36 Hours in Zagreb, Croatia. A Travel Guide

36 Hours in Zagreb, Croatia (not affiliated with the NY Times article that pissed me off with the same title)

Last week, when the editors at George Magazine came to me with this assignment, I jumped on it. What the heck, I mean Zagreb is 873rd on my list of cities I sort of want to visit.

Friday 3 P.M.

When I travel to a weird, former Soviet satellite place, I like to get my feet firmly on the ground by acquainting myself with the local history. I told the Croat cabbie to take me to the famous Nazi and he punched me in the face. Croat is one of those words that's incredibly fun to say but when you typ it out it looks like its got to be missing some letters. "Croat." Cool sounding but a little touchy with a quick right hand. I finally found a Serb cabbie that took me on a tour of Upper Town and left me off at the Cathedral of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary on the Rocks. Try getting that on the front of a CYO basketball jersey!

The cathedral houses the well preserved remains of Blessed Cardinal Alojzije Stepinac. You remember him. The Nazi sympathizer with a soft spot for Jews but an extremely hard spot for the Eastern Orthodox and Serbs. I believe he's the Patron Saint of Closemindedness and Hatred which makes him pretty damn popular. The nausea you get from seeing him in his elaborate tomb will make any dinner unpalatable so it's time to start drinking.

Friday 8 P.M.

At Cafe Jazz order a Fuzzy Liverwurst (157 kunas). It's a mix of Croatian vodka and a delightful local liqueur called Kümmel that can only be described as sweet, liquid caraway. The drink comes garnished with a dill pickle and a slice of liverwurst. Place those in your ears because Croatian Jazz makes Bulgarian Jazz seem as good as Estonian Jazz.

Saturday 2 P.M.

Get your Kümmel induced hangover to Jelacic Square for some coffee and the saturday morning ritual called "SpiXXXa." Watch the intricate dance of the French, Russian and Californian porn producers as they recruit the leggy, high-heeled blondes inhabiting every patio chair in the piazza. Purchase a vente cafe americano with an extra shot at Starbücks (43 kunas), sit your fat ass down and enjoy the spectacle.

Saturday 4 P.M.

For a late lunch, eschew the overpriced restaurants and walk to Zagreb's best open air market, Dolac. Under the red umbrellas, choose from the amazing spread of seasonal nuts, cheeses, fruits and vegetables. Below is a local Croatian fruitmonger with a slice of a local delicacy called watermelon. Try it. You didn't pay $5,000 and travel halfway across the world to eat at McDonalds, did you?

Saturday 8 P.M.

With the exotic taste of watermelon still on your lips, visit Luigi's, a Dalamation-style tavern, and order the frog and eel stew (84 kunas). If you ask the waiter nicely, he will flip the floating frogs over because sometimes their beady little eyes looking up at you can be down right unappetizing.

Saturday 11 P.M.

Go clubbing in Jaregrub within the warren of hotspots found in the shadow of that scary neo-gigantic cathedral. To get up the courage to hit on those extremely attractive blondes that were too smart to fall for those porn producers practiced lines, try a Tesla Coil (212 kunas), an alternating set of 3 dozen liquor shots served in actual vacuum tubes designed by Nikola Tesla.

Saturday 12:15 P.M.

Pass out.

Sunday 10 A.M.

At Runa's, a Weimaraner-style cafe, order the traditional snail and snot omelet with a side of smoky pickled slugs (40 kunas) or you could eat toast and jam (57 kunas).

Sunday 1 P.M.

Purge last night's demons with a modest walk through the Croatian Museum of Naive Art (adult, 20 kunas; children, 10 kunas). Marvel that all those plump hard-working women with those bodies so well evolved to dig potatoes with a stick have produced all those leggy, high-heeled blondes. Before catching your plane, grab lunch at one of the many pushcarts found outside the museum. Get a Coca Cola and Stalin Burger (243 kunas). The juicy burger is 95% ground Serbian infant with 5% Albanian filler and was a personal favorite of the former Cardinal. Muy delicioso!

Note: File this under An Unfuckingbelievable Coincidence. I post this bit and I immediately go check my e-mail and British FHM has sent an article about the hot women of Croatia called, Croatians, Not All Completely Useless.

