Ace of Spades

I'd love to stay and chat, but I'm busy mulling over lucrative offers from both Blackwater Xe and the Obama Administration. Both have their pros and cons, so perhaps you all can help me choose:

Pay:
Blackwater Xe: sure, their contracts are ostensibly being phased out, and it's now millions instead of billions, but that's still prime taxpayer scratch. Plus good work never goes unnoticed by the next federally-employed wetwork outfit.
Hussein X Death Panel: it's a civil service job. 'nuff said.
EDGE: Blackwater Xe

Travel:
Blackwater Xe: the blistering heat of Iraq.
Hussein X Death Panel: the blistering heat of DC in the summer.
EDGE: a wash.

Amenities:
Blackwater Xe: Handiwipes to get rid of the spattered blood and entrails of your victims.
Hussein X Death Panel: Cold cut tray in the green room.
EDGE: Hussein X Death Panel.

Playing the grim reaper:
Blackwater Xe: a thousand rounds shattering flesh and bone, blazing powder burns and screams over in mere seconds.
Hussein X Death Panel: the megalomaniacal thrill of mixing it up in a twisted mélange of Blofeld, Heydrich and Drs. Evil and Doom.
EDGE: Hussein X Death Panel, by the skin of my nose.

THE WINNER: Seems like a no-brainer to me. Oh, secretary? Ring up the Carebear. Tell him to deal me in.

Lost In Translation

Pestilence. War. Famine. Death.

These ancient horrors pale before --


















Foreign language citations either in-text or in end-/footnotes that are left untranslated for us mono-and-a-half linguists!

The other day, Sherry whipped up a post reviewing the new book by noted Biblical scholar and sometime teevee talking head Bart Ehrman, and this got me thinking of stuff that I enjoy reading, which is, like the Prankster's Bible itself and the characters within -- and some are quite the character. Oh, Yahweh, you little narcissist scamp with all your incessant smiting -- generally old.


















Sniff.

Oh no, not you, big cheesy. Did I say Yahweh? I meant Methuselah.

I destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah so long ago.

No, don't be silly! You're quite the spry deity. In fact, you're a spring chicken.

That's just what every imaginary sky fairy longs to hear.

Relax. I know what the problem is. Gents?



Betcha feel better now, huh.















See, big guy, it'll be alright. Look at that youthful mane. You'll be chatting up the cheerleaders in no time. No last temptation for you, wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Now that I've dazzled you with purty pictures, here's a bunch of whiny, boring words giving you the chance to escape to sexier pastures. And you people think I'm as cold and heartless as Yahweh.

Specialist texts are the worst for obvious and completely expected reasons, but there are a few kind souls (thank you, Ashgate) that usually translate or at least summarize these bits and pieces. French I can manage, as long as I have mon dictionnaire that's wearing its taped-up-Rocky treatment surprisingly well after years of abuse. It's a miracle!

Latin? The faintest whiff of eons-ago semesters, the Wheelock and dictionary on the shelf, and my increasingly ineffectual noodle make a four-course meal low in sodium and high on migraines. Lucky for me that the English language is one of the world's most accomplished kleptomaniacs, rivaling Bonnie and Clyde, John Dillinger and Dick Cheney.

The only German I know outside of 101 phrases (guten tag, danke, auf wiedersehen, achtung, schnell, Heil Hitler) is this list of likely incorrect sentences leftover from high school: Wo ist meine brieftasche? Ingo ist mein Freund. Ich gehe in die Stadt. Good times watching those theoretically educational 1960s black and white shorts. The first of the three was uttered by a penguin in the lobby of a sparse, noirish hotel towards a quite dapper clerk played by an actor who was obviously high or rivalled Sean Penn's masterful take on Jeff Spicoli. And you thought Deutschland lost its sense of humor while rebelling against The Man with that whole awkward Nazi phase.

Don't even get me started on fucking Arabic. Since Hussein X, Stringy Puppet of the impending Caliphate, is a fluent speaker, I'd give him a call, but he's real busy doing exactly what an American Pretzeldent, regardless of party, is supposed to do. You know, racking up our deepest regrets during The Global War on the Communist Islamic Threat of the Month and sticking it to everyone not currently running a bank or strapping electrodes to a prisoner's nutsack for the fun of just following imperial orders, all while filling the airwaves with nougat goodness.

Let's compare past candy bars, shall we?

