hole to make a giant pile of money fall out the other side. Let's take a look at the qualifications an actor must possess to effectively play Mr. Cobain:

• Good at brooding.
• Can wear dirty sweaters.
• Ability to grow ratty facial hair.
• Angst.

"Doesn't sound too hard, does it?" say the dumbass Hollywood suits. "And who better to play a brooding, angsty character than one of the Twilight leads?"

Bullshit, I say. There is a big difference between Twilight pussy angst and Cobain's legit problems. It's Yankees-Nationals, Brady-JaMarcus, Hoops-New York, Stuart-Beck, Sookie-Bella.

And that last combination leads me to a grand resolution to this problem. The Hollywood suits obviously want to cash in on the vampire craze, hoping the use of one of said fad's main players will draw the youth crowd that would otherwise have no interest in the film. But Pattinson isn't the answer. If you need a vampire to play Cobain, there's really only one possibility:

Fuck yeah. Light my candles in a daze cuz I've found God.

Now back to Ms. Love. We should probably wait a few days for the meds to wear off and then ask her again if she still thinks this is a good idea. Supposedly she also thinks Scarlett Johansson should play her in the movie, an idea almost as laughable as sparkling Kurt Cobain. Really, there's only one Hollywood actress even remotely qualified to play Courtney Love:

I smell a blockbuster. Thank me later, Hollywood.

Reality Check

I've obviously been a bit low on material lately. The complete dearth of new "blank of/at/in Love" on VH1 isn't helping matters.

And so I turn to an old standby, Survivor, a show I once watched religiously and then completely forgot about. This year's All-Star Heroes vs. Villains has sunk its insidious claws right into yours truly like the stench of a Somerville skank into the skin of an unsuspecting Tufts frat boy. Except without the rash.

And now an analysis of the remaining players, in reverse order of their chance at winning the final vote:

Sandra (Villains) - Gone the next time the Villains go to Tribal Council. She's stood up to Russell far too often; she's done.

Courtney (Villains) - With Sandra, all that's left of Boston Rob's once strong looking alliance. To look at her you'd think she'd been on that island for for seven years rather than seven episodes; that girl needs a hamburger. Not a threat unless she and Sandra join with the Heroes following the merge. Which won't happen because, with Rob's departure, everybody on that island not named Russell is a moron.

Coach (Villains) - The Dragon Slayer isn't a threat to leave anytime soon...but if he makes it to the end, who in their right mind would vote for him over...well, anyone? Last week's vote for Courtney in the face of the majority puts him on the bottom rung of Russell's alliance.

Jerri (Villains) - Same boat as Coach. I have high hopes that their little puppy love will turn into a reality show of its own.

Amanda (Heroes) - With the Heroes on a newfound get-rid-of-the-weakest kick, she's next on their list despite her in-depth knowledge of banana etiquette.

Rupert (Heroes) - The best beard on TV this side of Mick Foley is just too damn nice of a guy. His broken toe might also bump him below Amanda in the Heroes' pecking order.

Danielle (Villains) - Not even remotely memorable. I had to look up her name. Equipped with her own flotation devices that may come in useful during water challenges.

Parvati (Villains) - She'll stick around, but she doesn't stand a chance at the final vote.

Colby (Heroes) - Around mostly due to luck, he redeemed himself with a strong performance last week. Big athletic advantage over the other men could see him win individual immunity the rest of the way after the merge unless Jerri cuts off his manhood.

Candice (Heroes) - The most athletic of the remaining women should be able to walk all over the other girls if she can learn when to keep her mouth shut.

J.T. (Heroes) - He'll have a giant target on his back at the merge, but if his team plays immunity smart he's the one that will win the final vote. Big athletic advantage over Russell and Coach and a lot more devious than he gets credit for.

Russell (Villains) - I didn't think the little troll had it in him, but he's got to be the odds on favorite to win the whole thing. No one is smart enough to out-maneuver him; the only thing that might kill him would be pissing off the jury. If he's careful, the victory is his to lose.

@IStoleYourLunch Now on the Twatter

Twelve-year-olds and marketing douche bags everywhere, rejoice! |: I Stole Your Lunch is now on the Twatter, bringing even more quality content to the Interwebs and stimulating your dulled neurons in ways you never thought possible. Imagine the in depth, up-to-the-minute analysis I can now provide. From now on, you'll know all about...

• ...whether my socks match.
• ...how many donuts I've eaten on a given day.
• ...how many idiots on whom I've dropped the atomic leg for trying to eat my last donut.
• ...how many buffalo chicks I've tried to pass off upon whomever I'm at the bar with.
• ...various violent bowel movements and what caused them.
• ...the number of times I've popped it and locked it and dropped it in the past hour.
• ...updates to and new applications of the Hollywood Starlet Equivalent Index.
• ...which celebrities I think are worth listening to (so far: Ochocinco, the Iron Sheik, and someone pretending to be Flava Flav, who appears to be harassing Miley Cyrus...).
• ...who annoyed me on public transportation enough to piss me off but not enough to warrant a full blog entry.
• ...whatever random thought involving various perfectly natural bodily functions is making me giggle like a schoolgirl.
• ...the number of times I dropped it, hit it, dumped it, split it, don't stop, get it, get it since my last donut.
• ...which homeless people you can safely risk eye contact with.
• ...whether or not I managed to remember the username and password I drunkenly created tonight.

All told, the aggregate IQ of the Interwebs just jumped five points. Although I'm still not sure I understand exactly what the Twatter is doing. Back in my day...

• ...we had to walk five miles, up hill, in the snow, without shoes or comfortable undies to ask our best friend for his screen name.
• ...we could warn and ban our friends just for the fun of it.
• ...we had no clue that Flava Flav was fucking with Miley Cyrus unless it was reported on TMZ.
• ...our phones only got text messages, and then only if we had enough data left on our plans and if we were being followed around by that creepy Verizon dude and his cult.
• ...tweeting was exclusive to parakeets and little birdies circling the brows of those with recent head trauma.
• ...nobody knew how to spell, but they couldn't use the Interwebs as an excuse.

You little shits don't know how good you've got it. Now get off my lawn and get a damn job or I swear I'll close up my robe, hide this bottle of Old English in a paper bag under my rocking chair, and come down off this porch to tan your prissy little hide like we used to do on MySpace.