9/17/07
The next month or so will be nonsense. Blech.
We’ve almost arrived at the post-season, which is easily my least favorite time of year. For a time, it looked like we wouldn’t make the playoffs, which was great. But now we keep winning, more and more media and fans are showing up for the games, and it’s just one long headache.
The last few seasons, the only redeeming factor is that the playoffs have been short. Hopefully this pattern continues, and we lose quickly to LA or whoever and have some time to enjoy autumn before winter starts. It’s the prettiest time of the year in New York, and it kills me to have to spend it in Cleveland’s laughable version of a luxury hotel.
Most people can’t understand why I hate the playoffs. Well, picture a stadium full of loud savages screaming and cheering and booing, flash bulbs going off like crazy, television crews following you twenty-four hours a day, and nervous tension in the locker room. Newspapers print headlines with hateful puns on your name, commentators question your mental fortitude, and even the most hideous groupies act like you’ve let them down. Yet despite the chaos and confusion, despite not knowing where you are half the time, despite spending weeks on the verge of a breakdown, everyone still expect you to hit a baseball!
No. Absolutely not. I’m sorry, but I won’t do it. Boo me if you will, New York, but I won’t be held to unreasonable expectations. Let Derek the Great shoulder all your little hopes. Starting today, I’m done. Sure, I’ll go through the motions, but don’t expect me to legitimize the inane hysteria by fretting over the results. I’m not your monkey, and this isn’t a sauna.
In other news, I had Earl Grey tea for the first time yesterday. I don’t see what all the fuss is about.
Friday, April 30, 2010
It's 9/11 Again
9/11/07
God, another September 11th. What a world.
I’m pretty excited, because my annual tribute is set to be bigger than ever. Every year since 2001, I’ve staged a small re-enactment to honor the victims. It’s been especially poignant since I arrived in New York, and if the media gave the ceremony more attention, it could really endear me to the locals. But, as everyone knows, the media are slobs and cowards.
You might ask if a re-enactment is appropriate. That’s a good, honest question. The answer is yes. It’s one thing to sing songs and wave flags and erect monuments. That’s half the battle, sure. But what stirs the memory, what really brings tears to people’s eyes, is the event itself. You need to actually see some kind of flying projectile crash into two tower-like structures, and that’s where I come in.
The next common question is “how did you come up with this, A-Rod?” Well, I got the idea at a Golden Corral in Tampa shortly after the tragedy, when I was goofing around with a knife and two pepper shakers. When I realized what I’d just conceived, I stood up and made the inspiration known to all the diners. I even pretended to be a newscaster, shocked at the events. Some folks nearly cried. Only the idiotic manager missed the point, and that fat imbecile had the nerve to kick me out. (I still have a wrongful treatment lawsuit pending against the entire Golden Corral franchise.)
This year’s re-enactment has to take place in Canada, because we’re in Toronto for a game with the blue team. But I haven’t let that deter me; in the dugout, I’ve rigged an ingenious tribute. Picture this: on top of a water cooler, two stacks of styrofoam cups are staggered, resembling the towers. Parallel wires are strung from just above the cooler to the opposite end of the dugout. Two catcher’s mitt attached by hooks swoop from that side, traversing the whole bench before toppling the cups. Once they fall, I tug a string which pulls the top off the cooler. Hanging from the lid’s underside, in plain sight as it rises, is a picture of Phil Rizzuto, the Yankee shortstop who died this year. The photo says “The ‘Skipper’: A Friend that Died.” My boombox plays “Everything’s Not Lost” by Coldplay, and I wave a sparkler under the photo.
If your eyes don’t mist up after seeing that, you are heartless or foreign.
Now I just have to make sure the tv cameras are on when it starts, and ask Toronto to lend me the PA mic so I can emcee the ceremony.
God, another September 11th. What a world.
I’m pretty excited, because my annual tribute is set to be bigger than ever. Every year since 2001, I’ve staged a small re-enactment to honor the victims. It’s been especially poignant since I arrived in New York, and if the media gave the ceremony more attention, it could really endear me to the locals. But, as everyone knows, the media are slobs and cowards.