Reagan's chewy center: Latin American death squads, Brylcreem and what's a treason?
Bush the Smarter's whipped goo: vomit, video wargaming and Uncle Clarence.
Bubba's caramel goodness: pasty sexcapades, let's let Rupert own everything and gays? ewww!
Chimpy's peanuts: bathtub social engineering, fields of corpses decomposing in the sun and oops! I lost all the money!

At least those jokers made up for such unhealthy ingredients by being near inexhaustible reservoirs of comedy. I can't say the same for our current overlord and, frankly, that's what really galls my bladder.

Stupid Pretzeldent. Be more funny!

Oh, what the hell. Here's a pic of Scarlett Johansson from that flick. No, not the German one. I don't want to be accused of false advertising.



















Almost makes me wanna take up smoking.

Anger management

I see that the Lord of All Fevers and Plagues took time out of gnawing on the disinterred bones of Nixon to wax poetic on modern American political theory:

SCHIEFFER: But nobody thinks that was legal.

CHENEY: Well, no. It certainly was in the sense he wasn't impeached. And it was a wartime measure that he took that I think history says today, yeah, that was probably a good thing to do.

Believe me, I'm well aware that any sense of justice has been off the table in our empire for a long time. We're no different from world powers of the past. At this point, I'd settle for a serious shoe-tossing at Unka Dick.

Thankfully, during preparation for finding further ways to increase the blood pressure, bring on a series of ulcers and imagine the infliction of deep psychological pain on these thugs and their spineless enablers -- see, even us non-fascists have naughty thoughts now and then, don't let anyone tell you otherwise -- I discovered something that demanded I cast aside my bloodlust and instead embrace joyous laughter:

"I've survived interviews with Keith Olbermann, testified before Congress, prevented voter fraud from overturning the results of a U.S. presidential election and fought the left in federal court more times than you can imagine," Blackwell said last month as he announced his candidacy. "I have been tried and tested, though I'll admit that I've never been called 'mavericky' by Tina Fey."

I'm sure you've been called an asshole, a wingnut, an Uncle Tom, a criminal, a puppet, a --

"Shhh! You want to deal with his Schutzstaffel?"





















Go, Ken Doll, go.

A Conspiracy

I could use a good conspiracy as I've got zip.

"Still?"

You guys want to band together and take down The Man?

"It will ultimately depend on citizens, and whether they will remain silent in the face of a crime that's been committed in plain view," Turley concluded. "It is equally immoral to stand silent in the face of a war crime and do nothing, and that is what the citizens are doing. There's this gigantic yawn."

Out of sight for us, out of mind for suits. Pant or double-breasted.

AAARRRGGGHHH, etc.

Spend all your time alternating between watching the good local sports team get infected with the stupid virus of the bad local sports team, reading and domestic bliss --













"My friends, I know all about 'domestic bliss.'"

--and you miss the vital news of the day:














"Al-Qaeda tasty! Grrr!"













"It's not like crimes were committed, heh heh."

And most importantly, this:














I've got nothing to add to this historical piece of comedy, so I'll just echo what Frederick said. In the midst of sharpening the angry a bit further, I realized it's the birthday of The Man --



--and then I felt a little bit better because I finally had something worthwhile to post about.

"Meme-ries, like the corner of my blog..."

Trust me, you never, ever, ever, ever want to hear me sing. Ever. So we'll just let others do so and if they're really good, perhaps they'll land a record contract, a magazine shoot and a guest spot on Prison Break or whatever these yokels get until they're replaced by the next flavor du jour and end up in a different kind of magazine, the arty, photoshopped images replaced by paparazzi crotch surveillance and police mug shots.

Another meme/not-meme about music? Bloody hell right I don't care that this makes four out of five posts (sort-of) centered on collections of notes. Fuck politics; the rest of you all do it far better than I anyway.

Wait, here's something political: gee, didn't see the 'oh, Holy Joe, all is forgiven' coming. Now that's Change We Can Believe In®, folks. Investigations into Bushy Crime next year? Have It Your My Way®? I'm Lovin' It®!

Here's something that I can actually get angry about and whereas my desire for the above has a zero percent chance of coming true, the elimination of the following from the surface of the planet has about a one-tenth percent chance. Hope springs eternal!


















Look, admin types, burning fossil fuels -- and man, does the exhaust from these things fucking smell -- when all you're doing is loudly kicking up dust and blowing a few leaves off of concrete seems kind of a waste, no? Wouldn't want a bit of nature dirtying up such lovely Brutalist architecture.

"You sure do ramble all over the place."

All part of my plan to keep them fooled into thinking I've got something substantive.

"Ingenious."

