Figured I'd bring it back....its never to early to believe!

Eamus Catuli

An entire year boils down to this one day.
This one game. One pitch. One swing.
Crisp air breaks through the jerseys and sweatshirts
as the scent of even colder beer rises above the lower deck.
The shadows of the players stretch into the fire scorched ivy,
long dead from an enduring summer of day games and double headers.
With every 60 foot, 6 inch throw, 40,000 people inch a little closer to the edge of their seats, gripping the arm rests until the dark green paint starts to chip.

Swung on belted, deep toward left, that’s a no doubter!

With the hop and the trot, a sensation flows through the air,
Past the box seats, through the reserved and into the upper deck.
Everyone has the realization, but not a single soul dares to say it.

Simultaneously the crowd rises to their feet,
acknowledging a year's worth of stretching singles into doubles and crashing against the ivy to make that 3rd out.

A buzz emanates from each and every seat, from the dugout to the rooftops.
No balls, 1 strike. Man on first. No one attempts to breathe.
Two fingers held in the air by many, emphasizing that is all that we need.
All that the year has come down to. Just 2...more...outs.

Double play ball! Second base one! Over to first!
Look at that mob scene on the turf of Wrigley Field!

This is finally it...the culmination of all of our hopes, all of our doubts, and all of our dreams,
As we all look over the right field bleachers onto the blue and white letters that read:



envision the parrallel of what you are. discover the need. a house burns along the corner while everyone watches the screams. jumping flames grab toward the scarred sky only to fall short once again. terrified, alone it slowly crumbles. crushing the land that once held it so high. discover the life. an ocean churns awaiting another. a newborn son slowly falls into the dark sea. drowning in his own cries he never saw the world. a mother weeps. discover the pain. cold, dry on the cracked floor she stares into the darkness. blood slowly crosses her lips as she licks away the memory. blurred vision and deep grey eyes forget the scars. clenching her fists again as he comes back to strike once more. bright light fills the void of her life, pain is all she has. discover the choice. as fate slowly walked behind him, he stared past the brown table. shrieks of encouragment plagued his mind from below. floorboards creaked as decisions grew closer. carefully he arched he cold, dead eyes towards the cieling. denial was not an option.



99 Problems (the Santa Claus Remix)

he's got the wrap patrol on the gift patrol
foes that wanna make sure his workshop's closed
Jew people that say he's 'cookies, milk, snow'
he's from the pole, stupid, what type of facts are those
if you grew up with elves in your bedroom shelves
you'd a hit the sleigh before you was reachin twelve
so screw kwanzaa, it can kiss his whole red nose
if you don't like his beard than you can just eat snow
got beef with miss claus if he dont come home
she don't deliver gifts, and he don't give a shit, ho!
all these malls try to use his face
cause, little kids will give em more cash this way...phonies
i dont know what you take him as
or understand the deer that ol' kringle has
he's from, coal to candy kiddies, i aint dumb

i got 99 problems
but the Claus aint one
hit me!


ESPN/USA Today Friend Poll
This time there's an order, bitches.

1. Rick - After spending half a year no where near the list, Rick makes the giant leap into the number one spot. Sharing the right side of a softball diamond means something. He likes Linkin Park. Jeff didn't like Linkin Park. Yeah Jeff, thats not Staind.

1a. Gregory 'jesus' Dowell - Just like the Cubs pitching staff, there is no ace. As stated before, Greg will never bullshit when talking with him. Or talking about other people. Either way, no shit is a good thing.

3. Dave "Old Man" Ridarelli - Staying solid at the number three position. Dave does not let down with the hilariousness nor the dirty old man-ness.

4. Keith - Keith is keith. However keith also gets most of my nerd/dork/computer humor. IRC was our starting ground.

5. Jeff - The former number one takes a mighty fall in the polls due to lack of Linkin Park appreciation. We also no longer share the feeling of desperately needing to get back with our ex girlfriends. Plus Chad Hutchinson took over his spot in the triangle of power. Chad has a much better arm.

6. Steph - Yes, an ex-girlfriend. Yes, insert shears ex-girlfriend joke here. But seriously, she'll tell me anything and i'll tell her anything without having to worry about it. I can't do that with the tall, fat chick i made out with randomly now can i.

7. Lindsey Parke - And yet another ex-girlfriend. But she's fun and it's a great time to piss her off by acting black around her and insulting her use of her parent's credit card to buy expensive clothing.

8. Jon Jon - The whole proximity thing is partially to blame for this drop, as i havent seen jonny too much. but when we do get schwasted it is always a very grooda time.

9. Mike Kimak - The end all when it comes to Cubs knowledge...aside from Steve Stone/Pat Hughes. It's nice to talk to someone that actually knows who david kelton and felix pie are.

10. ZK - This year's roomate turned out a little better than last years, cause he didnt have sex in my bed...at least not that i know of. Plus, theres some sort of bond that grows between people when they get robbed by black dudes in big coats.