Also unbelievable, tho not the unfucking kind, the British FHM used to love UncleMelon and I had a semi-working arrangement with them. For some reason, my humor goes over well in England, Australia, Canada and Iceland. Croatia? Not so good.

Cougars and Milfs and Rabbis, Oh My!

Another Post Courtesy of the New York Post - I kid Rupert Murdoch a lot when we see each other at the Friar's Club but his rag does supply an endless assortment of crap for my blog.

Three Headlines Gleaned From Todays' NY Post

Miss Cougar Crowned in California

I'm embarassed to admit it but up to a year ago I thought a cougar was a big cat and, until today, I was not exactly sure what the difference was between a MILF and a Cougar.

Clearly, in the porn world there is no difference. A MILF/Cougar is a female participant between the age of 18 and 30. She usually has big breasts, often enhanced, and is allowed to eat normally. She may wear glasses for the first minute or so to set up her identity as a woman old enough to read.

In the real world there is a difference, and thanks to the Post, I can now explain it to you. A MILF is an older woman that is attractive enough that a younger man wants to F her. The MILF's feelings about this desire are unimportant. A Cougar is an older woman that prefers Fing younger men. These willing younger men are called Cubs. They are not necessarily cub scouts and, unlike in the porn world, are not required to have prison tattoos.

So, let's summarize. A Cougar is not necessarily a MILF, as evidenced by this year's winner of Miss Cougar America.




Conversely, a MILF is not necessarily a Cougar. A Cub would F a MILF or a Cougar but a MILF may not have any interest in a Cub. Wait, I'm doing a shit job. We need a venn diagram.





Any questions? No? Good.


Me? I would obviously F a MILF and a Cougar that is a MILF, but I'm no Cub, I'm also willing to F a woman that isn't a MILF but is a WILFWAFM.

WILFWAFM = Woman that I'd Like to Fuck that Would Actually Fuck Me


Unfortunately I have runout of time and will not be able to riff on the last two headlines:

MISS UNIVERSE CONDOM CONTEST IRKS SOME and GO AHEAD, MAKE MY HIGH HOLIDAY: MAZEL-TOUGH GUYS GUNNING FOR TERRORISTS. Maybe I'll do those on Tuesday.

My Right Armpit (soon to be a major motion picture)

This post is about my armpit, specifically my right armpit. You probably shouldn't read it but I am compelled to write it. File it with those posts by others that describe the time they produced a Guiness Book of World Record stool sample or how they broke their favorite coffee mug.

While on vacation, I forgot to put deodorant on. Given that I hadn't showered in 5 days because the campground had no shower, I was as ripe as a late August tomato falling from the vine, but that's not the story. If I sweat without antiperspirant coating the delicate skin of my armpit, I get this angry, raw rash as red as a late August tomato falling from the vine.

My armpits did not always react this way. When I was in high school antiperspirant made me break out. I was strictly a deodorant man for years and years. Suddenly, and without warning, my pits did a switcheroo, now I need antiperspirant to protect my skin from my own sweat.

The cure for this malady is to apply the antiperspirant to the angry rash. This results in blood curdling screaming as the alcohol in the stuff burns and sizzles. After a couple of days my armpits return to their normal state, soft as a late August toma a baby's armpit. Unfortunately, I ran out of antiperspirant before the healing completed and was forced to go shopping at a Target in Maine.

This Target was half empty. It had been ravished by "Back to School" shoppers. There was not a 3 subject spiral notebook to be found or, strangely, a tube of Old Spice High Endurance Original Scent Invisible Solid with aluminum zirconium trichlorohydrex. I was desperate so I grabbed what I thought was the next best thing, Old Spice High Endurance Pure Sport Scent Invisible Solid with aluminum zirconium trichlorohydrex.

I applied the new product to my armpits and everything seemed okay. The stinging brought the customary tears to my eyes, my luxurious pit hairs got all clumpy and sticky, I was good to go.