One more quick thing. The other 29 professional hoops teams? Just wanted to let you know that someone is putting the proverbial smackdown on a nightly basis.


















"Can you believe that midget won the AL MVP?"

Still no love for the catcher.

"Will you get to the goddamn point?"

Plus I'm a noted meme whore and music is the greatest art form there is. Don't fire me, boss, for my slander against the painterly arts which I also love greatly. So, merci, Hill, for giving me another opportunity to post without thinking.

Don't even think about it, brain.

Wait. Only seven? This is going to take some thinking. Oh, brain?

Rules and Regulations:
1. Post your list of the seven best albums, the seven bloggers you will tag, a copy of these rules, and a link back to this page.
2. Each person tagged will put a URL to their Blogger Album Project post along with a list of the seven best albums in the comment section HERE chez Randal.
3. Feel free to post the “I Contributed to the Blogger Album Project” Award Graphic on your sidebar, along with a link back to this page.
4. Post a link back to the blogger who tagged you.

Seven? Come the fuck on. Be serious.

In order to make this easier on the noggin, I'm restricting it to underrated and/or unknown rock and/or roll records, limit one per customer, as Beethoven's symphonies alone would constitute five discs, thus defeating the unstated purpose of this meme, which is obviously the corruption of youthful minds such as ours. God Bless America.

"Beethoven isn't underrated, dumbass."

Sure he is. See a statue of the man in downtown Cleveland?

"No."

I rest my case.

Sorry, no Manilow.
1. Skepticism, Lead and Aether.
2. Nicki Jaine, Of Pigeons and Other Curiosities.
3. Hollenthon, Domus Mundi.
4. Mira, Mira.
5. Hexentanz, Nekrocrafte.
6. Antimatter, Lights Out.
7. Thine, A Town Like This.

Suckers who are free to do whatever the hell they want with this thing: Anita (told you!), Non, je ne regrette rien, Freida Bee, Swinebread, Our Juicy Life, DCup, George Bush.

Banned in the USA

Hard to believe that it was only one month ago when the superheated air was saturated with moisture and the sun beat the senses down with the inexorable drone of a political speech. Walking to work now? There's a bittersweet crispness in the air, an earthy scent of melancholy borne upon memories that float amidst the cycle of life and death; the leaves have begun to change, some subtly, their margins tinged with yellow and the faintest brush of orange peeking out when struck by a stray ray of light breaking through the slate grey of increasingly overcast skies. Honestly, what could be better than autumn?

Huh? Sorry, I was trying to think of things that don't automatically induce the shivers followed up by a round of vomiting.

"Blah diddy blah." "Googly moogly."
"Diddly doodlely." "Yabba dabba doo."

Didn't watch it. Everyone says McCain was a condescending jerk. Gee, didn't see that coming. Everyone says Obama was too nice. Wow. I'm so shocked.

I did something far more important with my time. I read.

I'm sure if Mr. Campbell was here with us, he would say "get your read on, motherfuckers!" or something equally inspirational. In any case, today begins Banned Books Week, a time of celebrating the joys of reading while giving the middle finger to assholes who would dare dictate which pages you can and cannot lay your eyes upon, which words you can and cannot see.

So putting aside bullshit jingoism wrapped in American flags, cluster bombs, campaign sloganeering, lists of promises that everyone refuses to recognize won't be kept and bailouts of fuckers who can afford it (thanks once again Congress for the reaming of our collective ass, I hate you all so much), I would like, through some truly American ideals -- legitimate, tangible freedom and sticking it to The Man -- suggest some reading materials for some of our most esteemed countryfuckers.

For you, Chimpy McStagger,

"Randal, heh, heh, I can't read Communist. Where's ma expert on all those Unions of Soviet Russians? Oh, if only I had looked deeper into Pooty-Poot's soul. Condi, put those shoes down and gimme some help."




And I certainly can't forget about your replacement!

"For five and a half years I couldn't read books! Fuck you!"










What about the loser on November 4, Barack Hussein X?

"Watch me pull a Care Bear Market out of this hat. That is to say, the bailout is necessary if we are to audaciously change the economy with a hopeful belief in liquidity. I agree with Senator McCain..."








Oh, sorry, I fell asleep, dreaming of a Democrat hungry for blood.

I've also got something for your running mate, Hair Plugs For Men.

"Exactly, fix that market, dammit. How else will MBNA continue to fleece the American consumer?"










Don't worry, Mooselini, I could never forget about you.

"Who needs experience when I've got this book! Thanks, Randal!"








