I Have Friends that Graduated From Ohio State?

Deadspin is everything that is right in sports. Without a doubt, this place is my favorite Blog on the net. Every time my feeder gets a new article from them I literally bust a semi, however, this guy seems to get a full on stiffy from surfing the net......in public.......in libraries.......

If you only read one Blog in your life, you have to read Deadspin. I've lost a lot of respect for my Buckeye friends.

I Got All Dressed Up For This?

Well, I'm fed up. This past week I spent four long excruciating nights calling something that appeared to be fast-pitch softball, with my only break coming on Friday before our district’s "Championship" tournament. I spent four long nights after working the 9-5 gig, making sure my uniform was cleaned and pressed, my shoes were nice and shined, so that our league teams would have a proper official to conduct their games. Unfortunately, just because I care about the game and how I look, it would seem our league teams don't have the same enthusiasm. I know I gripe and complain some on here about the stupid things that High School coaches say and do, but really, they are professionals, and they try hard. Mostly they get the rules wrong because it's in the heat of battle and they're not thinking on their feet as well as they would if the situation wasn't so pressure packed. Summer ball is a completely different animal, and we're not really dealing with paid coaches, it's a weekend thing for most of these people, and so I've dubbed them "Weekend Lombardis" or "Weloms" for short. These are the people that have practice once a week, put on a T-Shirt with their team's designation, live vicariously through the accomplishments of their children, and expect me to respect them like some sort of demi-god. The only people that are on a lower level than these are the parents/fans of these teams. These people represent the lowest common denominator of sports fans. Their level of idiocy reaches points that would make people like David Blaine refer to them as douche-bags.

Back to my week, Monday through Wednesday consisted of the typical crappy games in league play. These teams are primarily made up of girls that just want something to do in the afternoon and parents that really don't take it too seriously, thank Christ. Thursday rolls around and this is where my week starts on the down swing. I've got a pretty decent team playing a really bad one. The really good team is beating the shit out of the really bad one and the bad team's coaches and fans are starting to get pissy. Basically, the bad team can't do the four fundamental things you have to do to play softball which are pitch, catch, throw, and hit. It would seem to me that if you were going to pay money, sign up, and play, you'd practice at least one of these four. This however seems to have slipped the minds of their crack coaching staff. So, I have a walk-a-thon on my hands when the bad team is playing defense. The coaches and fans are moaning and groaning about the strike zone because little Suzie is making it over the plate. Yes, this is true, but when the ball is coming in nose high, I can't very well call a strike. It even gets to a point where during a walk when I'm stepping out from behind the plate to watch the batter go to first a coach says in a voice just loud enough for me to hear, "they get that strike why don't we". You know, their pitcher puts it in the zone. Their pitcher obviously works to be good, can you not see that?

I just get so sick and tired of these Welombs and their snotty remarks. Questioning the strike zone, just like all other judgment calls is an ejectionable offense. However, I'm keeping it calm and cool and I just bite my tongue. I tell myself, Mole, they don't know, they're not good, and this game won't last long, keep on trucking. Between innings a mom comes up and asks for my name, so I give it. What's she going to do? Get me banned from her games? Good!! I mean, look, I know that you spent a good hour and a half creasing your capris and painting your face to come to ball park. I know you spent 15 minutes making sure you pants were low enough so that everyone could see the tramp stamp tattooed on your lower back, and I realize that it costs quite a bit to look as cheap as you do. People already notice you sweetheart, no need to make a scene with me. I also fully understand that you're getting little Janie primed for marriage in 8 years when she graduates from high school so that she can dish out her own brand of snide remarks when her tramp in training is playing 10u ball. I get it, but she's not getting a nose high strike.