But the smell. It was different, weird, strong. I felt like I was walking in a cloud of cologne. I put it down to an unfamiliar scent and hoped that it would soon go unnoticed. I was wrong. Everytime I moved an arm, the friction and resulting increase in temperature would send an unwanted waft of "Pure Sport" up to my face. I was determined to stay the course and not spend another $3.49 until this invisible solid was worn down to the plastic plunger. Until last night.

I woke from a blissful sleep with the god awful sensation that Ted from work was lying next to me in my bed. Ted's not a bad guy. Older, his salt and pepper hair well-groomed, his clothes a little better than mine with buttons and collars, he's just not my type. I took a deep, calming breath full of "Pure Sport Scent" from my unfettered pits and realized a horrible realization. My pits smelled like Ted. Old Ted was a "Pure Sport Scent" man. I was screwed. I slept poorly the rest of the night, my pillow placed strategically over my ass protecting me from the possibility of Ted attack.


At lunch today, I will be forced to fork over the $3.49 for a tube of Old Spice High Endurance Original Scent Invisible Solid with aluminum zirconium trichlorohydrex.

David "Dark Helmet" Wright

May the Schwartz be with you, young Wrightwalker...

Original photo from deadspin

EDIT: For the confused, and I really shouldn't have to do this people. Spaceballs, Dark Helmet, Rick Moranis, David Wright, funny hat. Now stop e-mailing and leave an effing comment.

Escape from Vacationland

I'm back from a week in Maine. I was happy to discover that all three of my readers hung in there and did not abandon me. A personal thanks to Rob, Muriel and Patsy.


The last time I went to Maine I came back with an idea for a movie and I wrote Lobster Cop.


I got the idea while I was fishing in a canoe with my brother and his son. My brother was flyfishing, his rod a blur of movement as 47 feet of fluorescent green line flashed overhead. His son was using a Garcia ultralight setup with 2 pound test. I was using a sweet, hot pink Scooby Doo rig and a hula popper. In my opinion, there's nothing in this world beats a hula popper and a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952. If you are not a real man, a hula popper is a fishing lure that looks like a frog in a hula skirt. Hey, there's one right down there.

I started with a short story called One and a Half Jews in a Canoe that Dave Eggers called lyrical and laugh out loud funny. I told him to use lol next time cause then the kids will think he's cool.

The short story became a screenplay. The first scene I wrote for Lobster Cop was a fishing scene. Our hero, Jake Marino is fishing in a rowboat with our villian, Commodore Dudley Saltonstall III. For Jake, think a skinnier Vince Vaughn with a slight New York accent. For the Commodore, think Ted Knight in Caddyshack.

One hundred and fourteen pages later, I'm four pages over and because of the whole story arc, three act structure, and pushing the plot forward crap, I'm forced to cut the fishing scene -- the original, first-written scene that got the whole thing started in the first place.

No screenplay this time, but I plan on a mess of Maine posts.

Derek Jesus Christ for MVP

There's a lot of talk about Jesus Christ, Jeter Christ, Derek Jesus, Derek Jeter for MVP. I've not got much problem with it but Sweeny Murti, the Yankee reporter for WFAN Sports Radio brought up a good point, how can Derek Jeter be the MVP if he's been the lead off hitter all year and he doesn't lead the Yankees in runs scored. Johnny Damon has the most runs scored. Let's compare.

Runs Jeter-81, Damon-85

Doubles Jeter-21, Damon-29

HRs Jeter-15, Damon-22

RBIs Jeter-54, Damon-68

Walks Jeter-48, Damon-53

BA Jeter-.331, Damon-.285

OB Jeter-.395, Damon-.365

SLG Jeter-.471, Damon-.519

Pretty damn interesting. Both are less than average fielders, with less than average arms and less than average range (despite the Yankee talk "The Fishermen of Wins" is still not a good fielding shortstop. Damon is a corner outfielder so no MVP talk even by John Sterling.

Here's a TEX message to you Yankee fans. The mouth-breathing first baseman with the scrunched up face is your best shot.

As a former catcher, I'm voting for Joe Mauer.

The Dead Pope Sketch

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Don't Cry for Me, Brett Favre! You were supposed to be immortal...

