Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Blame it on the lack of rain

Note: This column appears in the 3/1 issue of The Glendale Star and the 3/2 issue of the Peoria Times.

There are many hot-button local issues as we head into this election season, for example, the Coyotes, the proposed casino, and like, taxes and stuff. Many prospective candidates are like, “I promise this,” and “So and so, whatever” … I don’t know—I haven’t really been paying attention. But my ears will perk up when I finally hear someone address the real issue at hand, the elephant in this room we call Arizona: Who will promise to end this drought?

I’m not sure if anyone has noticed this, but it has not rained in, I think, three years. In fact, the state of Arizona, U. S. of A., has been in a general state of droughtitude (new word) since 1999. Nineteen-ninety-nine! It hasn’t been adequately hydrated here since Sugar Ray was acceptable. (Pop culture joke; Boom, roasted, Sugar Ray. Somebody had to do it)

Not that it would have made a difference because my family loves it here, but this is yet another thing everyone somehow forgot to mention with regards to Valley life. It’s great! Perfect weather, open spaces, great cost of living … Oh, also there are a trillion scorpions and there is literally no moisture in the atmosphere. This information would have been helpful. In what way I am unsure. But it would have been.

This drought is a serious matter. Many pop artists like Phil Collins have wished for rain to hide the tears that have resulted from lost love—I have always wondered why so many singers opt to cry outdoors—but we need rain for more practical reasons, like fewer dead cows. Indeed, the drought’s effect on the soil has caused livestock to perish en masse. The general dry conditions have also made the state more susceptible to wildfires. But the most damaging area of this persistent drought has arguably been: my nose.

I cannot breath anymore, for one thing. Also, my nostrils are in a constant state of bleeding. I make valiant attempts to curtail the bleeding, to the point where my nostrils become two scab tunnels and I am breathing only out of my mouth, but then I will be forced to blow my nose, the scab dams will break, and I am back to square one. I realize this is disgusting, and accounts for consecutive columns that highlight flaws in my personal hygienic maintenance, but I don’t know what to tell you—if you can’t take the dry talk, get out of the extremely dry kitchen.

And it’s not just me. Our friends visited from L.A. last weekend, and my buddy Rashad went through about three cases of water just to stay alive. Every morning he sounded as though he were one cough away from turning into a pillar of dust and blowing away.

I personally down at least two gallons of water daily. My wife has also forced me to utilize various lotions to keep my skin hydrated. They are lined up on my bathroom sink in alphabetical order of applied body part. There is unscented lotion for my feet, and scented lotion for other limbs and appendages, and if I mistakenly use the scented lotion on my feet, there is hell to pay because I have wasted the scent.

This is madness, I say! Who will step up and promise to break this vicious cycle of having no hydrologic cycle? I am not above a rain dance at this point. I welcome one, in fact, and will actively participate. I like to dance anyway. I am running for mayor on a platform of less droughtitude. I will end this myself.

Also, no more taxes! (I am not running for mayor.)

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Classic card of the week

Andy Van Slyke, 1994 Upper Deck

Here is a baseball card in which someone has taken a picture of Andy Van Slyke taking a picture of Andy Van Slyke while other people are taking different pictures of Andy Van Slyke taking pictures. If someone were to take a picture of me taking a picture of this Andy Van Slyke card in which he is taking pictures, the flash from the camera would open an alternate realty where every person is a camera with legs and social status is based solely on your camera’s quality, i.e. the rich and powerful are professional Canon XLG-3000s or whatever, and the disenfranchised are literally disposable. Anyway, baseball!

Speaking of baseball, something tells me that baseball player Andy Van Slyke has interests other than playing baseball. Taking pictures, perhaps? It doesn’t say so anywhere on this card, but I am going to go out on a limb and say that, yes, one of Andy Van Slyke’s favorite hobbies is taking pictures. Here is another question though, having to do with baseball: Does baseball player Andy Van Slyke love America?

Awesome. There is no wordy tidbit on this card, but if I were handed this card and then commissioned to write a tidbit for it, and thus get paid $1 million—hypothetical freelancing pays extraordinarily well—here is what it would read:

"When he’s not taking pictures of stuff with his picture camera, baseball player Andy Van Slyke, who weighed in at 195 lbs at the time of this card, can often be found standing reverently for our country’s National Anthem. Also, he hit seven triples in 1991."