You might ask if a re-enactment is appropriate. That’s a good, honest question. The answer is yes. It’s one thing to sing songs and wave flags and erect monuments. That’s half the battle, sure. But what stirs the memory, what really brings tears to people’s eyes, is the event itself. You need to actually see some kind of flying projectile crash into two tower-like structures, and that’s where I come in.
The next common question is “how did you come up with this, A-Rod?” Well, I got the idea at a Golden Corral in Tampa shortly after the tragedy, when I was goofing around with a knife and two pepper shakers. When I realized what I’d just conceived, I stood up and made the inspiration known to all the diners. I even pretended to be a newscaster, shocked at the events. Some folks nearly cried. Only the idiotic manager missed the point, and that fat imbecile had the nerve to kick me out. (I still have a wrongful treatment lawsuit pending against the entire Golden Corral franchise.)
This year’s re-enactment has to take place in Canada, because we’re in Toronto for a game with the blue team. But I haven’t let that deter me; in the dugout, I’ve rigged an ingenious tribute. Picture this: on top of a water cooler, two stacks of styrofoam cups are staggered, resembling the towers. Parallel wires are strung from just above the cooler to the opposite end of the dugout. Two catcher’s mitt attached by hooks swoop from that side, traversing the whole bench before toppling the cups. Once they fall, I tug a string which pulls the top off the cooler. Hanging from the lid’s underside, in plain sight as it rises, is a picture of Phil Rizzuto, the Yankee shortstop who died this year. The photo says “The ‘Skipper’: A Friend that Died.” My boombox plays “Everything’s Not Lost” by Coldplay, and I wave a sparkler under the photo.
If your eyes don’t mist up after seeing that, you are heartless or foreign.
Now I just have to make sure the tv cameras are on when it starts, and ask Toronto to lend me the PA mic so I can emcee the ceremony.
I Might Start a Foundation
You guys have probably heard that Jorge Posada has a non-profit organization dedicated to raising money for craniosyntosis. I think that’s really admirable, and his example has inspired me to consider starting my own.
I don’t know which cause to choose. I’ve been reading a lot of internet articles about World War Two lately, so maybe something to do with Nazis. Like helping people who got hurt by the Nazis, or people who are still getting hurt by Nazis. It could be called the ANA: Anti-Nazi Association.
If people confuse that with the AMA, so much the better. There is no love in my heart for the AMA. In 2005, I contacted them on numerous occasions attempting to purchase an honorary PhD. They stonewalled me at every turn. I dealt with several rude men and women, and, despite making it clear that I had no desire to start an actual medical practice (at least in the United States), I left empty-handed. They snubbed me with the practiced, careless arrogance of the medical elite.
Actually, now that I think about it, I should just start a charity called AMA. But what could it stand for? Answer: American Militia Association. (Side note- because my therapist encourages me to be always honest, I will tell you truthfully that it took me four hours to come up with that name) Perfect. It can tie right into the Nazi idea.
The American Militia Association: private citizens dedicated to eradicating Nazis in the United States. The AMA.
This is going to be huge. I’m going to bring the other AMA to its knees. Before all is said and done, I will be a doctor.
I don’t know which cause to choose. I’ve been reading a lot of internet articles about World War Two lately, so maybe something to do with Nazis. Like helping people who got hurt by the Nazis, or people who are still getting hurt by Nazis. It could be called the ANA: Anti-Nazi Association.
If people confuse that with the AMA, so much the better. There is no love in my heart for the AMA. In 2005, I contacted them on numerous occasions attempting to purchase an honorary PhD. They stonewalled me at every turn. I dealt with several rude men and women, and, despite making it clear that I had no desire to start an actual medical practice (at least in the United States), I left empty-handed. They snubbed me with the practiced, careless arrogance of the medical elite.
Actually, now that I think about it, I should just start a charity called AMA. But what could it stand for? Answer: American Militia Association. (Side note- because my therapist encourages me to be always honest, I will tell you truthfully that it took me four hours to come up with that name) Perfect. It can tie right into the Nazi idea.
The American Militia Association: private citizens dedicated to eradicating Nazis in the United States. The AMA.