These people burn me up; do they not understand what kind of a pride swallowing experience it is to call their game? Do they not understand how bad I want to call a strike? I WANT to get some outs, I WANT to get away from this game as fast as I can, but I can't because you're not good, you don't practice, and I'm quite sure Special Olympics participants would kill your little girls in the softball throw competition. Why, because those retards care, unlike yours. Seriously, the amount of intestinal fortitude it keeps from dropping a pile of half digested carrots I had for lunch at what I'm having to bare witness to should be the stuff that legends are written about. Finally, it ends, but it's not over.

We have our Distinct Championship tournament this weekend. This is an open event for all the teams in our district, in which the winners in each age group get a bid to their division’s State Championship tournament. I get put in the 14u bracket, good right? WRONG!!!!. The 14u division is the worst of the whole weekend. The winner's bracket final featured a score of 18-0 after the first inning, THE FIRST EFFING INNING!!!!! Without a doubt, this might have been the biggest ass whipping I've ever taken, I couldn't believe I was even a part of these games.

I managed through it but I'm so tired, and I'm so frustrated today. I've worked really hard in my short time as a softball official. I've been selected for multiple State and National Championship Tournaments where the best of the best compete. These tournaments also feature some the better umpires around, and with my limited experience, I've managed to call behind the plate in the championship game of every State or National I’ve ever worked. I've worked High School playoff games almost all the way to the State Tournament. I spend hundreds dollars annually of my own money and time for training to learn and become a better official. I'm young, and still a little green, but I'm good and only getting better. The thing is, I can't figure out how slumming this weekend could make me any better. I can only have the building character BS pushed on me for so long.

People want to complain about how an official cost them game, well let me tell you something; I'm not the team that had 20+ errors charged to me in a single game. Go practice and maybe just maybe, you'll be good enough for me to call your game, someday.

You Ate The Whole Wheel Of Cheese?

Since the old Mole is an avid watcher of Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy I've always wondered in amazement at the relationship between Papa Burgundy and his dog Baxter. I think their relationship is the most pure example of the where the saying "Man's best friend" was derived from, I'm also sure that Champ Kind would object if some PC fag wanted to coin the term "Woman's best friend"; FOCUS MOLE!

Like I was saying, Ron's ability to not only understand what his dog was saying, but also understand he was speaking spanish, and he couldn't understand it (still with me), has always fascinated me. Now though, it seems this knowledge won't be limited to men who own many leather-bound books and whose apartment's smell of mahogany. The UK's Department for the Environment, Food and Rural Affairs (Defra) will begin teaching classes on how to "speak" to your dog. This sounds like the worst idea since Greedo shooting first.

What's really funny is how they've broken out the different sounds a dog makes into grunts, whines, yelps, screams, howls, growls, coughs, barks, tooth snapping, and panting. This class is supposed to clear up, for the owners, what kind of attention the dog needs when they are making these types of noises. Since most of you dog lovers out there are probably using your money to pay for your G500's, and can't make the trip across the pond to take the course I'll give my best crack at what these sounds mean:

• Grunt: "Hey", as in "get me something you hairless ape."


• Whines: "Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy", as in "I really need to pee you hairless ape."


• Yelps: "HEY!!!!", as in "quit pulling my tail you drunk hairless ape."


• Screams: "HEYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!", as in "I'm under your foot you drunk hairless ape."


• Howls: "HHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!", as in "the drunk hairless ape, put me outside and it's cold."


• Growls: "Hey bitch", as in "I'm sick of Ole' Roy, buy me the good food you hairless ape."


• Coughs: "CEY!!!!", as in "I hope the hairless ape can tell I need to go to the vet."


• Barks: "HEY!", as in "look over here you hairless ape."


• Tooth Snapping: *Click*, as in "*click*, damn I almost bit the drunk hairless ape that time."


• Panting: "huh huh hey", as in "I'm effin tired you hairless ape, I hate walks."

You see, even if you're not a man, you know, a man who discovered the wheel and built the Eiffel Tower out of metal and brawn. If you're just a woman with a small brain, a brain a third the size of us (It's science); you too will be able to decipher what a dog would say if it were chasing a squirrel on Tuesday and fell off a cliff in the Pacific Palisades.