What can I say, I've gotten so used to such a vile bastard running the show and, well *sniff* I'm gonna miss the little nipper. You've already got the natural talent to continue his important work. Good luck with your autocratic theocracy! And if you find any witches, please, feel free to send them my way. I'll make sure they get their just desserts.



















"No thanks, we prefer a real man."

Yikes! As brutal as Cheney.













"At least they tell the truth."

Thank you, dearest, for your ever-loving words. Speaking of the Dark Lord himself, I had found a book I thought he'd enjoy, but in the process of giving it to him, he growled and roared, doing his best Cerberus impression before biting my hand off. Luckily, my sometimes-better-half is taking dictation and typing this up for me. And, strangely, laughing.

What the hell is so goddamn comical about this unfortunate turn of events?













"You're going to have to learn to use your left."

Ouch.

Gangsta's Paradise

"MC Star Search will fuck your shit up."

You simply assumed that you were going to get a post about this, didn't you. Don't be stupid. Everyone not living under a rock, stuck inhaling the fumes in a chemical factory for eight hours a day or dropping acid knew this was coming. Sheesh.

Firestarter

Ever since I read the book so many years ago, I've always wondered what it would be like to have the ability to set things ablaze through nothing more complex than mere thought. You can keep your stinkin' fancy ass flamethrowing technology, U.S. Army. Now, I haven't been injected with the results of some clandestine government experiment -- that I know of -- but let's give it the ole' college try:










"Charlie don't play controversies!"

Browns coach Romeo Crennel made it clear Monday that he's considering benching Derek Anderson and starting Brady Quinn Sunday in Cincinnati.

"I think we'll definitely try to get the other guy [Quinn] ready to go and we'll see how it progresses from there," Crennel said Monday in his breakdown of Sunday's 28-10 loss to the Ravens that dropped the Browns to 0-3. "We'll probably give him a few more reps in practice right now."

Dammit! No smoke rising in the direction of stadium; nothing in fact but clear skies. Well, as clear as a major metropolitan area in the United States can be in 2008. Let's give it another shot.























"Charlie enjoys the taste of feet!"

When interviewed by CBS anchor Katie Couric yesterday, Biden condemned a recent Obama ad that poked fun at John McCain's "inability" to use a computer.

"I thought that was terrible by the way," he said. "If I'd have had anything to do with it, we never would have done it.

Stupid, metatarsal-munching Democrats! C'mon hairplugs, burn! Concentrate! Ow, my head! This is for my meltdown on Saturday, isn't it. Well played, brain.

"I'm not saying a word."

Third time's the charm!



















"Charlie don't misunderestimate!"

Earlier Monday, President Bush warned Democrats not to load down the proposed rescue plan for the U.S. financial system with extra provisions, but Democratic leaders are insisting on some aid for homeowners and curbs on executive pay.

"There will be differences over some details, and we will have to work through them," Bush said as congressional staff and administration officials restarted meetings on the bill. "That is an understandable part of the policy-making process.

"But it would not be understandable if members of Congress sought to use this emergency legislation to pass unrelated provisions, or to insist on provisions that would undermine the effectiveness of the plan."

Nothing but another fucking migraine! Curse you Stephen King and your false advertising! I want my pyrokinesis! Now!


















Oh no, the nefarious proprietors of unchecked consumerism have won! I've been infected with instant gratificationitis!

"Muahahahahaha!"

Shut up, brain, or I'll start killing you with beer.

"You don't even like beer."

I know.

"I'll be good."

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly III

"You fuckers are as effective as Democratic messaging!"

The Good: the excellent call for the screen which resulted in our only touchdown. See what happens when you fucking wait until after the two-minute warning? And again, surprisingly, the defense. Seven of the Ravens' points came on an interception return and they started a couple of other drives extra deep in our zone. We gave up less than 300 yards for the second straight week and only 4.3 yards/play.

The Bad: everything else, especially the offensive line. Yeah, DA made a few boneheaded throws in the second half, but that's after getting knocked on his ass about a hundred times and it was all-or-nothing time. Seriously, what the fuck happened to you guys? You guys have fucking sucked this season, including you, Joe Thomas, Mr. Super Rookie Stud Man. Fuck you. Guard Eric Steinbach misses the game and you assholes go from bad to putrescent? At least you fucks aren't Wall Street execs or you'd be in line for a fucking pay raise instead of the cut you deserve.

