And back to the ranting....

Editors note: This return to ranting was inspired by the superb piece of controlled blabbering by Mr. Sean Ely.

One of my favorite books is "Catcher In The Rye." Ignore for the moment the fact that I tried re-reading it this summer and didn't finish it. It's not the actual writing of the novel that's a treasure, but the story behind the story.

What I love about the book is that it's a story about an incredibly fascinating period of time that every young person goes through. It tells the tale of a young boy who is right in between the innocence of youth and the harsh reality of adulthood.

I bring this up because I'm fascinated by the innocence of children (in a completely non-pedophile way). When I look back on my early childhood (ages 0 to about 14 or 15), I had very few "adult" worries or experiences. My main concerns at the time were daily Sportscenter re-runs, making the middle school basketball team, and playing football with the neighborhood kids.

For that relatively short period of time, life was uncomplicated, easy, and blissful.

But that's not the case anymore. Take for example a five minute slice of my life this past Thursday.

I was sitting at work, just doing my job, when two young girls (I'd guess about 13 or 14) came into the store where I work. To make a short observation: they were dressed like $5 hookers on the corner of 8 Mile and Woodward. They had less clothes on than a swimsuit model. I repeat, they were still three years away from being able to drive a car.

After they came in, they proceeded to use their cell phone four times in five minutes, check each of their Facebook pages, and look at clothing that they could not afford on 10 weeks of allowance (though knowing their background, their allowance is a tiny bit heftier than mine was at that age).

They looked like they were ready to score with some dude down behind the tennis shack. At that age, the only thing I wanted to score was a touchdown on NCAA Football 2000.

In sum, they were sluts in the making.

Which brings me to this point: Our society (and primarily, parents) has morphed in such a way that the innocence of childhood is constantly shrinking. And that's a damn shame.

Young people have decades ahead of them to be adults with serious problems. In fact, I yearn for the days when my biggest problem was the handicapped kid making fun of me for wearing short shorts (true story) or the kid on the bus telling me that Santa Claus was an asshole (whoever you were, fuck you).

The moral of the story: I better never have a girl. If I do, the only skin I better see on her until she's 28 is the skin on her face (and if she has the porcelain skin and bubble gum lips enough for John Mayer to write a shitty song about her, I'm making her wear a ski mask. Even if I live in fucking Arizona.) And while she may hate me for that and go out and shack up with some dude behind the 7-11 the second she turns 18 (we won't be rich enough to belong to a country club on the path I'm on), I'll know that I'll have done enough to preserve her innocence, even for a little while.

Because innocence is like a case of the chicken pox: once you have it, and you get rid of it, you can never get it back.

Man, I wish I could get the chicken pox again. Those were the days.

That's What They Said

The past week or so has been rather uneventful as the start of the school year approaches. To make up for this lack of entertainment, I could have done a bevy of things — get into shape, read thought-provoking books, and continue to research my beat for work for this fall, for example.

But I chose to do something more important. I chose to re-watch season 2 of "The Office" in preparation for the release of the season 3 DVDs and the season 4 premiere.

In doing so, I found myself asking the following question: Of all the great lines provided by "The Office," what are the best?

Now, this is like picking between Natalie Portman, Jessica Simpson, Eva Longoria, and Jessica Alba for a one night stand (or, say, marriage, assuming Jessica Simpson never opened her mouth).

You just can't go wrong no matter your choice.

But still, I'm giving it a shot with my top 10 "Office" quotes from the top of my head. I know I'll forget something absolutely priceless, so let me know if I do.

With that, here's #10.

10. "Two queens on Casino Night. I am going to drop a deuce on everybody."

If only he knew what it meant to drop a deuce.

9. "There are a huge number of yeast infections in this county. Probably because we’re down river from that old bread factory."

A forgotten nugget from "E-mail Surveillance." Hands up, Agent Michael Scarn!

8. "I enjoy having breakfast in bed. I like waking up to the smell of bacon, sue me. And since, I don’t have a butler, I have to do it myself. So … most nights before I go to bed, I will lay six strips of bacon out on my George Foreman grill. Then I go to sleep. When I wake up, I plug in the grill. I go back to sleep again. Then, I wake up, to the smell of crackling bacon. It is delicious, it’s good for me, it’s the perfect way to start the day. Today, I got up, I stepped onto the grill, and it clamped down on my foot, that’s it. I don’t see what’s so hard to believe about that."

This quote is very long (that's what she said) and not very memorable on its own, but it tells everything you need to know about the brilliance of "The Injury."

7. "A boss is like a teacher. And I am like the cool teacher. Like Mr. Handell. Mr. Handell would hang out with us. And he would tell us awesome jokes. And he actually hooked up with one of the students. Um, and then like twelve other kids came forward. It was in all the papers. Really ruined eighth grade for us."