This is going to be huge. I’m going to bring the other AMA to its knees. Before all is said and done, I will be a doctor.
Hammer Toes Make Me Sick!
9/6/07
Hey everyone. Sorry I haven’t updated in some time. I’ve had psoriasis.
Last night I set a world record in baseball by hitting two homers in a single inning. That has never been done before, except in the Negro Leagues. But they played seven outs per inning, so it’s not the same.
After the game, I rode the 4-train from Yankee Stadium into Manhattan so I could be around my people. Everyone seemed a little confused about why I was there, but after a while the guys slapped me on the back and said nice things and it was cool. Finally, around 59th street, enough fans left and I found a seat. A beautiful woman sat down next to me. She smiled in a very meaningful way, and pretty soon we were holding hands. It was AWESOME, but I had no idea how bad things were about to get.
The nightmare started when my waist bag fell to the floor. I bent down, and happened to see my new girlfriend’s feet, clad in sandals.
She had a hammer toe. She had a disgusting hammer toe. I tried to keep my cool, but I kept seeing the deformed monstrosity in my head, and pretty soon I panicked and shouted “hammer toe!” I jumped up, lost my balance, tripped over a baby carriage, stumbled, and finally found the nearest emergency button. Some old lady was parked in front of it, sipping a thermos of milk, and I slapped it right out of her hands. Milk went everywhere, but I was focused on the button. I punched it down and screamed into the intercom:
“This is A-ROD! Medical emergency! Stop the train! Medical emergency! Hammer toe!”
The conductor didn’t hear what I said, so he stopped the train to be safe. By the time I finished hyperventilating, I had to talk to the police for an hour. They dredged up some pretty rotten memories about hammer toes, and the evening was ruined.
Oh, and get this: the hammer toe woman? A prostitute!
Hey everyone. Sorry I haven’t updated in some time. I’ve had psoriasis.
Last night I set a world record in baseball by hitting two homers in a single inning. That has never been done before, except in the Negro Leagues. But they played seven outs per inning, so it’s not the same.
After the game, I rode the 4-train from Yankee Stadium into Manhattan so I could be around my people. Everyone seemed a little confused about why I was there, but after a while the guys slapped me on the back and said nice things and it was cool. Finally, around 59th street, enough fans left and I found a seat. A beautiful woman sat down next to me. She smiled in a very meaningful way, and pretty soon we were holding hands. It was AWESOME, but I had no idea how bad things were about to get.
The nightmare started when my waist bag fell to the floor. I bent down, and happened to see my new girlfriend’s feet, clad in sandals.
She had a hammer toe. She had a disgusting hammer toe. I tried to keep my cool, but I kept seeing the deformed monstrosity in my head, and pretty soon I panicked and shouted “hammer toe!” I jumped up, lost my balance, tripped over a baby carriage, stumbled, and finally found the nearest emergency button. Some old lady was parked in front of it, sipping a thermos of milk, and I slapped it right out of her hands. Milk went everywhere, but I was focused on the button. I punched it down and screamed into the intercom:
“This is A-ROD! Medical emergency! Stop the train! Medical emergency! Hammer toe!”
The conductor didn’t hear what I said, so he stopped the train to be safe. By the time I finished hyperventilating, I had to talk to the police for an hour. They dredged up some pretty rotten memories about hammer toes, and the evening was ruined.
Oh, and get this: the hammer toe woman? A prostitute!
I have Conceived of a Business Idea!
8/31/07
Yesterday afternoon, on our way to sweeping the Boston Red Sox, I had an excellent business idea.
In the 6th inning, walking to the plate, my entrance music came on. I change the song a lot, but yesterday it was “Mambo Number Five” by Lou Bega. All the sudden, I was really hungry. I’d forgotten to eat lunch! I got nervous. I got really nervous because what if by the time I got food after the game, it didn’t go well with the music? A lot of dark things might happen. You never think about that, but I bet a bunch of unhappiness is caused by people eating things that are totally inappropriate for whatever music is playing. I couldn’t shake the fear, and after two pitches I flew out weakly to right.