I figured out why Brett Favre can't stay retired. He lives in Hattiesburg, Mississippi! I know he says he likes it there. I know he says he likes spendin' his time killin' things, huntin', fishin', and trappin'. But if Hattiesburg is so great, how come every August he gets an itchin' to get the hell out of Hattiesburg? Maybe because the average daily temperature in August in Hattiesburg, Mississippi is 99 degrees. And it's not a pleasant dry heat, its 100% humidity heat -- with the nearest ocean breeze 1,000 miles away.

Brett Favre made 890 million dollars playing football. This makes him the richest man in Hattiesburg by $889.5 million. The next richest guy has a lot of pigs. He doesn't even bother to turn it into dollars. He just sends the IRS a couple of piglets every year.

I mean look at Brett over there in Minnesota straight off a private jet from Hattiesburg, Mississippi. He's wearing a hat with SHIT ON IT!!! He has retired to a place where he's ass deep in shit. Pig shit, probably. There's so much nasty shit in Hattiesburg, Mississippi that the cleanest hat Brett Favre could find for his press conference still has a shitload of shit on it. I know what you're thinking, it's a fashion statement, the hat with shit goes with the homeless beard, toothless grin and inarticulate mumbling. I say $890 million and he's wearing a hat with shit on it.

I did some exhaustive research for a few minutes and learned a thing or two about Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Two things actually, because that's all there is to know about Hattiesburg. First, it was named after a wife named Hattie who was born without an edge to her face. Second, it's famous for having a history so racist, the Klan is embarassed.* Second, it is where Brett Favre calls home.

So, how can we avoid 890 billion hours of Brett Favre coverage on ESPN? How can we avoid the God awful feeling we get watching a grown man crying, over and over again? Somebody has to buy the guy a couch and tell him to move to Florida FerChristSakes! Hey Brett, I hear Arizona is nice, lots of white people and you can kill stuff like snakes and gila monsters.

*I have edited this bit due to numerous comments and e-mails from the good citizens of Hattiesburg. While my extensive research on the internet did reveal a racist past, let's face it, there's a racist past everywhere in the US including up north. Also, it didn't make the bit more funny.

Another Great Moment in Photoshopping History

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Great Moments in Photoshopping History

Moment Number 1

Start with a photo of a guy that is so taken with his blue tongue that he felt compelled to post it on the internet.
Combine it with a photo of a dog with a grotesquely long tongue that was probably photoshopped by somebody else.

And end up with a guy that is ready to satisfy any woman.

I used this image in How to Eat Pussy*or Everything You Need to Know About Cunnilingus But You Were Too Busy Picking the Hairs Out of Your Teeth to Ask.

Afterword

The only downside to this Great Moment is that everyone seems to think that the guy is me. That guy is not me, and that photo up there on the right of the blog is not me either. It's Yankee GM Brian Cashman with a NY Met hat photoshopped on his head (btw, not a great moment). The day my actual photo shows up on the internet I will be sure to notify you.

Old School GI Joe

This is a shameless plug for an OLD SCHOOL GI JOE bit at CircusAfterDark.com.


A while back, I was planting a bush in my mother's backyard. It was a nice schrubbery, not too large, maybe a yew. The first foot, or so, there was nothing special, dirt, stones, roots, the usual things you find while digging. Then, to my surprise, I unearthed an aluminum can pull top.

It was old, real old. The kind that popped off the can. The kind that littered our highways and cut our feet open at Jones Beach. Finally, I owned something that I could bring to the Antiques Roadshow. I slipped it in my pocket while my mom was busy weeding the azaleas and kept on digging.

The next artifact was plastic. No analysis of the teeth marks was necessary. My old man went through a longer than normal tiparillos phase. He was a White Owl man, though despite the claims in the television ads, this never resulted in him getting groped by Joey Heatherton. There was nothing he didn't smoke, sequentially, cigarettes, cigars, a ridiculous Hugh Hefner pipe, skinny cigars with plastic mouthpieces, *INSIDE JOKE WARNING* he even snuck a fag now and then, we figured this out when we saw Pete slipping out his bathroom window*INSIDE JOKE OVER* The tiparillo tip did not go in my pocket because that would be gross but it was a certain indicator of great things to come.

