You ever get handed a cheeseburger but you decide to hold off on eating it for a couple of hours? You know, save it for later. Your sitting there for a few hours like "Fuck, life is good. I got this cheeseburger". Then just as your palate is ready for the delicious fucking thing some asshole with a goatee and no fucking business pitching in a save situation, even with a 30 run lead, comes over and diarrhea shits all over it and then walks sullenly back to the dugout? That bullshit ever happen to you? Yeah, me too....
But, Followers, 5 minutes after the goatee'd fuckbag emptied his inconsistent bowels all over your delicious meal did 3 Hispanic men come to your aid and hand you a plate full of delicious tacos and then made one of their sexy caliente mamas perform oral sex on your penis for the duration of the meal? Yeah? Shit yeah, you must've watched that Reds game last night! The one where we held a 6-3 lead into the bottom of the 9th, 1 out away from victory only for the worthless Brad To The Bone Lidge to rub his scent all over the game and give up a 3-fucking-run homer to Joey Votto. "No fucking way..." straight from mouth of the offender himself. But, then you saw Raul Fucking Ibanez in the top10th, like a fucking horny magician trying to end his silly show so he can fuck his assistant, hit a maddening double with 2 on and no outs off the glove of Red's centerfielder Drew Stubbs to knock in the go ahead run. Then you also saw Ben Francisco smoke a fucking line drive past 3rd baseman and last-year-Phils-scrub Miguel Cairo, a ball that Scott Rolen would have had no fucking problem pulling out of the air, into left field for an RBI making it now 8-6! Fuck, and then you also saw Exxon Valdez bunt up the first baseline to send home fucking Ibanez in a sort of suicide squeeze for the added insurance run. 9-6. All this off Reds formidable closer, Arthur Rhodes, who until this game hadn't given up a fucking run all year! Yeah, that's the game I speaking of. Glad to see we're all on the same page here, F's.
I seriously thought my fucking brain liquefied as that fucking meatball Lidge threw to Votto Sailed over the center field wall. It was the one of the most insulting acts I'd ever seen perpetrated on my boys Wilson Valdez and Brian Schneider after those fuckers stepped up like men with Utley and Polly out of the order, both jacking brutal 3-run shots and gathering for what most of the game was the entirety of the Phils runs. If those two keep playing like this for the next 15 or however many days it takes for Polly and Chut to get better it's gonna take the proverbial cleat off of our throat and put it up everyone's ass. Great work.
J.C. Romero deserves the nod for the clean bottom 10th. He got the job fucking done.
End Result: 9-6 F/10. Blanton gets shafted out of the decision and Romero get 3rd S of the year.
Now for the lighter side of The Big Sharkey Show.........
Sometimes I google my own name. Fuck you, you do it, too. Here are a few interesting things I found on the great information autobahn pertaining to yours truly.
I found this particularly funny except from a blog ran by Peter Escott, musician, comedian and Tasmania colleague. It's funny how fucking one-track-minded I am. I really am 1 dimensional.
Cover photo by Sean Fennessy. Very happy with how it turned out. The theme, if you can call it that, is objects which have no great personal significance except for the fact that I’ve managed to hang onto them for quite a while. The Yukon flag is from a trip to Canada when I was small; the Shopping Meter belonged to my mother, but it fascinated me for hours at a time as a numbers-obsessed toddler; the shirt is a replica of the one worn by pitcher Chan Ho Park during his time with the Los Angeles Dodgers, which my brother bought for me at a Dodgers game when he lived in California; the hairband around my wrist was a gift from a drunk girl at a party; the watch I bought in Edinburgh, and it began habitually resetting itself every so often within weeks of purchase. I still wear the Dodgers shirt when performing every so often as I enjoy its lack of relevance. I gave a copy of the album to John Sharkey of C**********r when the Native Cats supported them at the Brisbane Hotel; he took one look at the cover and said, “Dodgers? No, man. Phillies. Phillies!”
Here's a photo of friend Richard Penetrator and I in front of the Louisville Slugger Museum. Men. With Purpose. I found this on some photo blog that I have never read and have no clue who the editor is. This photo was taken by ex-Matador Records product manager, Joel Hunt. They canned him for getting violently wasted at a label showcase at SXSW, something the owners of Matador have excelled at in recent years. I think the final straw was when the owner of Beggars Group, the company that owns Matador, watched Joel throw a full drink--glass and all--directly at the face of a singer performing onstage. That pom fuck probably thought "Who the fuck is this slovenly animal? Oh, he works for me?" I love Joel.
That same night in question I watched Chris Lombardi, on the of the honchos at Matador, almost fall down a flight of stairs just after I so gauchely made him very sad by saying "what's up, old man!?" to him in a jovial manner. I guess when your face is numb you don't like to be reminded that your getting up there in years. It's bad for the colon.
Halladay has the ball today @ 12:35 EST to deal hopefully a series winning display of power and stoic aggression.This is a must win as we are still 2.5 back from the knaves but the mets are in danger of being swept by The Fish down in PR. They can't fucking travel can they. Today they got walked off, tomorrow they might lose even more PR cred. Who knows. Until then I bid you, The Strong Followers, g'day (g'gay) and I still say fuck new york let's go fish. For now.