One of my favorite things in the world is when baseball cards teach me about baseball, and I think we’ve all learned a lot today. Nevertheless, let’s find out more:

During the 1991 Gulf War, when the MLB decreed all players would wear both the Canadian and U.S. flags on their batting helmets as a patriotic gesture, Van Slyke scraped the Maple Leaf off his helmet because, in his words "Canada is a pacifist, socialist country."

Earlier in this post I had joked about how much Andy Van Slyke loves America, but as it turns out, he also really does not like Canada, based on Canada’s inability to inflict war on other nations and its penchant for assisting the less fortunate (which runs in direct conflict to the aforementioned idealistic camera-based society). I don’t want to get into politics here, but regarding the 1991 Gulf War: thanks for nothing, Canada! It’s about time somebody said it, besides Andy Van Slyke, of course. I’m not sure a more grandiose and brave political statement was ever made than that time a baseball player scratched off a picture of a leaf on his baseball helmet.

Once Van Slyke became a full-time outfielder, he showed off one of the most accurate and powerful throwing arms in the majors. So much so that the "Slyke Zone" was established at Three Rivers.

I like how the Slyke Zone was inevitably established due to Van Slyke’s arm, ipso facto, as if the fans had no other choice.

Andy Van Slyke guns runner down at second base.

Pirates fan: Well, I never thought I’d see the day. But we have an obligation here. Gonna have to establish the Slyke Zone.

Other Pirates fan: I’ll get my markers. And some sausage. You want some sausage?

Pirates fan: Yes.

Having retired from baseball, Van Slyke has begun pursuing a career as an author … In July 2010, he published "The Curse: Cubs Win! Cubs Win! Or Do They?"

I haven’t read the book, but—no, no they do not.

Did you know?

When he's not playing baseball, Andy Van Slyke enjoys taking pictures of stuff.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

The pillowcase(s) of yellow dreams

Note: This column appears in the 2/23 issue of The Glendale Star and the 2/24 issue of the Peoria Times.

There are certain items my wife will always purchase regardless of how many of that item we own and our lack of necessity for that item. For example, food storage containers. The technology of air-tightness gets more dramatic by the day, and if a new food storage container item is introduced that promises to retain even more freshness than its predecessor, my wife will purchase 20 of them, which is fine. The only problem is that she refuses to get rid of the outdated containers, arguing, “You never know when we’re going to need them,” like, as a feasible example, on the off chance we mistakenly cook for 85 people one night instead of three.

But one item that I simply cannot fault her for consistently purchasing is bed sheets. Whenever (every weekend) I find myself in a department store, and have separated from my wife so that I can wander around aimlessly in search of clothes I will eventually return or a couch to sit on, our reunion will always be marked by her approaching while pushing a cart containing many, many sets of bed sheets. Before I can even process what is happening, she will say, “Don’t even say anything. They were on sale. And we need them.” I will then say something like, “But they’re still (whatever the price is), and you literally just bought bed sheets last weekend!” She’ll then sport a look that says, “Don’t push me or I’ll say it,” and of course I’ll persist, so then, in a restrained whisper-yell: “I wouldn’t have to buy them if you weren’t so disgusting!” I will then walk away shamefully.

It is true; I ruin bed sheets. Well, not so much bed sheets as pillowcases, and apparently back-up pillowcases are not a thing people can buy (note to self: business idea: backup pillow cases for disgusting husbands). I don’t know what it is, but my head exudes like, a yellow substance when I sleep.

I think all humans do this. It’s called science. Have you ever seen an old pillow? It’s all yellow and nasty. Well, I do this, too, but like I do all things … to the extreme. An old, 15-year old filthy pillow that one could find in a dumpster is what my pillow looks like after one night’s sleep.

I don’t know what it is. I don’t drool. I don’t sweat. I just exude yellowness, I guess. I never realized how dramatic it was until set against the pristine, color-retentiveness of a soul mate’s pillowcase. Just the other day my wife was frustratingly forcing me to change the bed sheets -- a pleasant flower print variety -- yet again. The flowers on her pillowcase were the same deep and bright purples as when we had removed them from the packaging. My pillowcase had completely faded to a drab yellow. I think the flowers had actually wilted. Apparently, I am so disgusting that I can change spring to winter just by going to sleep.

I would love to hear if other male human beings experience such things. If so, please let me know! You can do so anonymously, as I imagine normal men would opt to keep this private rather than write entire columns about it with their name and face attached. Also, if you are a scientist and can explain what is happening, that would be much obliged.