I had reached what we amateur archeologists call a landscape within my dig. A landscape, or horizon if you will, that most probably carbon dated back to the 1970's. I asked my mother to fetch a brush so that I could more carefully reveal my next find. She ignored me. I asked for a lemonade. She just continued weeding. My hole was now big enough for the ball of the yew. Stop snickering. The ball of the yew was the burlap wrapped roots of the bush not it's external genitalia. The yew, being a vascular plant, used pistols and stamens for sexual reproduction not balls and stems.


The sweat on my brow felt good and so I pushed on. A few inches deeper and I found this.

An abandoned bayonet from a little plastic M1. GI Joe. A 12 inch GI Joe. Sweet merciful crap! The Olduvai Man of action figures. My dream of owning a Wii was within my grasp. I dug quicker.

A Russian anti-tank grenade! How did I know this was a Russian anti-tank grenade? Well, it wasn't an American "pineapple" grenade and me and my brother were sort of Jewish, so playing with dolls dressed up like Nazis was considered verboten back in the day. But a nice, Cold War Ruskie caught sneaking across the Czechoslovakian border was considered the perfect enemy.

Now I was excited. Screw the accessories! I knew that there had to be dozens of GI Joes scattered throughout the rolling hills of Dix. My shovel flew -- and than I saw the pale flesh of a Joe rising up out of the soil. A trigger hand! An articulated arm with outrageously complicated metal hinges -- clearly first generation action figure design.

And nothing else. No torso. No legs. No head. No left arm. What horrors had befallen this Joe? The Viet Cong, the dog, the girl next door, me? I dug holes like Sigourney Weaver and nothing. The End.

Come on, if I had cashed in a 12 inch GI Joe for a Wii would I be wasting my time blogging? If you got the Sigourney Weaver reference, I'm buying. If you want more GI Joe humor with MUCH LESS REQUIRED READING, go to CafterD.

That Was No First Lady, That Was My Wife! (rim shot, please)

President Obama is funny, edgy, dark and pretty damn funny. Who knew? I found this in the New York Times Magazine on Sunday, Funny Obama.

Just before he said that those stupid cops in Boston acted "stupidly," he told this joke.

President Obama standing in the White House tried to put himself in Henry Louis Gates position: "I mean, if I was trying to jigger into — well, I guess this is my house now, so it probably wouldn’t happen," then he flashed a mischievous grin and added, “Here I’d get shot.”

Wow! or perhaps even lol. The first black president makes a joke about the Secret Service accidentally shooting him at the White House door because he's black. I always thought I would be able to hang with President Obama. Now, I know I can.

Wih respect to the Henry Louis Gates incident. I like to imagine Albert Einstein locking himself out of his little house down in Princeton. Do you think the cops down there would have assumed the old guy was a burgler and handcuffed the gray-haired professor or do you think they would have treated him with respect? Nuffsaid. Henry Louis Gates is pretty famous. Even I know what he looks like and I'm a dumbass.

David Ortiz, a Fallen Hero and a No More Christmas in August

That's the top of my dresser and that's a fallen Little David Ortiz -- and I refuse to pick him up and stick him back into his base. I've picked Little David Ortiz up about a million times since the summer of 2004 but not today, not anymore.



Yeah, I'm a grown man with vintage South Park stuffies on his dresser. You got a problem with that?



So, now you know a not-so-well kept secret, I'm a Boston Red Sox fan. I'm a Mets fan and a Sox fan. It's possible. It's allowed. And its fairly common. It's a natural progression for a born and bred Yankee hater. Especially for a kid in 1975 that got to watch the most amazing World Series ever. When a bunch of regular guys with names like Doyle, Tiant, Carbo, Evans, Burleson and Lee took on the Big Red Machine.

That's a bar stool with the faces of many of the perfectly tooled cogs of the Machine. Bill Simmons found it at a convention. Lots of great stuff. Go!

Later in 1978, I was in a room at a party, wearing my red, Red Sox hat adrift in a sea of angry, dark blue Yankee fans, watching TV, when Bucky Dent did what he did and, even more memorably, Yaz ( a fellow Long Islander) didn't do what he might have.