Teachers are always told to make education a more hands-on experience. Mr. Handell apparently didn't know that that didn't apply to sex education.

6. "You know what else is facing five Goliaths? America. Al-Qaeda. Global warming. Sex predators. Mercury poisoning. So do we just give up?"

Sex predators? Mr. Handell just couldn't catch a break in "Business School."

5. "I taught Mike some uh, some phrases to help with his interracial conversations, you know, stuff like, “fleece it out,” “goin’ Mach 5,” “dinkin’ flicka,” you know, things us Negroes say."

I can just PacMan Jones explaining that he was just "goin' Mach 5" when he was making it rain in da club. Dinkin' flicka.

4. "Michael said, 'We must deceive them, so as not to hurt them. And in that way, we honor them.'"

"Casino Night" was just cash money, take it to the bank, buy a Bentley and ride it dirty.

3. "Um, are you free for dinner tonight?"

Admittedly, I'm a little leery about how the whole Jam thing is going to work out. Like a construction zone, please proceed with caution, writers. But I did get a little butterflyey at this. I just lost what manliness I had left (pause for "You're a dude? I never woulda guessed." joke).

2. "So you're PMS'ing pretty bad, huh?"

If I had to describe Dwight in four words: Hardworking, Alpha male, Jackhammer, Merciless, Insatiable, Master Of The Female Body.

1. "Bros before hoes. Why? Because your bros are always there for you. They have got your back after your ho rips yours heart out for no good reason. And you are nothing but great to your ho, and you told her that she was the only ho for you, and that she was better than all the other hoes in the world... and then... and then suddenly she's not yo' ho' no mo'."

Nuff said. Preachin' to the choir brotha.


Honorable mentions:
- "I hate so much about the things that you choose to be."
- "I want to be married and have a hundred kids, so I can have a hundred friends, and no one can say no to being my friend."
- "I am King of Forwards. It’s how I like to do business. Everybody joking around. We’re like friends. I am … Chandler, and … Joey, and uh, Pam is Rachel, and Dwight … is Kramer."
- "What has two thumbs and likes to bone your mom? This guy!"
- "Once I’m officially regional manager, my first order of business will be to demote Jim Halpert. So I will need a new number two. My ideal choice? Jack Bauer. But he is unavailable. Fictional. And overqualified."

A Tribute To A Giant

A couple nights ago, I decided to stay up and watch Barry Bonds make his run at tying Hank Aaron's home run record of 755 dingers. Bonds hit an opposite field shot to draw even with Hank that night.

What a waste of a night.

So, naturally, I was asleep when Bonds hit his 756th home run last night.

But that got me to thinking, "What would I rather be doing, besides sleeping, than watching Bonds' record-breaking home run?"

So in tribute to the greatest home run hitter of all time*, I have come up with 75.6 things I'd rather do than watching Barry Bonds' 756th steriod-filled home run.


1. Watch a cement truck rotate for an hour.
2. Hear Pistons P.A. Announcer Mason bellow, "And now, starting at power forward, number eight, Antoine Walker."
3. Watch repeats of CNN's coverage of Paris Hilton in jail.
4. Wake up in a threesome with two other dudes.
5. Fondle Rick Majerus.
6. Get in a cage match with one of Michael Vick's pitbulls
7. Be Inmate #329483 in this prison: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hMnk7lh9M3o
8. Wear a Grady Sizemore jersey.
9. Learn how to play curling.
10. Sleeping in a bed filled with earwigs.
11. Snort crushed Nerds.
12. Be Jason Grilli.
13. Attend a Justin Timberlake concert.
14. Go a day without the Internet (gasp!)
15. Listen to a Nickelback song.
16. Watch Charles Barkley play a round of golf.
17. Listen to Rob Parker's radio show.
18. Vote for Hillary Clinton.
19. Sit on the tarmac in a Jet Blue airplane.
20. Live in Montana.
21. Be related to Hugh Grant.
22. See "Gigli."
23. Be David Wells' personal chef.
24. Pay taxes.
25. Be a contestant on "The Singing Bee."
26. Be at the mercy of Jack Bauer.
27. Be a soccer trainer for the Italian national team.
28. Paint the White House.
29. Go to the Secretary of State office.
30. Sit in jail with my 6-foot-5 250-pound cell mate, Bubba.
31. Be Linsday Lohan's publicist.
32. Clean rest stop urinals.
33. Run a marathon in Arizona.
34. Get in the ring with Mike Tyson.
35. Watch season 3 of "Gilmore Girls."
36. Hear the words, "Now pinch running, catcher Bengie Molina."
37. Sit next to Star Jones.
38. Tell Pacman Jones that whatever he makes rain is now officially mine.
39. Film Victoria Beckham's reality show.
40. Call Delmon Young out on strikes.
41. Stand in front of a Randy Johnson fastball.
42. Call Jeremy Shockey a wuss.
43. Be Sergio Garcia on the 18th in the final round of a major.
44. Watch "Tommy Boy."
45. Coach the Oakland Raiders.
46. Carry Rae Carruth's baby.
47. Piss off Tom Coughlin.
48. Own 5-year-old Enron stock.
49. Lie outside naked at night, covered with honey.
50. Be the best man of the guy marrying Jessica Alba.
51. Psychoanalyze Tom Cruise.
52. Be Jan Van De Velde's caddy, circa 1999.
53. Tie a rubber band around my testicles. (My drunken great uncle and his drunken factory buddies did this to his cat. R.I.P. Pete.)
54. Be the child of Alec Baldwin.
55. Own a NFL Europa team.
56. Be a Knicks fan.
57. Wear a "I Heart USA" shirt while visiting Pakistan.
58. Pierce my tongue.
59. Attend the University of Michigan.
60. Discover Jenna Fischer is married. (She is. Damnit.)
61. Meet Fergie. (I would punch her. Hard.)
62. Be Tim Donaghy's bookie.
63. Style my hair to look like Steve Nash's.
64. Work for the IRS.
65. Be stalked by a 45-year-old who lives with his mother.
66. Watch "Billy Madison" eight times in a row.
67. Get an STD.
68. Have that STD be crabs.
69. Go skinny dipping in the Arctic Ocean.
70. Stick my finger in an electric socket.
71. Get into a domestic dispute with Sebastian Telfair.
72. Cheer for the Cubs.
73. Try to tackle Brian Urlacher.
74. Listen to Skip Bayless.
75. Be Greg Anderson, Barry Bonds' personal trainer/jailbird.
75.6. Watch six innings of a Devil Rays - Royals game in September.

