Great Siskel's Ghost!

I don't know how this one got by me, but Eddie Cornejo, Jed Morris and Benny Winslow made a movie last year when they were all on the Ports. I guess it didn't suck too bad because it got played at some big-time independent movie festival.

The movie's called Dream Revolver and it's website provides kind of a crappy trailer and this synopsis:

"An unidentified minor league baseball player struggles through his long season. His perspective of the game he once loved so much as a child becomes skewed due to internal demons & external pressures. In a series of twisted, wacky & unexplainable dreams he finds his inspiration and motivation disguised as foolish characters. Ultimately leading to a silly confrontation that enables him to see the game of baseball in its purest form, the way it should always be...a game."

Instead of a movie, I wish they would have made a documentary. One where they kidnap Macha, tar and pube him (a spin on tar and feathering), stuff him in a potato sack, pee on him (not that I'm into full-frontal, male nudity), and drop him in a gigantic, scolding vat of sugary sweetness at the Juicy Fruit factory.

They could've called it Death of a Douchebag.

Maybe next time.


2005 Stockton Stats

Eddie Cornejo: 316 AB  .304 Avg  .369 OBP  .367 Slg%  .736 OPS
Jed Morris:    268 AB  .302 Avg  .376 OBP  .563 Slg%  .939 OPS
Benny Winslow:  55 AB  .236 Avg  .333 OBP  .400 Slg%  .733 OPS

I Dreamt About The A's Last Night

Some guys get to dream of Jessica Alba bending over for some doggy style sex. Me? I dream of Rich Harden.

I don't think that makes me gay.

Anyway, it was March 4th and our guys were taking on the Mets in Camden Yards. It was a day game. I thought it was just another Spring Training game, but much to my shagrin, Robert Buan tells me that it's Opening Day.

I was confused and upset. Confused because we're opening up the season on March 4th against the Mets in Camden Yards and upset because I was stuck at work. On a Saturday.

We were losing 2-0 before I finally escaped this hell hole to watch the rest of the game on TV. Why I just didn't go to MLB.tv, I don't know. I get home, flip on the tube, and see that the Mets have the bases loaded in the 8th. Macha goes to pull Harden. Oh, I take that back. Macha just goes to see if Harden's okay. Apparently he is because Macha leaves him in. Victor Diaz deposits Harden's next offering into the left field seats.

My subconscious continues to prepare me for the next six months of stupidity.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Actual conversation I started my work week with:

"I can't open up (a network file)."

"What do you mean you can't open it up?"

"Well, I started the program and clicked on the file like I do every morning, but it won't open up."

"Does it give you a message?"

"Yes."

"What does it say?"

"I didn't read it."

[slaps forehead]

A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words

Thanks to Gabe and Steve for their submissions.

About two years ago I was invited to a cookout at Ken Macha's house. I was a little unsure about going but I figured this was one of the few times I would ever have the chance to converse one on one with a real big league manager, so I took full advantage of it.

It was a warm day, mostly sunny with a few white puffy clouds here and there as I approached the front door of his home. I rang the doorbell and became a little concerned when the tune that echoed from the halls of his home was the Darth Vader theme from Star Wars.

The door slowly opened as Macha himself peaked out from behind.

"Hello" he whispered in a high pitched voice."Um, hey. It's me. I'm here for the cookout."

"WELL COME ON IN!" he shouted, jumping up and down in sheer amusement that someone actually showed up.

The first thing I noticed when I entered his living room was a huge picture that had to measure atleast 20' X 20' that took up the entire back wall of the room.

The truly scary thing about this picture was that it was a photo of Scott Hatteberg and Ricardo Rincon posing topless with their arms around each other.

'Who would have a picture like THIS in their living room?' I thought to myself....

But I wasn't really scared until I noticed the two hand written notes on the bottom of the photo.

The first one on the bottom right hand side read:

"Dear Ken,

Thanks for making me the 'middle man' in your bullpen sandwich.

All my love,

Little Ricky."


Ew.

I noticed a little over to the left of that note was the 2nd note:

"Dear Ken,

Since you lived up to your 'end' of the bargain and hit me in the 4-hole for the entire season i'll live up to my 'end' of the bargain and let you hit me in my 2-hole for all of eternity.

All my love, XOXOXOX

Scotty the hotty."

I left.

Spring is in the Air

It's a beautiful 77 degrees today. Birds are chirping. Overweight women are showing their fat bellies. Black kids are playing basketball in the street.

So can someone explain to me how the fuck I got sick?

I've spent most of the past two days hocking and spitting up some grown (that's green+brown) loogies that would make Pumkin proud. When I actually manage to swallow something (not like that, you sick fucks), it feels like a ball of dull razors going down my throat. My nose is like a fucking Kenyan -- it just won't stop running. And I'm even starting to piss myself off with the amount of times I have to cough in any given minute. No one's told me to shut up yet, but I know those assholes are thinking it.

But here I am, like the good trooper that I always am, "roughing" it out at work.

Truth is, if I'm going to get sick, I'm taking these worthless pieces of shit with me.

My first conversation of the morning went a little something like this:

Boss: "You getting sick?"

Me: "I *cough* think *sneeze* so *fart*."

Boss: "Well, you'd better take care of that. By the way, here's ten shit-loads of work. Have fun."

I threw that fart in just for jollies. He didn't seem to notice.

Anyway, I think that my immune system must sub-consciously know that ol' Kenny boy is back on the bench for our boys in the green and gold. It's just preparing me for what's to come. The physical pain and suffering that I'm feeling now must somehow be priming me for all the emotional grief and misery that I'll be feeling in September when the Angels are again celebrating on our field. It all makes sense now.

The human body: God's perfect creation.

Anyone notice how Macha left Haren in too long today? Some things never change. (I'm only half-way kidding).


And one more thing. Maybe someone could answer me this: How many Mexicans does it take to hang a door?

(Hint: It's more than one, because the fucker who's been trying to hang one in my new (read: shitty) cubicle for three days obviously had no clue. And now he has his shoes off.)

P.S. In case you hadn't figured it out, I hate this fucking place.