"You're so wise. You're like a miniature Buddha, covered with hair."

Where Can Any Douche Get A Pink Bag You Ask?

Why at the Altoona Curve's July 2nd game where they will host Frivolous Lawsuit Night of course.

While, it's not a bobble-head give away, it's a fine salute to this Massengill filled mongoloid..

Juiced

No, we're not talking about the ever expanding head of Barry Bonds; this post is about the PPV show that O.J. Simpson took part in. From the article, Simpson took part in many "funny" situational skits, but the one in question is where he's working as a car salesman, trying to unload a white Ford Bronco.

Yes, a white Ford Bronco.....

It seems the family of Ron Goldman aren't happy about it, and Nicole Brown Simpson couldn't be reached for comment.


Edit: It seems Nicole Brown Simpson couldn't be reach for comment because she was stabbed to death by her crazy ex-football player husband.

Kayne West Doesn't Care About Leasing Agents

You know, when you have platinum album sales, Pamela Anderson to primp for videos, and trying the spearhead riotous comments about George Bush and his efforts to help those effected by Hurricane Katrina; sometimes you'll forget to make payments on your Mercedes G500 (G5-double-O, G-Fi Hun-nod as the rap guys would say).

So, the people who hold the lease are suing ole Kayne Wizzle for back payments, punitive damages, not returning the vehicle, blah, blah, blah.

Kayne West doesn't care about people who have real jobs......

The Majesty of Horse Racing

From the coverage that we see plastered all over the television, the Kentucky Derby at Churchill Downs has always seemed to be an event for the elite. From high-dollar suits, to the ridiculous hats, this place has always had an air about it that smelled posh, at least too posh for a country boy like me.

Fortunately, after watching a video from the people at We Are the Postmen it looks like this place is more like a NASCAR race than I was once lead to believe. In fact, it looks like a great place to break out The Beer Belly.

At Least He's Honest?

Well, like Ron White says in his stand up act, we as Texans celebrate the death penalty. Personally, I think they should be televised. In light of that, I found this article pretty funny. An Ohio man, while being put to death, told his executioners "It's not working".

Does it make me a bad person to find joy in another man's death?

Shout At The Devil

For those of you that can remember when rock was still rock. I'm talking the days when our rock stars sang about banging every chick they came across, instead of a "emo" sad bastard singing about the jock in high school that is banging the chick he can't get because he'd rather gel his hair in his eyes, and play Everquest. For all of you that remember when Cliff Burton was with Metallica and they weren't sandwiched between Avril Lavigne and The Backstreet Boys on TRL I present to you June 6, 2006; The National Day of Slayer. That's right, on 6-6-6 Slayer gets their own Holiday. I remember Slayer playing the first national Ozzfest back in '97 and they were truly awesome. I also remember them milling around the crowd, and I remember shaking Tom Araya's hand. For a group of death metal guys that sing about the Devil and stuff, they were really down to earth.

Strange.....

Anyway, seeing as they have their own Holiday I'm going to start a campaign to get one for GWAR. These guys are freaking awesome if you've never have a chance to see them live.

I'd like to see GWAR chop up and eat most of today's "rock" bands.

Get In My Belly!!!!!

The Mole gets overly excited at some of the simplest things. This however, will make you have one of those "why didn't I think of that" moments. Through some of the blogs I read, I found this little gem; and so I present to you the The Beerbelly. It seems that the days of hiding flasks in our boots, buying mini bottles, and hiding them in our coat pockets, and buying new plastic flasks because Jerry Jones now has metal detectors at Texas Stadium are in the past.

The concept is simple enough; it's similar to a Camelbak only you wear it in the front to give the impression of having a beer belly.

The page even goes so far as to have tips to get out of getting caught wearing it. My personal favorite, "This is a medical device that I think we’d both prefer not discussing or viewing in public."

God, why can't you make me this clever? Aside from the Shock Absorber, this might be my favorite invention of all time.