After, in the dug-out, I had an awesome business idea. What if musicians suggested an appropriate food pairing for each of their songs? It would solve a huge problem. They could include the suggestions in the CD liner notes for every album, along with a picture of the food.
I need to talk to my agent, pronto. I need to get a patent, a trademark and several copyrights. If you read this, do not tell Mike Mussina. He’s known for stealing good ideas. He always tries to read my pocket inventor’s diary.
I wonder what food Lou Bega would choose for “Mambo Number Five?” Probably combos. Although I should point out right now, before things go any further, that the food and song do NOT have to rhyme. That would be juvenile.
Meanwhile, I have a terrible rash on my groin. Help, science!
Yesterday afternoon, on our way to sweeping the Boston Red Sox, I had an excellent business idea.
In the 6th inning, walking to the plate, my entrance music came on. I change the song a lot, but yesterday it was “Mambo Number Five” by Lou Bega. All the sudden, I was really hungry. I’d forgotten to eat lunch! I got nervous. I got really nervous because what if by the time I got food after the game, it didn’t go well with the music? A lot of dark things might happen. You never think about that, but I bet a bunch of unhappiness is caused by people eating things that are totally inappropriate for whatever music is playing. I couldn’t shake the fear, and after two pitches I flew out weakly to right.
After, in the dug-out, I had an awesome business idea. What if musicians suggested an appropriate food pairing for each of their songs? It would solve a huge problem. They could include the suggestions in the CD liner notes for every album, along with a picture of the food.
I need to talk to my agent, pronto. I need to get a patent, a trademark and several copyrights. If you read this, do not tell Mike Mussina. He’s known for stealing good ideas. He always tries to read my pocket inventor’s diary.
I wonder what food Lou Bega would choose for “Mambo Number Five?” Probably combos. Although I should point out right now, before things go any further, that the food and song do NOT have to rhyme. That would be juvenile.
Meanwhile, I have a terrible rash on my groin. Help, science!
Pick-Up Lines to Use on Gorgeous Babes
8/30/07
Whenever I have a really good game, I spend the next day trying to land some gorgeous babes. Not only because I’m fresh in their minds from the morning paper, but also because I feel confident and manly from walloping a baseball.
Last night I hit the winning homer against the Red Sox, so today I bring my “A-game” (I came up with that one on a tour bus to Six Flags) with the ladies. Before I tell you my pick-up lines, though, I want to ask a question. Why do they call it a “game-winning home run”? It didn’t win the game! I hit it in the seventh, and we still had to play like four more innings before they’d let us go home! The media always tries to explain this to me, but I still don’t understand. If you know what’s going on, leave a comment.
Okay. I thought up my first new pick-up line in L.A. a few days ago. Here’s how it works: I walk up to a pretty girl, smiling all sly, and say, “you look as beautiful as the first day I met you.” She acts surprised, and then I go “oh, maybe because it is the first day I met you!” I wait a second for her to get the joke. Right as she stops blushing and giggling like crazy, I step in close and whisper in her ear. “The name’s A-Rod, and I think I love you.” Then I kiss her on the hair.
For the next pick-up line, I saunter up and say, “hey, want to see my A-Rod?” I start undoing my belt buckle, so the girl thinks I’m about to show her my penis. But all the sudden I reach into my pants and pull out a dollar bill. I hand it to her and say “Before you spend it, make sure to check the serial numbers. It could be counterfeit.” The girl leaves, puzzled, but later that day she checks the dollar, and written in black ink are the words “Alex Rodriguez, ballplayer.” Then it has my cell phone number, and, below that, in red ink, it says, “P.S. – this bill is not counterfeit. And neither am I.” That night, we’re necking in my car.
Crap! I just looked on ESPN, and we have an afternoon game today. That is annoying to the extreme. I wonder if Joe will let me skip.
Whenever I have a really good game, I spend the next day trying to land some gorgeous babes. Not only because I’m fresh in their minds from the morning paper, but also because I feel confident and manly from walloping a baseball.
