Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Brain out yer dead

Macha tries to make point, fails miserably....again

In response to an inquiry about whether there will be enough at-bats to keep everybody happy this season, Macha pulled this gem out of that adorable little head of his:

"It's a dilemma right now," Macha said. "That's why a major-league manager wakes up at 4 o'clock in the morning. His mind is always working."

Ok guys, give me a minute here....BWAHAHAHAHA!!!!! Oh man, Ken, you are just too much. The next time your mind is working will be the first time. Seriously, that thing you call a brain might just be the single most defective thing in the known universe. In the grand scheme of things, your intellectual acuity level falls somewhere between cat feces and a writer on the sitcom 'The War at Home.' His mind is always working.....that's too fucking precious. Also, I'd prefer it if you no longer referred to yourself as a 'major league manager.' Yes, technically, you may be one, but you deserve it about as much as Ashlee Simpson deserves a recording contract. How would you feel if she called herself a singer? Exactly, Ken. So from now on, just refer to yourself as a "Major League Retard." That's way more appropriate.

Although, I think we may have pinpointed why you're always falling asleep during games. If you wake up in 4 in the morning, that means you've already been up for 15 hours by the time the game starts. That's a full day for most people, and you've still got a game to "manage" (for lack of a better word). Listen, Ken. It has been scientifically proven that people who don't get enough sleep simply can't function. They walk around like zombies with vacuous expressions on their faces, detached from society. Didn't you ever see Fight Club? My advice to you would be to get more sleep. I don't know if that would solve the problem (the problem of you being retarded) but it certainly couldn't hurt.

And later in the article, Macha is clearly delerious from his lack of sleep, and starts talking like his dentist is pumping him full of laughing gas:

"I know the players don't have as much patience as I do. I hope they all get 450 at-bats, make millions and millions of dollars and we win the World Series."

Well, fuck me with a broomstick and call me Inmate #J4987G, Ken. Aren't you just Little Miss Utopia today? There's a lot of things I hope for. I hope that one day all the countries in the Middle East will one day stand up and say, "hey, you know, every single one of our religions is beyond idiotic, and the only reason they still exist today is because somewhere, a small group of people are making a large amount of money because they've tricked us into believing the garbage in this stupid book right here." One day, wouldn't it be great if all the Palestinians and Muslims stood up and said, "you know, we should stop bombing Israel, because all them Jewish babes have enormous knockers, and I'd like to fuck the crap out of a couple of them." and then Israel is all, "you know, Palestine, maybe we can work together to get you your own piece of land," and then everybody would be happy and do a dance of joy and everybody would get along famously because everyone realized that all religions are a pile of shit, and wasting any of your time or money on them is only feeding the monster.

But anyway, Ken, rather than talking in the extremes, or what you *hope* is going to happen, why don't you actually sit down and think about what it's going to take to keep players healthy, fresh, and productive? Instead of lamenting the fact that Melhuse got fewer AB's last year than Keith fucking Ginter, why don't you own up for the fact that it was entirely your fault? It's your responsibility to make sure Payton plays 1 to 2 games a week, and that Perez needs to get some action in the backup infielder role, and that you know what you're going to do when Thomas can't play that particular day. If I believed for one second that you were waking up and 4 am to crunch the numbers concerning matchups and when would be the best times to get certain players in the game, I would stand up and applaud. But I don't believe for one second that you are. I know that you get up and fix yourself a chili cheeseburger and are kept awake the rest of the night by the cacophonous symphony that is your flatulence, and by the time the game rolls around, you're so tired you can barely stand up, so you don't bother removing pitchers from games or writing up a new lineup, you just sit there like an idiot, costing us games.

Mind is working....sheesh.

Sunday, March 26, 2006


Signs, Signs
Everywhere a sign
Fucking up the scenery
Breaking my mind
Do this, don't do that
Can't you read the sign?
-Five Man Electrical Band

The latest news out of A's camp is that the asshole and the rest of the A's coaches are upset with the poor fundamentals displayed by the team. WHA?!?!? You mean this team doesn't have good fundamentals? Get the fuck out. And Macha is just realizing this now?

"We missed two signs yesterday, threw a ball to the wrong base, and had a runner thrown out on the bases."
-Ken Macha
How is that different from any other game in the Macha regime? I mean, he's just noticing this now? Our players have been morons since 2000, and it only takes you six years to do something about it? Does this mean you'll finally take Kendall out of the lineup in 2011? I can't wait for that. I guess it makes sense, though, since Ken's been conditioned to fall asleep from 7-10 pm every night, so all these day games must really be putting a cramp in his naptime schedule, and he actually has to watch what's happening for once. Well, don't worry, Ken. In ten more days, you can go back to not noticing what the fuck is happening during games all over again.

Of course, the best part of the article was this gem from Ken:

"I don't want to walk in the clubhouse after a game and say we lost the game because of a missed sign."

That's just too fucking precious, Ken. Unfortunately, we lose games all the time because of a missed sign. Namely, this one:

Oh, the irony.

So I got out a pen and paper
and I made up my own little sign
It says die Ken you fucking moron
Douchebag asshole swine

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

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

Monday, March 20, 2006

Spring in the new Year

I don't know what the fuck an equinox is, but if the rain outside my homestead is any indication, spring is here! And what an appropriate metaphor as we prepare ourselves for yet another season that Macha will wash down the drain. As of today, we are a mere fortnight away from when Macha's stupid in-game moves actually have lasting detrimental ramifications.

I was watching a game last May with several law students, none of whom were baseball fans. When Eric Byrnes came to the plate for a crucial late game at-bat against a righty, I frustratingly pointed out that Byrnes can't hit righties, and even though there were a few options on the bench to serve as pinch-hitter, I correctly predicted that A) Macha would leave Byrnes in there, and B) Byrnes would foul off a bunch of crappy pitches before being frozen on an inside fastball. Naturally, both of those things happened, because Byrnes sucks and Macha is a fucking idiot. One of the law students then commented "when it comes to Ken Macha, the burden of rejoinder is not much of a burden at all." The other law students in the room all shared a chuckle, while I was heard to mutter, "hehe....mule" while simultaneously making a mental note to myself to look up what the fuck burden of rejoinder meant. Well, ten short months later, I finally did so, and I have to admit, for a gayass law joke, that was pretty fucking funny. Touche, Steve....touche.

Speaking of burdens, let's get back to Ken for a moment. It's been roughly five months since he re-signed, and during that whole time, he hasn't had the opportunity to cost us a game yet. Sure, we can lament him leaving Randy Keisler in the game to give up the lead in a spring training game, but it's just spring training. Of course, when you know that Macha will do this during the season as well, it's a bit harder to shrug off. The first time Witasick or Kennedy faces 8 batters too many, you'll know that Ken Macha is back, and worse than ever.

Spring is supposed to bring with it new hope and promise. The sun is supposed to be shining, the birds are supposed to be singing, and the dreams of a successful season are supposed to stand front and center. Everything old is new again, and everything dumb (Macha) is still dumb (Macha). Ah, spring.

Two weeks from tonight, Macha will spring in the new season with a dumb lineup, he'll leave Zito in too long, bring in the wrong reliever when he finally takes him out 6 batters too late, and then proceed to return to his nightly repose on the bench.

How do I know all this? Because it's spring, when everything old is new again.

Happy Spring, A's fans!

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, 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?"


"What does it say?"

"I didn't read it."

[slaps forehead]

Friday, March 03, 2006

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."


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.

Thursday, March 02, 2006

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.