Who cares how I look, I don't have to pay $20 for an 8oz beer

Grape Snow Cones

You know, the old Mole has been swamped at work. Not only that, but the toll of calling an assload of fast pitch (ASA/HS) not to mention the under paid babysitting I do (slow-pitch) has kept me away from my blog. This week though I got a breather so I sat down and watched a movie with P.

We're playing a bit of catch up, so we're just now getting around to Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind; a very enjoyable movie. It's a bit nonsensical in parts but I really liked it. Afterwards P went to bed and I got to thinking. What, would the past 5 or so years of my life be without her? I can't even imagine it. Don't get me wrong, we've had our struggles just as we've had our candle lit dinners, but really, if I had all the memories of P erased from my mind, I just know I'd feel some longing emptiness.

And it's the little things we share, you know. It's nothing exciting but things like how her favorite thing to eat is an Olive Garden salad. The way we baby talk our dogs, pet names for each other, silly things that every relationship has, and with us are built from a foundation of memories over the past few years together. Some are funny, some are lessons learned, but the thing is, we're stronger from each experience. Without those memories we would never have turned into the people we are: P, the patient and caring one, me more brash and open. We're the balance in our lives.

A few years back I was out with two buddies, and as usual we were on a weekend long alcohol binge. At one point we took a break from being the most abrasive people in the group and we went to a snow cone stand. Buddy 1 (B1) looks at the menu and decides to order Tiger's Blood. After a bit of thought B2 decided that he's getting Lion's Roar. Now it's my turn, and what do I order, Grape. After I pay I turn to see two gapping mouths, and befuddled, half drunk faces.

B1: What did you just get?
Mole: A Grape Snow Cone.
B1: What for?
Mole: I wanted a Grape Snow Cone.
B1: We've spent this whole weekend doing things that normal people don't do. Everyone that we're around this weekend hates us, but us. And you order a Grape Snow Cone?
Mole: *shrugs shoulders*
B1: See, that's a metaphor for your whole fucking life, man. You have this passion and charisma, yet all you want is a grape fucking snow cone.
Mole: I like grape, grape's good.

It still is. I've done a lot of things in my life and I've dated a few different girls, but now I've found what I need to keep me straight, to keep me grounded. There's a lot of flavor in life and it's good to be young and taste it, but Tiger's Blood and Lion's Roar are fleeting. Before long they'll be replaced with something even more wild and crazy like Katie Holmes pacifier, or baby Cruise placenta. In the end Grape is concrete, Grape is true, Grape will be here after we're all gone.

You see I've tasted Tiger's Blood and Lion's Roar, but they're not what I want, they're not what make me happy. Grape is my flavor, and P is my Grape Snow Cone. Those other flavors celebrate month anniversaries (what?). Those flavors have "songs" and "movies". Those flavors aren't big time, and that's why they'll get replaced. My feelings for P aren't replaceable. They're not the type that can be encapsulated in some cheesy ass song or parallel some sappy love story. They're true, and that's why I chose to wake up next to her the rest of my life.

The fire won't fade away, and there will never be tired excuses, we'll never be on opposite ends of the world.

Haiku

I see thunder clouds
Oh no my top isn't up
Lunch and wet seats suck

Apocalypse Now

I present to you firm proof that the world is coming to an end.

After the protest, you could find these people online playing Everquest.

That's Not Christian of you Sir

Laugh out loud funny.

Nobody makes me bleed my own blood

My Death Space

The Deuce shared this with me last night.

www.mydeathspace.com

The Mole is speechless.

Winnie Cooper - Still Hot, and Smarter Than You

For those of us who grew up watching The Wonder Years, many of us cut our masturbatory teeth with Winnie Cooper.

Well it seems she's still hot. Not only that, she’s smarter than the average bar hopping bimbo working for her next breast augmentation; or maybe that's just Dallas for you.

Anyway, cheers Winnie; I'm still a fan.

