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Lou Merloni launched a cruise missile into the Bud Selig “Let’s Blame It All On The Players” steroids defense with a very damning accusation that a Red Sox team doctor instructed players how to properly take steroids.
As more players get nailed in testing or have confidential test results released (Manny Ramirez’s record were leaked today) and feel the feigned wrath of the sportswriters, more players are going start talking to ensure they aren’t the only fall guys. In fact Donald Fehr should suggest his players to do this that — the code of silence needs to end to protect the players interests. All parties were complicit in the sham; why should one only be taking the heat for it?

Once the players and owners dirty themselves, they will point their fingers at the complicit sportswriters who nudged and winked their way to exclusive stories. These guys were silent for years, and now they are about to find out that the majority fans are very tired of the moral goose-stepping posturing from a bunch of whores who line up to get a spot on “Around The Horn.” The free buffet to find out quickly that the free buffet spread is not going to offer them much cover.

Once the above guilty parties are good and sullied, the proper attention can then be turned the fans who pretended not to believe anything was amiss. They were like twelve year olds who still believed in Santa Claus — they were old enough to know damn well that Jolly St. Nick was a farce, but played along with the scam because there was something in it for them — “Mommy and Daddy (Selig and MLBPA) told us Santa was real (steroids aren’t a problem); why were we supposed to believe otherwise? It can’t be our fault; we just listened to the adults.”

The entire mess is headed to its delicious proper ending.

The smoke between asleep and dreams
And in that clear blue undertow
I saw Royal City far below
Borders soft with refugees
Streets a’swimming with amputees
It’s a Bible or a bullet they put over your heart
It’s getting harder and harder to tell them apart
Days are nights and the nights are long
Beating hearts blossom into walking bombs
And those still looking in the clear blue sky for a sign
Get missiles from so high they might as well be divine
Now the wolves are howling at our door
Singing bout vengeance like it’s the joy of the Lord
Bringing justice to the enemies not the other way round
They’re guilty when killed and they’re killed where they’re found
If what’s loosed on earth will be loosed up on high
It’s a Hell of a Heaven we must go to when we die
Where even Laurel begs Hardy for vengeance please
The fat man is crying on his hands and his knees
Back in the peacetime he caught roses on the stage
Now he twists indecision takes bourbon for rage
Lead pellets peppering aluminum
Halcyon, laudanum and Opium
Sings kiss thee hardy this poisoned cup
His winding sheet is busy winding up
In darkness he looks for the light that has died
But you need faith for the same reasons that it’s so hard to find
And this whole thing is headed for a terrible wreck
And like good tragedy that’s what we expect — Josh Ritter

“I’m a broken man,” said Eric Wedge after the Tigers swept the Indians this past weekend. “The dream is over. I am astounded it ended like this. Slash a mentor on American Idol? How did it come to this? Rock is dead, man, just like this lousy team I manage.”

Going into tonight’s games:

Adam LaRoche was hitting .354/.446/.708 in Pirates’ wins and .146/.226/.271 in their losses. Tonight he went 0-4 with three K’s. Guess how the Pirates did?

Grady Sizemore was hitting .043/.185/.042 as first batter of the game and .150/.277/.225 to lead off an inning.

The Indians had been outscored 61-44 in the seventh and eighth innings. Instead of trotting out another lame arm, the Tribe moved Aaron Laffey to the pen and watched him pitch three scoreless innings.

Zack Greinke already had 104 Pitching Runs Created this season. Last year only seven AL pitchers had over 100 PRC for the entire season. The next closest pitcher in PRC in this season is Dan Haren with 43. Boston Ramon Ramirez has 31 PRC in 15.3 IP, which leads all AL pitchers including starters.

Dear Jilted Red Sox fans,

Manny Ramirez really didn’t like you. He thought you were a terrible lay, plus he faked 78.2% of his orgasms with you (he was thinking of someone else the other 21.8% of the time). Now he is happy that he is far, far away from you. This is all your fault. Now get over it and move on. Manny has.

