Archive for Obvious Conspiracy

Eric Chavez Killed My Laptop and Isn’t Even a Little Bit Sorry About It, Even Though He Should Be

Chavez villain

This is Eric Chavez. Eric Chavez is a bad dude (just look at that evil twirly mustache that I totally didn’t draw myself). Eric Chavez is a murderer. He’s not a murderer of people. No, Eric Chavez is guilty of murdering something far more defenseless and expensive.  Eric Chavez killed my laptop.

Last Friday, I was minding my own business, covering my first game as a credentialed member of the sports media (how hard could it be if they let Carson do it?) from the Salt River Fields press box. Eric Chavez came to the dish against Bartolo Colon in the top of the first and lined a pitch back at me. Fortunately for my beautiful face, but less fortunately for my beloved laptop, Eric Chavez’s line drive ricocheted off the back of my laptop screen and rolled to a stop at the feet of the MLB stringer working the game.

The baseball, which was so negligently launched backwards by Eric Chavez, had cracked the bevel of my laptop and filled a third of my screen with spider-webs of shattered dreams. What looked like black electronic oil leaked from around the spreading cracks and white vertical stripes obscured much of what had once been a glorious view of my desktop.

After the game, I used my newfound media power to bully my way into the clubhouse to confront Eric Chavez, Destroyer of Computer and Scourge of Electronics. Not intimidated by the fact that he is considerably bigger and stronger than me, I asked him how he could live with himself for assaulting my property like that. He was, I am disappointed to report, remarkably unrepentant:

“If I had any type of control over where the ball went, I definitely would not be hitting it into the press box…. You know, I hit a kid about two years ago when I was in Boston and I broke his eye socket, and he had to have surgery. Now that I feel sorry about. Laptops can be replaced, but eyes can’t.”

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Ode to Victor Cole

Victor Cole may have played in only eight games in the 1992 season, but he maintains the distinction of being one of Russia’s         natives to play in the MLB. And though many people                     love the USSR,                                                           he was not the only former Soviet to play the game.                                                                                                           

The 1992 season marked                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                terrible year                                                                                                                                                                                                    For Russia,                                                                                                                                                                               still great for Cole.

                                                                                                                                                                                          certainly not                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              , a former KGB agent. Just                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    a solid win                                                                                                                                                                               for communism                                                                                                                                                                           


President John Farrell’s Resignation Speech

Over the past two years, we in Toronto had taken to calling John Farrell “President Farrell.” Fine, it was mostly only me who called him “President Farrell,” and I enjoyed it. Being a Canadian, I can admit it: I’ve always wanted a president. And Farrell was oh so presidential, especially when donned in a suit and tie. And, of course, there is his presidential jawline. As you can see, below, President Farrell has no neck, only a jaw.

President Farrell is, of course, no more, his term cut short, his office and administration abandoned in disgrace. And our Investigative Reporting Investigation Team’s Canadian office has secured for us a transcript of President John Farrell’s resignation speech, delivered to the Blue Jays front office, and broadcast live over the weekend at the SkyDome for a few select season-ticket holders.

Good evening.

This is the 19th time I have spoken to you from this office, where so many decisions have been made that shaped the history of the Toronto Blue Jays. Each time I have done so to discuss with you some matter that I believe affected the franchise’s interest.

In all the decisions I have made in my baseball life, I have always tried to do what was best for the Boston Red Sox; for Red Sox Nation. Throughout the long and difficult period of managing the Blue Jays, I have felt it was my duty to persevere, to make every possible effort to complete the term of office to which I, Alex Anthopoulos, Paul Beeston, and the entire front office agreed upon.

In the past few days, however, it has become evident to me that I no longer have a strong desire to justify continuing that effort. As you may have noticed, the Red Sox need a new manager. As long as they had a manager — yes, even Bobby Valentine — I felt strongly that it was necessary to manage the Blue Jays through to the conclusion of my contract, that to do otherwise would be unfaithful to the spirit of that deliberately difficult process that was my hiring and a dangerously destabilizing precedent for the future.

But with the firing of Bobby Valentine, and the mutual interest between the Red Sox and myself, I now believe that my purpose with the Blue Jays has been served, and there is no longer a need for the process to be prolonged.

I would have preferred to carry through to the finish whatever the personal agony it would have involved, and my family unanimously urged me to do so. But the interest of Red Sox Nation must always come before any personal considerations.

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What Jack Chick Tracts Teach Us About Carson Cistulli

Evangelical patriot Jack Chick has admonished us against, among other things, Halloween and dirty Catholics. That much we know. What you may not realize is that Mr. Chick has of late undertaken the necessary business of warning the world about the wicked and iniquitous Carson Cistulli, who roams this earth spreading clap and bad ideas.

What, according to Mr. Chick, do you have to fear from this epicene waif who prefers fever-dreams of privilege to honest toil? Much, it turns out. For soul-thieving instance …

Carson Cistulli, upon threat of discipline from a dark force, encourages drug use among at-risk youths.

Carson Cistulli gives syphilis and AIDS to pregnant innocents.

Carson Cistulli, sub-rosa product of public schools, had a Wiccan teacher and from her he learned black arts and the finer points of animal torture.

Carson Cistulli, besides advocating a weak and mewling foreign policy, once murdered his own brother. This was the only act of anything resembling physical courage in Carson Cistulli’s foul-smelling life.

Go and tell others what Jack Chick has taught you about Carson Cistulli.