While you’re at it, let me know if you ever agreed to sleep on purple flower-print sheets, because I feel as though I should be embarrassed by that as well. Thank you.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

Classic card of the week

Howard Johnson, 1989 Donruss Diamond Kings

I’ve been on a Diamond Kings kick lately, and well, I will not apologize. I mean, LOOK AT THOSE SQUIGGLIES!

That is art. There are so many dots and squigglies and stripes of contrasting colors it’s making me dizzy. Dizzy with AWESOMENESS. This card look like a boardwalk caricaturist collaborated with the 3rd place finisher of a firefighters-sponsored youth art contest.

But in this homage to art, let us not forget about words.

Had it not been for Kevin Mitchell and Will Clark, Howard Johnson would have had an easy path to the Most Valuable Player Award.

That is great. Had it not been for other baseball players who were better at playing baseball than Howard Johnson, Howard Johnson would have totally been the best baseball player. Get out of the way, Kevin Mitchell and Will Clark—Howard Johnson is trying to win the MVP over here! Showoffs.

Also, what the hell is this card talking about? In 1989, Johnson finished fifth in the NL MVP vote. A more accurate and hilarious lede for this card would therefore have been, “Had it not been for Kevin Mitchell and Will Clark and Pedro Guerrero and Ryne Sandberg, Howard Johnson would have had an easy path to the Most Valuable Player Award.” Unless:

MVP voter Joe Morgan: Big news everyone. Mitchell and Clark are ineligible! Turns out there’s a rather outdated MLB rule that states (puts on old person spectacles), “Teammates who play west of the Mississippi are ineligible to receive postseason awards if one of them is kinda fat and the other one is pretty much bald.”

MVP voter Woody Paige
: Makes sense.

Morgan: In parentheses it says, “This rule is totally just to see if anyone is paying attention.”

MVP voter Mike Lupica: Well, this is unfortunate, but we have to play by the rules. We simply cannot be rogue voters who use subjective means and misguided principles to properly distribute trophies to baseball players!

MVP voter George King: Hear, hear!

Morgan: So I guess this one goes to Guerrero. I didn’t see him play much this year, but—

MVP voter Verducci: Didn’t you play in St. Louis, Joe?

Paige: Guerrero?! Pfft. Don’t get me wrong, solid player, good guy. I once ate steak at a table near him, so we’re pretty much brothers. Not in the ethnic sense. But still. Anyway, it’s one thing when Pedro Guererro is finishing third. But MVP? I can’t live in that world. Not feeling it. I say we start over.

Verducci: Start over? If we start over and achieve different results, that HAS to imply bias, does it not?

King: Let’s take Sandberg out, too. The Cubs had an MVP two years ago. It’s only fair.

Morgan: Then it’s settled. Herman Johnson is the NL MVP!

Verducci: Howard.

Morgan: Herman Howard is the MVP! Sorry, I haven’t seen him play much this year.

Over the last three years, “HoJo”

And so and so forth. I want to interject here to say that, when I was playing Little League ball, the higher-ups one year nabbed Howard Johnson to speak and sign autographs at the year-end party. After his speech—self-deprecating joke, baseball, you can do it, blah, blah, believe in yourself or something, blah, fundamentals, blah, the Ten Commandments, blah, blah, thank you—the floor was opened up to questions. And some idiot kid from another table got up, awkwardly held the microphone too close to his face and asked, “Why do they call you ‘HoJo?’” Really? You’ve been nervously waiting around the whole time to ask that stupid question. I was embarrassed for our whole Little League organization, and I distinctly remember nodding my head in shame and thinking, “You’ve embarrassed us in front of Howard Johnson!” I so wanted HoJo to fire back, “Well, funny story—it’s the first two letters of my first and last name. Sit down. NEXT QUESTION. LET’S RAISE THE LEVEL OF DISCOURSE HERE, M’KAY?” But he didn’t.

I got his autograph though. Then I lost it.

Did you know?
I once finished third in the East Brunswick Firefighters Fourth Grade Art Contest. I think I drew a dog sliding down a fire pole.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Bandit drivers of indistinguishable vehicle surprisingly caught via robot

Note: This column appears in the 2/16 issue of The Glendale Star and the 2/17 issue of the Peoria Times.