Dear Yankee Brass,

How is that new stadium working out? Potential riots are always grand PR. Who was the doofus in charge that told his people to tell the fans last night’s game was called because of weather? You get the fans in the park and get them to blow their concessions money before you announce the game is called. Oh, you probably don’t have to fear the stadium finance subpoenas. After all, you would have never done anything improper. Getting the press angry at you was a sheer brilliance also. The world is tired of fluff pieces; angry scribes telling the world what a piece of excrement your new digs are will certainly draw fans who want to check it out to see if the reporters are wrong.

Dear Mark Shapiro,

Another fine job of building a bullpen. Go ahead and give us your annual lament about how hard it is to construct a pen. Meanwhile, your team blew its seventh save of the year this afternoon by giving up seven runs in the seventh inning. The good news is that your closer’s ERA (7.20) is slightly lower than your third starter’s (7.46).

Dear Larry Dolan,

One of the job requisites of a MLB general manager is to build a bullpen. Your guy in their now is woefully inadequate in this regard. We have seen this movie before, and it does not end well.

Dear City of Cleveland,

LeBron James will one day depart as all things good must leave Cleveland; it is a law of nature. The only type of people who stay behind are the invalid, Bill Livingston and you — and Bernie Kosar because anywhere outside of Northeast Ohio, he was the third best QB in his division when he played.

Dear Cubs fans,

1908.

http://www.hardballtimes.com/main/shysterball/article/selena-roberts-a-rod-and-impartiality/

When they came for the communists,
I remained silent;
I was not a communist.

Now that they are coming for Alex Rodriguez,
I don’t feel like remaining silent anymore;
Even though I am not a pretty boy with arrested social development.
One of the main reason I quit blogging was that the steroid circus had become a ludicrous witch hunt that had nothing to do with justice or morality, and everything with to do with dragging heroes off pedestals — the new national pastime in the TMZ era (hey, let’s go after Miley Cyrus because she is too sweet to be real).

Let’s rewind to the roaring late nineties, when grunge was dying, John Hart hadn’t completely screwed up the Indians yet, and MLB was seriously thinking about openly assuming the persona of Gordon Gecko. The concept that baseball was rooted to a near universal childhood experience (God Bless America, and No One Else!) was certainly being ushered out the door, and “EXCESS! COME AND GET IT” was the ballpark experience.
 
Oh, baseball was good. It wasn’t your daddy’s game or your grandpa’s game; it was a new game, and the new heroes were better than those of past generations. The music that played as the closer trotted in was rightfully more important to many than past glories of now retired or dead players– Hells Bells trumped Honus Wagner every time . It wasn’t until many perceived Bonds’ assault on the HR records as pornographic that things went south — Sosa and McGwire were Wally and Beav, but Barry Lamar was Johnny Wadd (yeah, there were other things between the Maris HR chase and the Aaron HR chase, but Bonds was cast as the Numero Uno bad guy).
 
In 2001, Bonds realized he was getting screwed by less talented cheats, so he decided to play the ultimate game of “Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better.”  Baseball was fake, and Bonds was going to bomb baseball back into the Pastoral Age one HR at a time. In times past, the pastoral element, although a myth, was always a healing element for baseball — even Hollywood picked up on that with the Field of Dreams, The Natural type movies that came after baseball’s Dark Eighties. Watching Shoeless Joe bat wrong handed with Kevin Costner sure beat hearing about Dwight Gooden and Darryl Strawberry’s latest cocaine bust.
 
With that in mind, Saint Barry hoisted baseball on his shoulders and climbed on a cross atop Telegraph Hill. Barry, bad knees and all, was willing to give up his own career so future generations of ballplayers wouldn’t be able to fake piss tests. He knew he would be a pariah until future generations would one day recognize his tremendous sacrifice, just like Edgar Allen Poe and the heroic rock band, Styx.

Maybe it didn’t go down quite like that. Whatever the case, Bonds was vilified (much of it rightfully) and made Public Enemy Number One. The steroid circus began permeating almost every baseball story, and every dipshit with an opinion suddenly was an expert, so I stepped out.