Tales of Triumph in Targeted Advertising

The musical rock-and-roll group They Might Be Giants, dork anthem pioneers, said in their song Kiss Me, Son of God:

“I built a little empire out of some crazy garbage

Called the blood of the exploited working class.”

I’m not 100% sure on what that exactly means, but I’m pretty sure it’s some sort of metaphor. More specifically, it could be some sort of metaphor about capitalism.

People on my television have told me that capitalism is the backbone of our nation. As an employee of a Fortune 500 company, I have signed a written commitment stating that I believe this to be true. What can I say? My hands are tied.

As a newly-minted champion of capitalism, I feel I must divulge something. You, the consumer, have no original ideas or thoughts. We’ve thought of them for you already, long ago. Our great trick is allowing you to believe that you are creating virgin opinions, un-probed by the long member of industry. That last sentence I wrote? It was constructed in the 1970s by powerful men (always men) wearing fine Italian slacks.

The German social critics Adorno and Horkheimer wrote in their seminal work The Dialectic of the Enlightenment:

“Even the aesthetic activities of political opposites are one in their enthusiastic obedience to the rhythm of the iron system.”

A truer statement has never been uttered by neo-Marxist heathens.

Nothing you do or say matters. Every meaningful idea that has ever fired across your synapses has fired across someone else’s years ago.

On a long enough timeline, your existence is rounded down to zero.

Considering the intelligent and forward-thinking audience to whom I’m bestowing this information, I’ve come to two conclusions:

1) You have come to this realization already, and have been unsuccessfully attempting to shield yourself from the truth.

2) My words have made you realize the breadth of your insignificance, answering a life-long question you weren’t quite sure how to ask.

Either way, it’s kind of a bummer, right? You may feel that you need some help to cope with this crippling understanding. Well, we here at Big Business have already thought of that, too.

Behold this recent screen capture:

It’s quite genius, actually. We have set up a system to oppress you, and when you become aware of it, you look for solace in the same system.

Sorry, readers. That’s the way it is. But look on the bright side. In 20-70 years, you’ll be dead.

Can You Do What Shaq Green-Thompson Has Done?

Via thief of hearts Yirmiyahu comes urgent breaking news regarding the stat line of Red Sox 18th-round draft choice Shaq Green-Thompson. Mr. Green-Thompson is currently plying his trade in the rookie-level Gulf Coast League, and his bestowals to date defy belief, explanation and one’s capability to impart basic facts:

Woo, shit. Look at that.

We are doughy. Often — disconcertingly often — our flatulence is so severe that we require a nap in order to prepare ourselves for our regular nap. We have lost weight just twice in our lives: once when we got food poisoning after eating Gaines Burgers at the movies and once when we slept for 96 straight hours after walking up the street to Baskin-Robbins and back. We are barely ambulatory. We manage to combine scarcely prehensile hot-dog fingers with wrists as reedy as reeds. We are not athletes, unless drawing 30 wheezy, loaded-chili-cheese-fries breaths per minute while taking up the entire sofa counts as a jockish endeavor.

So this brings us to a necessary and urgent query: Could we, in such foul-smelling disrepair, replicate Mr. Green-Thompson’s performance to date? That is, could dumb, ugly we strike out 25 times in 26 at-bats, ground out weakly once and back into five walks? Or would we fare even worse?

Call-to-action Internet poll!

Thank you for exercising the franchise. Also, thank you for yelling for your wife to come downstairs and hand you the remote.

Animated Chien-Ming Wang Is in Too Deep

As we know, Chien-Ming Wang, who in better times would be regarded as merely a Dude Trying To Get By, was forced, by the fell and rank schoolmarm forces among us, to apologize for enjoying some harmless, well-intended hubba-hubba with a woman not his wife. As every Premarital Memorandum of Understanding states, sometimes a gentleman must marinade himself in strange ass in order to take his mind off the high-level business transactions that consume him during daylight hours. Thus it was; ergo, thus it should be.

But we’ll leave the decline of Western mores for another day. Instead, I would call the besexed reader’s attention to what follows, which is animated, real-live footage of the dark forces working against Wang and his efforts to share himself with the ladies of America and America-World:


(HT: Eye on Baseball, a place you should visit without ceasing)

Carson Cistulli and the Dropped Foul Ball

The FanGraphs crew is in beautiful, sunny, and warm Phoenix, Arizona. They’re watching spring training baseball, drinking brews, and doing what they do best: being unapologetic nerds.

Me, I’m stuck in freezing-ass-cold Toronto, chained to my frigging desk, and bitter about it. But I’ve been following the gang’s exploits on Twitter:

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In the Shadow of a Giant

Wait, I definitely recognize one of them. Maybe that other guy seems vaguely familiar.

Buried in the Minneapolis Star Tribune story titled “Ex-Twins Dickey, Slowey scale Mount Kilimanjaro” is this nugget:

While Mets management tried to discourage Dickey from the arduous pursuit, the Rockies were fine with Slowey going ahead.

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Ballplayers Who Have Died on Christmas

Thanks to the death-infused search functions at Baseball-Reference, it’s easy to compile a list of ballplayers who selfishly ruined the holidays by dying on Christmas Day. Let us remember their crossing of the Styx and their insistence on doing so while everyone else was just trying to enjoy themselves.

Also remember this: As you open gifts, force chestnuts down the gullet and nod off in the glow of a D-level bowl game, someone somewhere is dying and thus soiling an otherwise fine day.