I have good news and bad news. First the bad news: crime continues to exist.

Our office is here in downtown Glendale, which, contrary to the quaintness and public safety implied by its surplus of antique stores, boasts some sketchy areas and people. You may recall that not long ago, someone who was on the run from police came into our office to stash a crack pipe underneath a stack of newspapers and then asked to use the bathroom. (We did not allow her to use the bathroom.) I also frequently see various ragged-looking locals picking up used cigarette butts to smoke and also emerging from dumpsters, neither of which is a crime, but still. This sometimes provides an odd sense of perspective when I am having a bad day at work. Yeah, the copier isn't working, but at least I do not live in a dumpster.

All of this could be viewed as rather quirky, I suppose, but things have recently taken a turn for the less quirky. A few weeks ago our downstairs air conditioning unit was dismantled, stolen, and then sold, I assume, for drugs and/or crumpled up Monopoly money. It was nice of them do this in January as opposed to August, but still ... it was not nice of them to do this.

I have also recently noticed more helicopter sightings in the area, which I do not think are weather-copters responsible for confirming it is sunny, but rather tracking air conditioner thieves on foot. This is all disconcerting.

However -- and here is the good news -- we can all breathe a small sigh of relief as I am proud to say that the "Red Jeep Bandits," our area's most notorious thieves, have been caught.

If you're like me, you're thinking, "‘Red Jeep Bandits?' What, do they steal only red Jeeps? That seems easy to track and would deter me from purchasing a red Jeep." But no, the Red Jeep Bandits, who are Michael Lopez and Lindsay Rynish -- the Bonnie & Clyde of dog park theft -- simply drove a red Jeep that made them easy to track.

And track them police did. According to the Arizona Republic, "Officers discovered the identities of Lopez and Rynish in December after they used a stolen credit card at a drive-through, (Phoenix police spokesman James) Holmes said. Police had been following them ever since. They believe the pair averaged six burglaries every two days." Or, if my math is correct, three burglaries every day. I would argue that the only thing better than tracking the bandits would have been arresting them initially, thus preventing the subsequent burglaries, but I am not a crime expert. I am a baseball expert. Well, not an expert, but I really like baseball.

The Red Jeep Bandits targeted fitness clubs and dog parks, where people notoriously leave valuables in their vehicles. (Ex. "Let's go, dog. Can you hold my wallet? No? Okay, I'll leave it here.") Glendale, Phoenix, and Peoria police were hesitant to pursue the two after a burglary, as they were infamous for recklessly driving through neighborhoods. It seems as if local police were treating the Red Jeep Bandits like an organized crime family. That is, if the mob were only two people and drove a red Jeep and robbed like three things every day. Police were like, "We're gonna lay low, track these bandits, and see how this all plays out." And how it played out was that many more things were robbed.

But the question remains: Did the Red Jeep Bandits name themselves like the thieves in Home Alone, or did police give them that moniker? When Lopez was removed from attic insulation via thermal vision and a robot -- yes, that is how it happened -- did he say as he was being led to the police car, "Make sure the papers get it right, ‘Red Jeep Bandits!'"

I hope so. Those are the types of things that make me happy in this crazy world. And also baseball.

Thursday, February 09, 2012

Relatively outdated hip-hop line that I recently heard again and suddenly realized is dumb ... of the week

Artist: Kanye West

Song: Everything I Am

In this song, Mr. West attempts to define himself by establishing what he is not. Thesis: the things that he is not = everything he is. This seems rather all-encompassing, as listing the things you are as means of defining who you are would seem much simpler than acknowledging everything you are not (table, coconut, Asian person, wind, pencil, and so on and so forth) in order to reach that same conclusion. However, as in many rap songs, the “theme” is only approached intermittently, and the song quickly devolves into some faux self-deprecation and the declaration, “I got a lot of cheese.”

But one line in this song has been stuck in my head since I heard it again the other day, and I would like to explore it here further:

I never rock a mink coat in the winter time like Killa Cam
Or rock some mink boots in the summertime like Will.i.am

What is intriguing here is that Mr. West seems to be implying there are two established sides of the hip-hop coin: those who wear mink coats in the winter time, and those who wear mink boots in the summertime, neither side of which he falls into. The message: Don’t pigeonhole me into your mink-related hip-hop box of perception!