That's why I bought Little David Ortiz back in the late summer of 2004 and set him up in the kitchen. When the Sox lost a game, everyone who cared found something to put on Little David Ortiz before the next game. When the Sox won, there was much rejoicing and our Little David Ortiz shrine got partial credit. When the Sox won it all, well, Little David Ortiz became a legend.

Now, its a late summer tradition, moving Little David Ortiz from my dresser to the kitchen, dusting him off and removing last seasons collection of talismans. The kids looked forward to it. It was like getting to bring down the big box of Christmas stuff in August.

It's getting to be that time of year and I don't know what to do.

John Hughes and My Vagina

John Hughes had a major influence on me. Not through his movies, although I liked a bunch of them, but with his writing at National Lampoon.

My Vagina published in April 1979 was the funniest damn thing I had ever read. It was about a typical teenage guy that wakes up one morning to find that his penis has been replaced with a vagina. Not only was it very funny, it was also the kind of thing I wanted to write.

Vacation '58 was great, when the aunt dies, shit! It was way better than the movie.

I never realized it before today, but I have been ripping off his Engagement Guide for the past 10 years. An excerpt:

Question: "What is at the core of our current problems with Mexico?"

If she answers: "I just love this song, turn it up! Oooo, I love the nightlife!" She is a dumbass.

If she answers: "You haven't phrased the question very well. Are you referring to the natural-gas pricing debacle or the general ill feeling toward the Yanqui?" She is a smartass.

If she answers: "We're not very nice to them; let's fuck, then I'll make you dinner and vacuum out your car." Don't wait for the wedding. Elope and buy her anything she wants.

I found a pirated version of My Vagina on a transgender site! Enjoy.

David "Rip Van" Wright or That Just Might Be One Very, Very, Long Beard

After their satisfying five game winning streak, many Mets swore not to shave until they reached the .500 mark. Oops. After a tough weekend against the Arizona Diamondbacks, one of the few teams with a worse record than themselves, this ZZ Top photo of David Wright was required photoshopping.

If the Mets never get to .500 this year, and they are not a bunch of liars, then they will have to grow their beards until opening day 2010 when their official record will 0-0 or .500.

Let's give a big round of applause to your 2010 New York Mets!!!

Omar Minaya: Regrets? I've Had a Few, But Then Again, Too Few to Mention...

When asked if he had any regrets, General Manager Omar Minaya answered with,

"No, I mean, well, no. I don't regret. I don't, I don't regret saying. I mean I regret saying, you know, you know what I'm saying. I mean, I stand by the things that I said, but I don't regret, I regret saying, that in that forum. That was not the proper forum."


Do you think the Wilpons regret not firing Omar Minaya?

A Big Thank You to Rickey Henderson

Heartfelt thanks to Rickey Henderson for the thoughtful gift.

Even with all the festivities up in Cooperstown, Mr. Henderson found the time to bring me back a bottle of Costa Rican hot sauce from his recent vacation before heading for the Hall of Fame.

The sauce is very tasty. However, on the hotness scale, 10 being Vanessa Hudgens and 1 being your wife and/or girlfriend, this sauce is a Liza Minelli (Thanks, Steve).

Hot it ain't.

Maureen Dowd's Cameltoe

This morning I was perusing the visitor statistics for this blog and discovered that one of the ten visitors I had yesterday got here by typing "Maureen Dowd cameltoe" into google.

For those Yankee fans out there that only get their news from the Post and Fox, that's Ms. Dowd over there on the right. She's a columnist for the New York Times that writes humorously scathing articles about Bushs and Clintons. She's kinda good looking for a reporter that writes stuff. Not ridiculously good looking like the fake Newsday reporter in Crocodile Dundee, but okay for a real woman. She's an almost 5.

If I was sitting across from her on an R train and caught some serious cameltoe, I'm not sure if I would get an erection or nauseous.

To be fair and balanced, back when I was writing regularly for National Lampoon, an article Ms. Dowd wrote bumped a bit I wrote. My bit was a very funny and clever Christmas satire with Bush and Cheney and Scrooge by way of the Blackadder.  Ms. Dowd's was this Santa Claus thing that was not-so-funny and not-so-original. Why was a Pulitzer prize winning reporter submitting to Lampoon? And I was planning on using that $350 for Christmas presents! And fake redheads don't usually do it for me!