Others receiving votes:
Erica, Josh Barnett, Don P, Brian Malone, Led, Richkey, Natalie, Hannah, Kelly

Dropped from rankings:
Melissa, Juan, Led, Jill, Hannah, Malone, Ganz/Galer/Reid


Loosen up

I could sit here and bitch about what shit is going bad in my life and woe is me and how life isn't fair, but i'm not. i'm just gonna say if you feel so bad for yourself imagine being stuck in a wheelchair, or unable to move your arms, or not being able to eat for a day. You are blessed beyond your wildest imaginations, so stop wishing of what could be, bitching about how everything sucks, and strap up, grow a set, and fuckin do something about it.



Champaign sucks. Its dead trees and brown grass litter this earth.
And it’s cold. Not that good cold that you’d get in Colorado,
but that skin piercing, shoulder hunching pain that’s brought on by the wind.
The only thing worse than the cold is having to wait for the twenty-two in it.
Everyone staring at the dead bark, bouncing up and down, and back and forth
in their feeble attempts to stay warm.

But wait, there is worse…the bus ride.
True the bus itself is warm, but the people are colder than the weather outside.
They are frozen, as in heartless, because most people they see on the bus,
they don’t care about them, yet they act like they’re so glad to see them.
And they will always go out of their way to ask that one damn question:
Hey Jim, you go out this weekend?
Out? Where is out? I’d like to find it. Is it somewhere on Green street?
Why can’t people just say what the question really implies?

Hey Jim, did you and your shady, gelled haired, jeans with sandals wearing, asshole friends get piss drunk Saturday night before you went to Kam’s then CO’s then Clybourne’s but not Tonic, because only townies go there, and then find some whale that had somehow escaped from Seaworld and waddled her way up to Chambana, and take her and her flippers back to your super cool frat house, and then proceed to mount her like a horse but couldn’t tell the difference if she really was a horse or not, and then wake up the next morning realizing if it weren’t for birth control you’d have your own pod of whales around you for the rest of your God given life, and Jim how the hell are you not miserable with your existence and ashamed of everything that you stand for, you vain, self-indulgent prick? Here, let me pop that collar for you.

Of course that’s never said, and the bus ride continues.
Taking a right on Daniel, then another right on fourth, a left on Armory…
all the way until Gregory Hall where I step out from one cold and into another.
Headed to one more bland lecture in a rundown, paint chipped lecture hall…
or maybe I’ll skip class today and go search the Champaign streets for ‘out.’


All Trucker Hats Go to Hell

I had this friend named Fredrico. You can call him Freddy. Or Rico. I’ll just call him Fred. Fred loved his cheerios. Honey Nut, Frosted, Apple Cinnamon, you name it.
Fred died. He was watching Dave Chapelle at his apartment while munching on some Team Cheerios, laughed, choked, and suffocated to death. Quite sad. Unless you didn’t know Fred, then it’s not that sad. Now after much deliberation, Fred’s in heaven.

Man, what is going on with all the clouds? I thought that was just a cliché…
What’s the matter Fred? White, puffy clouds on a blue sky aren’t your idea of the afterlife?
God? Wow, it’s actually God. This is amaz…wait a second, why’d you have to kill me with a cheerio, I mean seriously, a God damn cheerio?
Why should I send a cheerio to hell?
Umm, never mind, so what’s the deal with this place?
Walk with me Fred.

And so God and Fred walked over hills of happy clouds, with birds chirping and angels flying around with harps. It was like a hallmark card, and Fred was not fond of hallmark. As they continued their walk, they came upon a glorious three story mansion, with a sign that read “If you’re Human, you owe me your life…and a beer.”

Hey God, who lives in this place?
That…would be my son. He’s in the rebellious phase of his eternal life.

Then with an aura and mystique only paralleled by Hefner himself, Jesus stepped onto the golden second floor balcony. Marilyn Monroe on his left arm, Audrey Hepburn on his right, while platinum, diamond encrusted crosses dangled from his neck, bouncing on his white tank top. Jesus, was a baller.

Oh shit, Jesus is a pimp! Hey JC, you my homeboy, right?
Not another one…look kid, I had nothing to do with those damn trucker hats.
Hold up, you can’t say damn, you’re holy.
No, seriously, they’re damned. All trucker hats go to hell. And anyone who wears them on earth ends up cleaning my pool.
Yeah, speaking of that, aren’t earthly possessions supposed to mean nothing in Heaven?
If it ain’t on earth, it ain’t earthly playa. Check ya later kid, I gotta hit up the hot tub with Miss Monroe.

Thus, God and Fred continued their walk. In the distance the clouds broke, and they stepped into an ivory kitchen which twinkled and shined in ways Mr. Clean could only dream of.

Sorry about my son, he’s lost his fucking mind recently.
You did not…no way. You can’t say that. I know you can’t say that.
Who said I can’t?
Well, uh, people did I guess…good point. So God, we got eternity, what now?
We eat cheerios.
You’re an asshole.
I know.