With regards to Killa Cam’s -- Cam'ron, for the uninitiated -- penchant for wearing mink coats in the winter time, I would argue that the winter time is as good a time as any to wear a mink coat, if you’re into that sort of thing. Many people, I believe, who are not rapper Killa Cam have worn mink coats in the winter time. Furthermore, I never really recognized Killa Cam first and foremost as “the guy who wears lavish winter outwear.” I’ve always known him as “a rapper who is sometimes good at rapping, more often one who stretches the limits of words that make sense—sample line: 'Kumbaya Killa Cam my Lord/Still the man with pants'—and who once initiated a contrived beef with Jay-Z in an attempt to advance his career." I’m ashamed to admit I was not aware Killa Cam had worn a mink coat in the winter time even once until hearing this song, much less that he was known for it. Did he wear one in a video? If so, I did not see that video. Although, a quick Google image search of Cam'ron did reveal this, so there is that. Anyway, the point is, Kanye West would never do that.

But, the question remains: Would he wear mink boots in the summertime? The answer, according to this song: no. I mean, should Kanye West wear mink boots in the summertime, who in his right mind would be able to differentiate him from Will.i.am, other than by their respective music and other unique personal attributes? Nobody, that’s who.

Now here is my problem with this line. Let us, difficult as that may be, set aside the mink aspect of this all for a second. Because I think what Mr. West is saying here, really, is that he’s not eccentric. Kanye West, who has caused a scene at several award shows and who recently hosted the Olsen twins at the Paris premiere of his women’s fashion line, is not eccentric. Nope. If anything, he’s a regular ol’ rapper guy who, as the song later implies, sometimes cannot pay his rent. Hey, Killa Cam—stop flaunting your warm mink coat! Your buddy Kanye is about to get evicted over here.

If you stopped a person on the street at random and asked her, “Who is Kanye West?” she would say, “The eccentric rapper.” If you asked that same person, “Who is Killa Cam?” she would say, “I don’t know. But he sounds dangerous.” Therefore, the point AND truth of all this is lost on me.

Also there's this:

I never rock a mink coat in the winter time like Killa Cam
Or rock some mink boots in the summertime like Will.I.am

Umm, yes. Yes you would. I mean, I know you’re into fashion and all, and maybe you have some objection to whether or not various mink apparel is in season, or even maybe some moral objection to mink in general, but that’s foreign to the average listener. Here is a picture of you:

As if someone would say, “Yeah, he may wear glasses that he cannot see out of and a retro varsity cardigan with a camouflage hat backwards and a bright yellow watch, but I’ll tell you one thing—that guy would never wear a mink coat in the winter time!”

The line in question is immediately followed up by this one:

Let me know if you feel it man

Let you know if I feel that you don’t wear mink coats and boots? Umm, okay, I guess I feel that. I mean, I would never wear that either, so yeah, looks like we’re on the same page here. Consider this my formal submission of “feeling it.” If there was another avenue by which I should declare this, please let me know.

So who is Kanye West? A guy who wears mink socks in the fall? It’s difficult to say. All we know is that he is not two other rappers who are not him. The important thing to remember is that "Cam" rhymes with "am," which is, I think, the point of all this.

Tuesday, February 07, 2012

Watch like no one is dancing

Note: This column appears in the 2/9 issue of The Glendale Star and the 2/10 issue of the Peoria Times.

Already having mastered soccer by age 2—and by “mastered” I mean “proven her lack of interest in”—our daughter recently began dance class.

I am, so far, the only dad who attends these weekly Saturday morning classes. (At her first class, while our family was still in town, we showed up with a party of six adults, and everyone was forced to leave the room after five minutes because our daughter, who has the attention the span of a spinning top, was too distracted.) I promised myself I was there only to observe, but last weekend I was pirouetting and bear crawling on the floor.

The reason I was doing this was to coerce our daughter to actually participate in the class. One of the most confounding aspects of parenthood has been, for me, the transition from the unabashed joy of home life expression to the reluctance of organized participation in those very same endeavors. Our daughter loves to dance. She dances all the time. At a wedding in October, we literally had to drag her off the dance floor kicking and screaming, and while that’s pretty much her standard transition from one thing to another, the point is that: she loves to dance.

When we informed her she was going to dance class, she screamed “Yea! Dance class!” and began dancing until she inevitably ran into something and fell down. (She is a great albeit aggressive dancer.) When we actually arrived at dance class, it was quite a different story.