Now A-Rod is going down hard because dammit, it is fun to take down the top dog. The super sleuth of the Duke lacrosse team rape fiasco writes a book about A-Rod, and in the media’s eyes, she has more credibility than A-Rod, despite her obvious short comings as a journalist and her conflict of interests. That is just the way America rolls these days.

However, A-Rod should have handled the situation much differently. Once his test was illegally released, he should have said this:

“Fuck yeah, I took steroids. Everyone was doing it — in this game, it you ain’t cheating, you ain’t trying. Do you know how much fun we had? It was great — I could crush the ball, and people cheered very loudly. I received a boatload of money, and more pussy than I could handle. Yes, it is possible to get too much pussy; I am proof of that. You stupid schmucks will never know what that is like, so don’t pass judgment on me. Most of you have to pay for pussy, even from your wives. The only thing I regret is that I got caught because now I have to stand here and answer your questions. You people smell.”

America's New Pastime

“General Patton is my idol,” said an upbeat Eric Wedge before Wednesday’ night’s game versus the Boston Red Sox. “However, tonight I am Douglas C. Niedermeyer, the greatest disciplinarian of all time. Patton took care of the Nazis, but Neidermeyer got the Deltas off campus. My boys need some good old fashioned ROTC abuse. I have a mind to slap Peralta’s fat face, but the players’ union would get bent. Any player who doesn’t get a hit tonight will have their draft board notified. Tonight we consecrate the bond of obedience.”

When asked by Terry Pluto if he was losing his mind, Wedge replied, “What difference does that make?” Sanity is not a job requirement for a major league manager. Billy Martin was batshit. Crazy is just being misunderstood in today’s times. I really miss the Eighties when things were crystal clear.”

’99 red balloons.
floating in the summer sky.
Panic bells, it’s red alert.
There’s something here from somewhere else.
The war machine springs to life.
Opens up one eager eye.
Focusing it on the sky.
Where 99 red balloons go by’

As Greg Khin once said, they just don’t write like that anymore.”

All of the Indians players refused comment on their manager’s newest antic, except Kelly Shoppach who said, “Why can’t he do this stuff between Betancourt’s pitches to make the waiting go quicker? Maybe then our defense wouldn’t fall asleep. Maybe he’d forget to put Jensen Lewis in the damn game. Or not forget to take him out.”

After the game, a subdued Wedge said, “I should have slapped Peralta’s fat face.

Wedge In Battle Gear

Eric Wedge strutted through the Indians’ clubhouse before Tuesday’s game against the Boston Red Sox wearing white satin breeches with shimmering gold trim and a cotton shirt with lace cuffs designed by Zandra Rhodes. Also part of his costume were silk stockings and black leather shoes with enormous gold buckles. As his dumbfounded teams stared at him, Wedge broke into song:

“Here we stand or here we fall
History wont care at all
Make the bed light the light
Lady mercy wont be home tonight yeah

You don’t waste no time at all
Don’t hear the bell but you answer the call
It comes to you as to us all
Were just waiting
For the hammer to fall”

“Eric has a very delicate grip on reality these days,” whispered Grady Sizemore. “It is no coincidence he chose to emulate a dead rock singer to get across the massage that we are killing him. Tomorrow he will probably wear a robe and Tevas, then climb up on a wooden cross to tell us he is dying for our sins. This will backfire on him; most of are still uncomfortable about how he worshipped Casey Blake’s facial hair over the past few years.”

The Indians responded to Wedge’s surreal motivation tactic by exploding for one run in the first inning. “Without Eric, there is no way we get a run across with the bases loaded and one out,” said a relieved Travis Hafner,. “One of us would have grounded into a double play. After seeing Eric pretend he was Freddie, there is no way I was expanding my strike zone. My walk there just might be the turning point of the season.”