The Ugly: the mental lapses in every fucking phase. I stopped counting when it hit triple digits. At least we have LeBron for a couple of more seasons before Cleveland sports really goes in the shitter. The worst part is that the AFC is there for the taking. Buffalo, Denver, Tennessee and Baltimore lead their respective divisions. Yeah, those are the fucking four best teams in the conference. One barely beats Oakland, one has no defense, one can't pass and the other has no quarterback.

Fucking hell.

Up next: at the Bungles who might be even worse than us. A frightening thought, but not as frightening as staring down an 0-4 start. The 1992 Chargers we ain't.

And for all those tingly with excitement that the Dems are going "oh, now please Mr. Paulson, sir, can we kind of maybe talk about this $700 billion dollar bailout," don't be fucking stupid. Once the chorus of partisan accusations and doom-and-gloom scenarios hits the refrain, they'll cave like the Browns' offensive line.

Fuck you, capitalist sluts.
Fuck you, cowardly Dems.
Fuck you, Republican deregulation whores.
Fuck you, Americans who keep on voting for these fucks.

If you all spontaneously combusted right now, the world would instantly be better.

"I won't bet against the American people ... We will work through this," Paulson said on NBC.

I wouldn't bet against them getting reamed again, either.

Fuck you.

I've got a today mindset

Comrades!

Given that tomorrow is the anniversary of the birth of the Great Patriotic War, I thought to myself on the bus ride to work this morning, "Randal, you handsome devil, as usual, you have no post at the ready -- you sure do live on the edge, you rebel, you -- so how about penning a well-informed and witty essay glorifying this Holy Day of Obligation Prime Example of Blowback Thunderbirds Are Go to Blow Up Brown People?"

No need to point out that the above is about Bush the Smarter. Same family, same rot. I just wanted something extra riffy 'cause I'm in a bad mood.

Gentlemen, start your pimping!

"On Thursday, we will put aside politics and come together to renew that unity, to honor the memory of each and every American who died, and to grieve with the families and friends who lost loved ones while meekly reestablishing our patriotic street cred so that Beltway jokers won't pen snide copy about Democrats because that's mean and they don't do mean which is why they continually refuse to point out the permanent and crass exploitation of this event by Republicans at every opport --

Sorry, I must've fallen asleep while penning this well-informed and witty essay.

I just wish I had dreamed about naked ladies instead of Dems with spines.

Oh, and pragmatism trolls? Stick it up your ass, or I'll write about soccer.

Anyway, having run through various scenarios using other historical events that happened on September 11 in order to point out our propensity towards a grotesque nationalistic fervor worthy of a nineteenth-century tract self-published out of some lunatic's basement, I found that none of them were all that hilarious. Oh, sure, I could've lambasted the current American political and cultural scene via the Treaty of Kars deftly teaming up with Gary Numan, some of those always-comical Byzantine shenanigans, the 1973 coup d'état in Chile or, most frightening of all, the introduction of the Ford Pinto.

The more I toyed with these, the deeper I fell into self-deception which *sniff* slowly revealed its true nature to my conscious mind: self-loathing at having watched *sob* CNN for three consecutive nights.

No, it wasn't hour upon hour of Leslie the Living Stubble, Lou the Mexican and Captain 360°, merely a few moments here and there. But aren't a few moments of this Guantanamo-esque torture enough? I ask you, isn't it enough?




















So, for at least fifteen agonizing minutes -- though it felt to be an eternity of screeching and painful aural violence rupturing the delicate inner ear -- I was afforded the privilege of listening to the aforementioned Leslie the Living Stubble along with Mr. Crowley, David Gurgling and Mark Harlequin wax idiotic on the Palinosity of Miss Mooseburger.

She's Distractastic!

Praise be unto Mighty Cthulhu, for I was saved by a baseball game! Yet resisting the cosmic pull of such well-coiffed and inhuman fuckery proved to be far beyond the limits of my mortal powers and I was commanded through the hidden signals beamed directly into our skulls by UN satellites to flip back during the commercial where, instead of learning about the newest deals at the local auto mart from another well-coiffed stooge in front of Old Glory -- was this section 827 of the Patriot Act, everything must be sold with a fucking flag? I know I'm in America, you fucks -- I got to hear more about Mayor Emeril and her edgy, lipsticked pigs and pitbulls.

Everyone is sexist.

Palin? Sexist.

Obama? Sexist.

Can we talk about issues now?

This is America, Randal.

Oops. Je m'excuse. Gimme more, CNN! I love celebrities!

Change up, little trooper, it'll be alright once your cross that bridge and find the merry old land of nowhere. And if not, there's always booze, though maybe you should try shooting wolves from a helicopter. I hear it's a blast!