Off Base-ball

Baseball is so screwed up. Take a look at this stat line:

Zach Miner (W 2-3)
IP: 0.1
H: 0
R: 0
ER: 0
BB: 0
SO: 0
HR: 0
Pitches: 1

The guy threw one pitch and got the win in a nine-inning game where nearly 300 pitches were thrown. Baseball is so screwed up. And I love it.

My New Mastering

You can become a "master" at pretty much anything. You can be a karate master (cool, numchucks). You can be a chess master (uh, laaaaaaame). You can be a master carpenter (bonus points for that). You can be a master-bater. (You had to see that coming.)

Seriously, do anything extra special, and you can be a master at it.

But while each of these things produces a reward (a black belt, an incurable case of the losers, a certificate, and, well, you know the last one), there is one master that has yet to be quantified.

That, my friends, is a master of the English language.

Being that I plan to spend the rest of my life using the English language to pay the bills, it only seems fair that we are able to judge on what level a person has the ability to correctly execute the intricacies of the English language. I mean, if auto mechanics can earn the title of "master," then anybody should be able to.

Thusly, I proffer (that's a erudite way of saying "offer"...isn't that stupid!?) the following: A rating system that quantifies one's understanding of the English language. With this, we'll be able to separate those who can't string together a coherent sentence (I'm looking at you, Rob Parker) from the true wordsmiths of the most confusing language in the world.

Using the following scale, you will be able to determine your ranking and abilities in relation to your verbal capabilities. See where you rank and let me know.

1. Slack-jawed yokel: If you watch "The Simpsons" and know Cletis, and you think you might be a direct decedent of one of his kin, then you probably rank in this area. You are completely unable to understand verb tenses, your vocabulary is limited to words containing four letters or less, and you haven't understood half of the words in this sentence alone.

2. Rod Allen: You are sufficient in occasionally stringing together sentences of a coherent nature, but struggle with the content of what you say. You often use abbreviations that nobody understands (ex: Ain't no stoppin' this D-train now.) and are probably oblivious of your nebulous phrasing (ex: If he keeps hitting like that, he's going to put up a lot of steaks. And by steaks, I mean ribeyes. And by ribeyes, I mean RBIs. [Source: Tom Keller, MLB.com]). People are often mildly entertained by your ineptitude, which prevent you from learning the difference between "was" and "were."

3. Chad Kroeger: Your sentences typically are overly cliche, and as a result, has no meaningful value. You like to think that your verbal capabilities are bolstered by speaking about the harsh aspects of life (love, death, being a rockstar with a front door key to the Playboy Mansion). Stereotypes that often fall into this category include prog rockers, valley girls, dumb blondes, those obsessed by celebrity gossip, and anyone that listens to Nickelback.

4. Rosie O'Donnell: You often offer semi-thought out irrational arguments and defamations of people who are smarter than you. You typically talk and nobody listens to your coherent drivel. Consider yourself a near-English master that nobody gives a shit about.