Wedge’s antics certainly had a positive effect on the Indians ‘ offense, but it rattled starting pitcher Anthony Reyes. “Look, I am not very good,” said a beleaguered Reyes. “This game is hard enough for me without my manager singing 1980’s apocalypse songs before the game. I couldn’t get that chorus out of my head all 2+ innings I lasted.”

The Indians offense continued to explode in the second inning as they pushed another run across before Sizemore stuck out with runners on the corners with no outs, and then Martinez hit a sac fly with the bases loaded an one out. “Wedge has been bitching about our lack of productive outs for a week now,” said a jubilant Martinez. “I finally see the light. Why hit a double when a sacrifice will do?”

The Indians new found high octane productive out offense sputtered in the third when the Indians score four runs without recording a productive out. “Skip was pretty pissed when that happened,” said a sheepish Mark DeRosa. “He was fuming about how we knocked out Brad Penney and that we’d never score anything against the Red Sox bullpen. However, I told him that technically my plate appearance was a productive out. I put the ball in play right at the second baseman, and the Sox made an error, wiping out the inning ending double play. I said good things happen when you put the ball in play, Skip. He was still a little grumpy and told me grown men shouldn’t call other grown men Skip. He was pretty damn quiet when I later hit the ball over the fence. That was Albert Belle type shit, bitches.”

When told of DeRosa’s comments after the game, Wedge snarled, “Tell Joey over there that he crossed home plate to win the game because of the little stuff. Cabrera put the ball in play and good things can happen then. Ah well ,this bunch will find a way to lose it tomorrow.

Wedge's Pre Game Look

An obviously very buzzed but thoughtful Eric Wedge confidently strode into his press conference following the Indians’ 3-1 loss to the Red Sox Monday night and announced, “From henceforth, you will address me as Major T.J. Kong. Well, boys, we got three engines out, we got more holes in us than a horse trader’s mule, the radio is gone and we’re leaking fuel and if we was flying any lower why we’d need sleigh bells on this thing… but we got one little budge on them Rooskies. At this height why they might harpoon us but they dang sure ain’t gonna spot us on no radar screen!”

After ten full seconds of silence in which jaw dropped reporters looked on is disbelief, Wedge began muttering about the literacy rates in Northeast Ohio. “No one bothers to watch the classics anymore; this isn’t even a Twittering thing. How is anyone supposed to understand my beautiful metaphors if they have no background of the classics? You twits, that was pure comedy gold from Dr. Strangelove. Kong was Slim Pickens’ character who opens the malfunctioning bomb bay door over the target, then rides the bomb down. Get it? That is what I am doing here with this misfiring team. These numbnuts are getting me fired, so I am riding this out until the Apocalypse. 100 losses, here we come. We only have 87 more to go, although I am sure Shapiro will pull the plug on me before that. However, that just means I can watch the final glory from a beach with a little umbrella in my Jim Beam.

Look, I know I am going down, but I am taking some people with me. You win with the inconsistent Jhonny Peralta and the annual bullpen from Hell. Thanks to the loud, but not so competent Internet Statheads, I will never get a managing job again. For the record, my teams only significantly underperformed their Pythag one season, all the other years fall under statistical noise. Perhaps Internet Statheads should be required to take some sort of course on basic standard deviations before the pop off on their cute blogs.

Where are all those people who say I mishandled the Milton Bradley situation? Have they ween his warm and fuzzy start in Chicago. It isn’t even May yet, and he is the local media’s number one target. Asshole.

Yes, boys we’re headed for the big crash — you need to keep up with my keen literary references just like Casey Blake could/ Let’s try this one more time: Survival kit contents check. In them you’ll find: one forty-five caliber automatic; two boxes of ammunition; four days’ concentrated emergency rations; one drug issue containing antibiotics, morphine, vitamin pills, pep pills, sleeping pills, tranquilizer pills; one miniature combination Russian phrase book and Bible; one hundred dollars in rubles; one hundred dollars in gold; nine packs of chewing gum; one issue of prophylactics; three lipsticks; three pair of nylon stockings. Shoot, a fella’ could have a pretty good weekend in Vegas with all that stuff.”