Since I was smart enough to not watch any more of that putrefying network -- because I'm not addicted to watching teevee jerks boil my blood like some people; I've got self-control, I do -- I missed this supposed event which, frankly, I don't buy for a nanosecond. A talking hairpiece acting like a real journalist? What's next, flying pigs, with or without lipstick? Sexist! Derek Anderson, Super Bowl MVP? Randal Graves, Nobel Prize for Literature? The entire Democratic Party growing a collective spine, assailing their opponents while embracing a truly progressive platform as they distance themselves further and further from the true masters of the realm, the corporates?

I don't believe it, either.

You're having a hard time ending this post, aren't you.

That obvious, huh. Here we are, PETA babes getting their protest on in beautiful downtown Cleveland the other day.


















Sexist? Ask PETA. I keep my threads on when I fight The Man.

What a great day!

First, my man Dennis, hoping to get by with a little help from his friends, gets to show the Judiciary Committee today what a spine looks like, while everyone else will be hiding theirs under the flimsiest dog-and-pony show finery of actually giving a fuck about the law while these war criminals drunk on hubris, these thugs high on pain, their soulless political operatives and the greedhounds that bankroll them with an avarice that would shame Gordon Gekko continue to walk free in the same town as they do, getting ready to attend the same cocktail parties that evening along with the cackling circle of childish scribblers and plastic talking hairpieces that fawn over both motherfuckers and the motherfuckers' enablers for just the quickest taste of precious access to, mmmm, delicious, a single juicy morsel to fuel their pathetic raison d'être for one more miserable day.

Wait, that's not all that great.

Fucking cowards. You have no idea how much I hate you all.

Yeah, I know Elizabeth won't be there, but given that Dennis is about as handsome as I, why pass up a golden opportunity to prettify this ugly blog?

Secondly, and more importantly -- and to further prettify things in one more shade of red -- I get to perform my constitutional duty and drool at a widescreen Gillian Anderson.


















Aliens, hurry.

Oh, dguzman? She's mine.

Before I forget, I wanted to mention that after the movie, we're taking grandpa out for a bite to eat and you're more than welcome to join us.












"My friends, in West Germany, the pfannkuchen are this big."

All-American

Beat it, Froggy. And take your stinkin' Euro with you.
It's our turn now.

"And zeez Yanks zay wee are zee rude!"














"Uh, you're the president. Sure, it's possible to have a bathroom break, sir."

I don't know what got into that Karl Marx-loving Randal, but we here at Randal's blog would like to apologize to each out-of-touch bourgeois real AMERICAN out there. And what better way to do so than to celebrate one of those most AMERICAN of pastimes, being afraid of actual free speech the smacking of a cowhide sphere with a big wooden stick, then running around on the grass like small children!

I know that in addition to Baseball, I'm supposed to mention


















Mom














and Apple Pie, but in lieu (damn you, French, get out of AMERICAN!) of such clichés, I'd like to talk about something that's even more AMERICAN than those, in fact, more AMERICAN than nearly everything under God's blue sky save our undying love of the Lord and blowing brown people up.

I talk, of course, of second chances.















Last year, as the Indians were cruising to a major league best 96 wins, pitcher Cliff Lee was dealing with injuries, trouble with his teammates, a stint in the minors, and a career-worst 6.29 ERA. It doesn't get much lower than that for someone who was once a 200-inning staple of a starting rotation. Now that he's healthy and has eliminated the flaws in his delivery, he's tied for the AMERICAN League lead in wins with 12, his 2.31 ERA is second, and he'll be starting tonight's All-Star game in Yankee Stadium.














Another man that has taken full advantage of being given a second chance is Texas Rangers outfielder Josh Hamilton. Once the first overall pick in the 1999 MLB draft, Mr. Hamilton began to waste his God-given talent by becoming addicted to certain substances. He has since gotten clean, all thanks to, in his own words, Sweet Zombie Jesus and is now in the top ten in the AMERICAN League in batting average, runs, home runs, slugging percentage, OPS and leads all of major league baseball in RBIs with a whopping 95.

What lesson can we learn from second chances?

That even if you can't get the job done, everyone hates you and/or you love the booze and coke, you too can someday grow up and do something memorable with your life.


















"You can even become dictator preznit of AMERICAN! If you got friends in high places, cheat, a pantywaist opponent, a breezy press corps and a, a, a, Unka Dick, what's another word for stoopid?"

















"Grrrr! Cheney want baby flesh!"