5. Chris Berman: Everything in your vocabulary has a nickname. There's no such thing as a simple pronoun (see: Jake "Daylight Comes and You've Got To" Delhomme and T.J. "You Say Houshmanzadeh, I Say T.J." Houshmanzadah). Many of your attempted words come out as meaningless beat-box-like sounds coming from an fat, aging television personality. Much like the Rosie O'Donnell ranking, except with a little Hebrew and fewer cow noises.

6. Yoda: You pontificate brilliance on a persistent basis, but your sentence structure hinders your effectiveness. Also, you most likely are small, green, and have pointy ears. Elves, the Jolly Green Giant's children, and midgets dipped in green paint can fall into this category.

7. A master of the English language: As long as you don't fit into one of the above categories and you can distinguish the difference between "it's" and "its," then congratulations, you're a master of the English language.

But still, let me do all the writing.

A Grave Mis-Scape

On a serious note:


Barry Bonds has worn many hats during his 21-year playing career. He's donned the crown of baseball's greatest and most hated home run hitter of all time. He's sported the cap of media curmudgeon while whipping up a 24-7 frenzy surrounding his every move. He's even proudly displayed his cap as San Francisco's athletic darling during many-a-curtain call. And he's done all of this for more than two decades while trotting into the outfield with only a Pirates and Giants hat atop his head (size 7 1/8 and size 7/14, respectively, of course).

But most importantly, and perhaps unfairly, America's most hated athlete has shamefully worn the hat of baseball's scapegoat for the most tarnished decade in America's pasttime. Bonds' march to 756 (or crawl, as it is unraveling at this moment) has become so disgraced that the sport's commissioner, the slimy Bud Selig, has contemplated a leave of absence from the sport's greatest individual achievement of all time. In sum, Barry Bonds has become baseball's most loathed pariah since the Pete Rose era.

And it's a total shame.

With a personality as hardened as the protective armor that clings to his elbow before during each at-bat, the San Francisco slugger has shunned even the most diehard of baseball fans. A resounding chorus of boos has followed the soon-to-be home run king ever since he left the bay for a short road trip. And it is even hard to imagine that amongst the thousands of fans exclaiming their displeasure during every Bonds at bat, Pedro Gomez is probably chiming in somewhere in the stadium.

Given, there's plenty to hate about Bonds. He's adamantly decreed that he will not become the face of the steriod scandal, instead letting such low-life former players as Jose Canseco and Ken Caminiti to take the brunt. He's about as friendly as a former Alcatraz inmate, and probably twice as guilty. The Giants outfielder continues to idly stand by as his former trainer, Mark Anderson, idly waits in jail for refusing to sell out the man who has sold out stadiums across the nation.

But for all the hatred spewed towards the tainted titan of baseball, Bonds, more than likely, is just one of tens, or even hundreds, of the inflated athletes who have deflated the game's image in the past decade. Somewhere, Mark McGwire looks in the mirror and ponders his place in the game's history, given his refusal to answer to Congressional hearings regarding his past use of performance-enhancing drugs. His former smash brother, Jose Canseco, toils in sleazy obscurity, left only with his self-authored books and memories of his time on VH1's wholesome "The Surreal Life" (a time of his life he shared with such upstanding members of society as Janice Dickinson, half of the girl group Salt N' Pepa, and that she-devil from "The Apprentice"). Even at home, Detroit Tigers designated hitter Gary Sheffield has heard his name tossed around among the steroid debate. And for my money, catcher Pudge Rodriguez has yet to explain the 25 pounds he dropped one particularly scandalous summer.

Yet while McGwire has faded into total oblivion, Canseco has continued to make a monkey of himself, and Sheffield has gone on spouting about racism in baseball, Bonds has kept on hitting home runs. In that same time period, the baseball fan base has kept on jabbing at Bonds and his pending record. True, Bonds proves an easy target — his power numbers are still relevant, he's about the dethrone one of baseball's greatest heroes, and he's still a callous jerk — but he's not the only target. Piled atop Bonds' comic-book-like superhero shoulders is the blame for all of baseball's problems. But while the Atlas look alike continues to stand, commissioner Bud Selig keeps slithering away from his role in allowing the growth of performance-enhancing drugs. Members of the player's association are still as mum as the years when steroids crept their way into the muscles of league's players. And most importantly, many current and recently retired players who are as guilty as Bonds is assumed to be retain their innocence in silence (save such disgraced athletes as Canseco and Yankee left-hander Jason Giambi).

So when you watch Barry Bonds hit his historic shot in the days to come, if you look closely enough, you'll see an entire era resting on the shoulders of baseball's home run king. Bonds will not only solidify his asterisk in the record books soon, but also establish himself as the sole scapegoat of baseball's greatest scandal. And that, for what it's worth, will go down as one of sports' greatest and gravest mis-scapes.