When being prompted to participate in any aspect of the class, her reaction is one of three things: a) a blank, unmoving stare, as if she is watching a bale of hay sit on a pedestal in an open field, b) burying her head deep into my wife’s leg, as if she embarrassed or scared by the mere concept of happily moving body parts, or c) running over to me in the corner to tell me she is thirsty from doing nothing.

It’s awesome when, in the middle of a particular activity in which she is standing completely still, she is specifically addressed.

Teacher: Okay, great. Now we’re going to shake our shoulders like this, really fast! Who’s going to help us with this one? How about you (points at our daughter)?

Our daughter: Blank stare.

Wife: C’mon honey, like this! We just did this one yesterday!

Our daughter: Runs away.

Teacher: Okaaaay, how about (locates other child still in room) you?

Other child
: Executes move, smiles, hugs mother, everyone excitedly claps.

There’s only so much of this routine my wife can handle, and so it was last weekend that she tagged my hand and I entered the ring. There I was, spinning around the room with my hands above my head in an attempt to have our daughter mimic me. For my efforts, I instead received from her a stare that implied she had lost all respect for me, while the other moms were suddenly comforted to know their respective husbands were most likely somewhere unloading cargo from their F-350s.

She finally became active during the somersault segment. Granted, that involved her receiving assistance to execute one and then, when done, lying there like a pancake, waiting to get peeled off the mat.

After that class, we went outside and fed the ducks, which is, I think, what she took away from dance class, and what will serve as her motivation to return next week. It’s quite possible that she would dance her best in a duck-feeding class.

Thursday, February 02, 2012

Classic card of the week

Dave Winfield, 1984 Topps Championship Baseball

Hello! Is everybody here interested in playing some Championship Baseball by Milton Bradley—not the wacky modern baseball player named Milton Bradley, but the game company; I realize this is confusing—? Yeah? ALRIGHT! How about you, AL Super Star Dave Winfield?

Ha, ha! Don’t be such a grouch, Dave! Look on the bright side—you have a shiny new ear flap-less protective helmet, and you play for … what team do you play for?

The Yankees! Cool. And hey, I’m sure more people will show up to your baseball game eventually. So, do you want to play or what?

Fine, whatever. Everybody else, let’s play some Championship Baseball!

Okay, it looks we’re going to need some dice. Or is it “die?" I forget which one is plural, but die is stupid, so let’s stick with dice. Who has dice? Anyone? Nobody? Okay, I will go to the store.

(Two hours later; most people have left party …) Sorry that took me so long! Shop Rite didn’t have dice, so I had to go to Spencer’s in the mall and buy a completely different game just to use the dice. The game is called "Boobies" and it's all about boobs. We can play that one next time. Okay, who wants to go first? Anybody? Nobody? Okay, I’ll roll …

Alright, a one and a five! That means I just got a … “GB TH INF SINGLE!” Ha, TAKE THAT, JIM!

Jim: What does that mean?

I don’t know. Maybe like, a ground ball through the infield for a single?

Rhonda: What does the nature of the single matter if this is a pretend game?

I don’t know, Rhonda, but the point is, I’m on first. DEAL WITH IT! Who’s up?

Steve: I don’t know. Should we have separated into teams or something? How does this work?


Steve: rolls … Okay, uh … two fives.

Alright, that’s a … “OUT; GB 3RD RA1!” Ha, ha, nice OUT, Steve! You suck!

Steve: I’m on your team, jerk. I think. And what the heck does “RA1” mean?

Rhonda: Should somebody be writing this all down?

Jim: Probably. Does anybody have any paper?

Don’t worry about paper, you freakin’ nerds. It’s all in my head. RHONDA, ROLL!

Rhonda: rolls … A two and a five. Okay, gimmie the card … I can barely read this thing … that’s a “FLY CF; SINGLE.”

Maria: I’m not the biggest baseball fan, but how does one earn a single on a fly ball to centerfield?

Rhonda: I think maybe it’s two different things? Like, I flied out and also got a single? I don’t know.

GIVE ME THE CARD! Looks .. Alright, you’re out. Inning over. I’m winning 8-0.

Steve: What? How is that even possible?

Dave, please explain the game to these idiots.

I hate all of you.

Jim: Is there any more salsa?


Did you know?
Athletically, Dave Winfield was the Blake Griffin on his era, which means, in 25 years or so, the best professional athletes will definitely be able to fly.