So some guy is looking for relief and figures a nice photo of Maureen Dowd's cameltoe is going to put him over the top. How did he get here?

We're Number 1! We're Number 1! We're the number 1 site for Maureen Dowd Cameltoe. Who knew? So, why are we number 1?
Because Rickey Henderson wrote the following in a comment a couple of months ago:

Would Maureen Dowd's cameltoe have kept you at the NYTimes website? Rickey suspects so...
Unfortunately for me, in the whole frickin' world, there is only one pervert with a computer interested in this particular toe. Hey Rickey, next time can you do me a favor and work "Erin Andrews cameltoe" into a comment?

PC Team Names

From the PtB archives: Rather than write another depressing post about the cluster-eff that is the Mets, I'm posting an old bit. My excuse is that they are in Atlanta. I've updated it for 2009 by adding Omir Santos. It amazes me that I took so much time drawing each guy yet I totally screwed up the glove. It's at least three sizes to small and for those of you that grew up on Village Hill Drive looks just like Joey Apicella's old mitt. I'm going to blame all the oxycontin I was popping for my ruptured achilles tendon.

As always, these bits are not intended for the faint of heart, pregnant women or the discriminating reader.

The Mets are heading down to the deep south to play a certain team that has a name that offends all the PC police. See if you can pick out the real team from all the made up teams I've assembled here on my blog.

Team: Terre Haute Fighting Dagos

History: The third most famous fighting team after the Irish and the Gamecocks, this Chicago White Sox affiliate got its name after the owner, Bill Hancock, watched his Italian gardener beat up his Irish maid.

Mascot: His Holiness Pope George Ringo II

Mascot Antics: No visit to the old War Memorial is complete without the traditional running of the Papist during the 7th inning stretch. A young boy between the ages of 8 and 12 is selected at random from the crowd, dressed in an altar boy costume and sent out on the field. The bells ring and the boy races for the centerfield gate with the Papist close behind. If the boy gets there first, he wins knockwurst for his entire section. If the Papist catches him, well, we're talking a different kind of wurst.

Fills that holywater thing with Budweiser and the crowd opens up to receive communion!

Famous Alumni: Rico Petrocelli, Phil Rizutto and Tony C.

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Team: Nashville Jewboys

History: This Double A member of the Southern League used to be called the Nashville Jigaboos until some savvy marketing guy noticed that while there were no Jews in the crowd, they were a couple of Jigaboos. After the name change, the cheap seats were always full.

Mascot: Rebe Schlomo

Mascot Antics: The Rebe keeps the crowd rolling in the aisles with his childish ways. Eyes light up when he gives away one of his ridicuously large crackers that he calls matzohs. During the 7th inning stretch this "meshugeh" mascot has been known to blow a chauffer or drink the blood of a God fearing Christian.

Famous Alumni: Sandy Koufax, Hank Greenberg, Art Shamsky and Rod Carew.

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Team: Atlanta Braves

History: The Braves started out in Boston but Bostonians wanted to name their team after a pair of socks so they moved to Milwaukee but Milwaukians wanted to name their team after beer so they moved to Atlanta.

Mascot: Chief Knockahoma

Mascot Antics: Formerly the Chief of the Creek Nation, Knockahoma sold out his tribe for a dry teepee in the leftfield bullpen and a whole lot of wampum. So while the rest of the Creek cried their way to Oklahoma, Chief Knockahoma does a little dance after every hometeam homerun.Woo, woo, woo, woo, woo, Tomahawk Chop or are they heiling Chipper Jones? Hanoi Jane knows.

Famous Alumni: John "White Rat with Mouth of Squaw" Rocker.

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Team: Jacksonville Men's Room Attendants

History: Formally known as the Jacksonville Watutsi, the team changed its name to be more politically correct in the late 80's after some protesting by the local rabble rousers.

Mascot: ol' Willie

Mascot Antics: Changed the name but kept the mascot. Instead of a bone in his nose, ol' Willie gets tangled in the TP and then asks the crowd for tips. Invariably, the crowd chants "Get a Job!" and the bleachers erupt in laughter.

ol' Willie will loan you his comb and slap on some aftershave, just don't tinkle on his shoes!

