Rejected: An Ongoing Series

In what will be a depressingly recurring feature, I'm going to post here bits-o-funny that were rejected by other outlets. Luckily, my outlet takes all bits. Wait a second.

Up first, a McSweeney's-style list compiled by the Brothers Poppy that was rejected in the McSweeney's style by a McSweeney's publication. They are so polite and earnest and encouraging in their rejection that you just want to strangle a balloon. Maybe that's just me.

Anyway, one Poppy was responsible for the funniest entries, and one Poppy was responsible for the worst, and I'll just leave it at that. But you know who you are, Poppy.

Breakfasts (by Nick Poppy, Seth Poppy and Dan Poppy)

Breakfast of Champions: Wheaties
Breakfast of Former Champions: Cream of Wheaties
Vonnegut’s Breakfast of Champions' Breakfast of Champions: Martini
Breakfast of Michael Phelps: One bong hit, twenty Egg McMuffins
Breakfast of Godzilla: Tokyo
Breakfast of Tough Guys: People like you
Breakfast of Nerds: Nerds
Breakfast of French people: Croissants
Breakfast of Lumberjacks: Two pancakes, two eggs, two sausage links, two bacon strips, a grilled ham slice, home fries, and toast
Breakfast of monkeys: Bananas

This writing thing

I don't do enough of it as I should. Rather, I don't write as much as I would like. In the grand scheme of things - where grand=inevitable, scheme=death, things=everyone (TGIF!) - there's nothing I should or shouldn't be doing. There's a life lesson: There is no should, only would.

Ahem, sorry.

Writing, as I see it, requires a few steps: Pay attention to the steady stream of nonsense racing through one's head, have the sense to pluck out the few bits that won't terrify the general public, then stop dicking around and write them down.

This blog exists, as much as a poorly maintained, unread, free Web site can, to make with the funny about sports 'n such. But sometimes I want to crack wise about corn subsidies and the latest antics of that rascal Hugo Chavez, god dammnit. Oh, and the way armrests are clearly not to be used by anyone except for the person at the end of the aisle. Get out of my personal space, you lousy mouth-breather.

So let it be so.

God, don't we all feel better now? It's like the air is lighter, and the Phillies didn't actually acquire Pedro Martinez (See? Still with the sports!).

So. OK. Here we go.

Bikes and stuff

Remember M. Night Shyamalan's Unbreakable, where Samuel L. Jackson has brittle bones and is convinced that there must be a polar-opposite nemesis with strong bones because he reads comic books (duh), and the whole time you're thinking there's going to be a twist because it's M. Night Shyamalan and that's the only thing he's got going for his films, and then the twist is too obvious, like offensively obvious, so obvious you're like, "no, he has more respect for the audience than that," but he doesn't. He really doesn't. Remember that?

Well, I'm awful on a bike (this is known as ridiculous), so I was convinced that my polar opposite was out there somewhere:



Now we must duel, but not that jousting business. I must rely on my superior, yet evil, intellect. I challenge you, Danny MacAskill, to bike Scrabble.

Harry and the Ephemera-sons

This is late to the game, and Phillies crowds are probably done throwing grief batteries and back to just throwing victory batteries or Tuesday batteries, but Phillies announcer Harry Kalas died, and that is sad. There's no joke there.

However...




There is a fine line between celebrating a beloved announcer with his most memorable catchphrase and exclaiming with glee that, in fact, Harry K is "outta here", right?

Thanks, Nock

What's in a name? Lies and Gimmicks

I was looking up Catfish Hunter's birthday (what?) and learned that owner Charlie Finley created the nickname "Catfish" and made up stories about the pitcher's youth to give Hunter some backwoods cred (Wikipedia is etched in community-manipulated stone).

Uh, yes.

This needs to happen all the time for baseball to overcome its steroids black eye (by which I refer to the various black eyes given to players' spouses.)

Alex Rodriguez could become Amarrador Rodriguez, which I'm going to guess means "Cockfighter Rodriguez". You see, A-Rod, or should I say Cock-Rod, grew up in the rough streets of (who cares?), where he had to eke out a living raising los gallos. He grew to love the birds like family, only to see them slaughtered in vicious battle week after week. The cruel life lessons he learned carried him forward to a great career in the majors, but his happiness is always tinged with sad memories of poor Martillo. Is any of that true? Who's to say? But now everyone has forgotten that he's been pumping himself full of steroids for years. Except for the children; their hearts are forever broken.

Let's take it upon ourselves to rename (with back story) every All Star. Ready, go...

P.S. Catfish Hunter's birthday is on Wednesday. Mark your calendars. Gone but never forgotten.

Tommy Smyth Is Just The Worst

Here's a promise. If I ever write about soccer, I'm going to mention that Tommy Smyth is just the worst. It's the curse of the American to be stuck with Tommy Smyth for commentary if you want to watch soccer, which is why you should be watching it on Univision anyway. (Here's an episode of Charlie Rose with torture-porn perv John Yoo and Smyth on the same show. I can't bring myself to watch the whole thing, but I imagine it ends with Charlie roasting both guests over an open spit. If not, I'm revoking my public television membership.)

It's hard enough to be a soccer fan in the U.S., but when Smyth gives the equivalent of Man vs. Beast commentary, it hurts a little bit more.

Anyway, back to the reason for this post. Watch this kid, he's going to be famous (link from No More Onion Bags - see, everyone hates him):


I had a Scottish defense coach in high school who would scream "You let the man go by, or you let the ball go by, not fucking booth!" Seriously, that accent makes me giggle.

The point is, with all the fancy footwork, sooner or later, someone is going to sweep this kid's leg, Johnny. Pop culture!

Fantasy Rock Band

Stephen Malkmus hearts fantasy sports. The former Pavement frontman would probably be on my Fantasy Rock Band team. Or you know, maybe he could just come over to my house, we'd sit around, drink some beer, and he'd be like, "hey, what do you want to do today," and I'd be all like, "shit man, I don't know," and then he'd be like, "want to play some pinball or something, because I don't have shit to do today except perform a concert in your living room for your friends, but in the meantime, we should probably just drink and hang out cause you're such an awesome guy." And I'd be like, "sure, Stephen Malkmus, I can hang out for a bit, but then I have to go bowling with David Bowie." That's how Fantasy Rock Band works if you've never played before.


thanks, Guha