Last night I hit the winning homer against the Red Sox, so today I bring my “A-game” (I came up with that one on a tour bus to Six Flags) with the ladies. Before I tell you my pick-up lines, though, I want to ask a question. Why do they call it a “game-winning home run”? It didn’t win the game! I hit it in the seventh, and we still had to play like four more innings before they’d let us go home! The media always tries to explain this to me, but I still don’t understand. If you know what’s going on, leave a comment.
Okay. I thought up my first new pick-up line in L.A. a few days ago. Here’s how it works: I walk up to a pretty girl, smiling all sly, and say, “you look as beautiful as the first day I met you.” She acts surprised, and then I go “oh, maybe because it is the first day I met you!” I wait a second for her to get the joke. Right as she stops blushing and giggling like crazy, I step in close and whisper in her ear. “The name’s A-Rod, and I think I love you.” Then I kiss her on the hair.
For the next pick-up line, I saunter up and say, “hey, want to see my A-Rod?” I start undoing my belt buckle, so the girl thinks I’m about to show her my penis. But all the sudden I reach into my pants and pull out a dollar bill. I hand it to her and say “Before you spend it, make sure to check the serial numbers. It could be counterfeit.” The girl leaves, puzzled, but later that day she checks the dollar, and written in black ink are the words “Alex Rodriguez, ballplayer.” Then it has my cell phone number, and, below that, in red ink, it says, “P.S. – this bill is not counterfeit. And neither am I.” That night, we’re necking in my car.
Crap! I just looked on ESPN, and we have an afternoon game today. That is annoying to the extreme. I wonder if Joe will let me skip.
Trouble with the FBI
8/28/07
Crap.
Apparently, while I was in a blind panic rollerblading from Detroit to Toledo, Ohio, I accidentally crossed over into Ontario.
Ontario is part of Canada.
Somehow nobody caught me, because I snuck in behind an RV, but a security camera has footage of me in both countries. I was in Canada for a total of fifteen minutes, only lingering by the border, but I guess that doesn’t matter. I got a letter from the FBI saying the incident comprises two separate illegal border crossings, first into Canada and then back to the United States. The penalty for illegal entry into Canada is up to two years’ imprisonment; for illegal entry into the States, a further one year. I could be spending the next three years in jail.
Then, just when it seemed like things couldn’t get worse, the tape showed me on the side of the road in Canada, less than fifty feet from the border, tugging at the leaves of a nearby tree. For whatever reason, I started ripping a bunch off and jamming them into my waist-bag. Doesn’t seem like a big deal, right?
Well, it was a Red Mulberry, which is the most endangered tree in Ontario. Now the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Constabulary is trying to prosecute me for “damage to an at-risk species.” And because the leaves can be used for medicinal purposes, and I still had some in my waist-bag when I came back to America, I’m being charged with drug smuggling by Michigan authorities.
Things are getting really bad for me, and now the Yankees have to play Boston, who are like ten times better than us.
In better news, I might learn how to play the bagpipes.
Crap.
Apparently, while I was in a blind panic rollerblading from Detroit to Toledo, Ohio, I accidentally crossed over into Ontario.
Ontario is part of Canada.
Somehow nobody caught me, because I snuck in behind an RV, but a security camera has footage of me in both countries. I was in Canada for a total of fifteen minutes, only lingering by the border, but I guess that doesn’t matter. I got a letter from the FBI saying the incident comprises two separate illegal border crossings, first into Canada and then back to the United States. The penalty for illegal entry into Canada is up to two years’ imprisonment; for illegal entry into the States, a further one year. I could be spending the next three years in jail.
Then, just when it seemed like things couldn’t get worse, the tape showed me on the side of the road in Canada, less than fifty feet from the border, tugging at the leaves of a nearby tree. For whatever reason, I started ripping a bunch off and jamming them into my waist-bag. Doesn’t seem like a big deal, right?
Well, it was a Red Mulberry, which is the most endangered tree in Ontario. Now the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Constabulary is trying to prosecute me for “damage to an at-risk species.” And because the leaves can be used for medicinal purposes, and I still had some in my waist-bag when I came back to America, I’m being charged with drug smuggling by Michigan authorities.
Things are getting really bad for me, and now the Yankees have to play Boston, who are like ten times better than us.
In better news, I might learn how to play the bagpipes.
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