Famous Alumni: Joe Black, Kevin Brown, Mordecai "Three Finger" Brown and Alvin Dark.

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Team: Lackawanna Camel Jockeys

History: Famous for their "Homeland Defense" strategy, this minor league team is currently on hiatus pending military tribunals. Always popular with visiting Kings and Shah's, the Lackawanna/Nashville rivalry often leads to bloodshed.

Mascot: A-hab the A-rab

Mascot Antics: During the 7th inning stretch A-hab, with sticks of dynamite strapped to his chest, chases down groundskeepers dressed in yarmulkes. When he catches them they all "explode" in a cloud of smoke, leaving the happy Mullah dancing in tattered clothes. On special events night local police take turns beating the mascot with nightsticks. Twice a game he lays out a blanket on top of the dugout, faces east and prays for a comeback.

Famous Alumni: Omar Vizquel, Omir Santos and Khalil Greene.

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Team: Cleveland Indians

History: The lesser known team by the lake, the Indians have a storied history of success, drawing incredible crowds that seem to breed and expand during extra-inning games. While attending these games is fun, don't try ordering an all beef hotdog.

Mascot: Mahatma

Mascot Antics: Mahatma thrills the crowd by drinking his own urine, demonstrating his abstinence by ignoring the advances of a tipsy Suzyn Waldman, and telling an off-color Bangladeshi joke now and again. When the opposing team homers, he immolates himself (and a few fans) using petrol and an incense burner.

Every Tueday is Leper Night. All lepers that purchase a general admission ticket get a cherry Slurpee at half price.

Famous Alumni: R. Swoboda

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Team: Rock Ridge Drunken Irish

History: The town wanted something Irish and "fighting" was already taken. Besides the only real fighting the Irish ever do is killing themselves, and that's not good for team unity.

Mascot: Hank the Angry Leprechuan

Mascot Antics: A drunken, angry Hank leaves a trail of green vomit wherever he goes. Buy him a Big Beer and in return, Hank will shower you with gold, if you know what I mean. Once in the playoffs with the score tied and the bases loaded, the manager sent Hank in to pinch hit. Instead of drawing a game winning base-on-balls, Hank dry-humped the umpire's leg resulting in immediate ejaculation.

Famous Alumni: Roberto Kelly, Fred McGriff and Chone Figgins.

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Team: Massachusetts Mid-Level Managers

History: Formed in the mid-70's by that leftist, half-wit Ted Kennedy to avoid any possible insult to any type of human being with any type of behavior and/or belief that might not represent majority or minority thinking, the Middies never keep score so as to not hurt anyone's feelings.

Mascot: Ronnie Rainbow changes his/her head every inning.

Mascot Antics: Handing out "Have a Nice Day" smiley faces and taunting umps when they yell "Yer Out" and "Strike," or "Yer Safe" and "Ball." Spends a lot of time on the cell phone. When wearing the disabled head, Ronnie has fun spelling out Massachusetts in American Sign Language.

Famous Alumni: Frank Off-White, Bill Navajo-White and Roy Oatmeal-White.

Even FOX Sports Hates Obama

Six hundred cameras and FOX misses President Obama's first pitch. We get to see his windup and then, nothing. Not even a replay. What the eff?

I found the video on MLB.com. It's not enough pressure throwing a baseball in front of millions of viewers, they have to line up the surviving members of the Gashouse Gang behind home plate. Imagine if President Obama had accidently nailed Red Schoen­dienst in the head. Think FOX would have been able to show that 1200 times from 600 different angles. Bill O'Reilly would have done a week on it.

My Review

Obama may have short armed the ball (New York fans get to see Jeter and Wright short arm throws several times a week), but I liked the jeans, the jacket and the jogging -- and the arm pump after. Maybe in seven years, President Obama will become a lefthanded reliever instead of building houses for the less fortunate, or making boatloads of money working for the Bin Ladens.

Chief Justice Roseanne Barr!!! I mean Sonia Sotomayor!!!

Is it just me or does Sonia Sotomayor look just like Roseanne Barr?

I keep expected Tom Arnold to lean in and whisper something in her ear.