La Vie Boheme

Just a quick hitter, but P is no longer allowed to pick out movies after making me sit through Rent.

You may call me uncouth, red-neck; say I lack culture, whatever, but I loath this movie with every fiber of my being.

If you've never been to see the live stage performance, or picked this up at your local Blockbuster, here is what you're missing.

There are a group of friends; they're all young adults living in the Bohemian Lower East Side of New York. I'm guessing it's somewhere around the mid to late 80's. They're functional bohemians though, if by functional you mean they have yet to succumb to their drug addictions, HIV infections, or starvation. Though it is squalor, it's theirs, and they're living in it.

What is the purpose of this movie? Fuck if I know, but it seems, to be the heroine, you need to do heroin, be starving poor, or gay. Oh, and God forbid if you make a success of yourself and grow up. If you do, you’ll be looked down upon by old friends, who, you know, are asked not to come into a restaurant because they're known for not paying.

Why did I finish this movie? I was hoping that there would be a happy ending for the Mole, and everyone would die of the AIDS they contracted. Only one did though....disappointing.

Are there any redeeming qualities from Rent? One, Rent provided an opening sequence to Trey Parker and Matt Stone's (South Park) Team America: World Police. The hero of that movie, is in an off broadway performance of a show called Lease. We first see the charater of Gary performing a number called "Everybody Has AIDS". (I laughed till I cried)

Moral: I guess there is a good reason to burn books, that reason being if Rent was also adapted into paper back form.

Exploding ham filled Michael Moore Marionette > ((bad actors + bad script) x (horrible songs))

People This Fat........*sigh*

This article makes me sick

For those of you not willing to click the above link, an ambulance company that services the Las Vegas area in Nevada has purchased a quarter of a million dollar ambulance to handle patients weighing more than 500 pounds. The article goes on to state that their crews have been called on 75 times in the past six months to handle morbidly obese patients.

Pay attention, there is a reason why these people are labeled "MORBIDLY OBESE".

This money would be better spent researching Charles Darwin's theory of Natural Selection. Why do they get the fancy new ambulance? They obviously don't care enough about themselves to try and stop shoving entire 12-inch hoagies down their throats in one bite.

The Operation manager at American Medical Response (ambulance company) even states that these people are difficult to handle, and are unsafe for paramedics, emergency medical technicians, and themselves. They're a menace to society! He also states that their job is to get the patient where they need to go in a dignified manner. This entire statement makes absolutely no sense. The 750lbs piggy that is mentioned left dignity oh about 400 or so pounds ago, and that's only if they were at one time a professional football player for sumo wrestler.

I'm going for a bike ride. I need to clear my head.

Birthin' Babies - Britney Update

Looks like the AP has picked up the whole Britney Sculpture thing I had a blog posting about a few days back. Click here to fulfill your lactiferous jones.

I've Been Scratched

Well, they say there are two kinds of officials in this world; those that a school has scratched, and those who have yet to be scratched by a school. Well, I entered the "scratched" ranks of a particular High School this past week. For those of you that don't officiate, that means I am no longer allowed to call at this school. Now I'm forced to ask myself the question why? Why did this coach feel the need to scratch me? What did I do to make her pull the trigger? Why do I care?

Looking back on the game, it was pretty uneventful. The coach in question won, and I really had no hard calls to make. However there were three instances where she had to come out of the dugout and question my call. The first two were for the call "illegal pitch". It's the softball equivalent to a balk, and there are several different things that can occur for a pitch to be illegal. My call was made simply for what is known as the "Leap". In the Federation book (High School Rule Book) a leap is defined under Rule 2, Article 4, Section 33: "A Leap is when both feet are airborne by the pitcher prior to delivering the pitch", easy right? Slow down there cowboy, not when you coach in North East Texas, and you pitched for a junior college whose acceptance policy is that you have a tongue ring, and can dance to euro-trash techno while contorting your hands holding glow sticks. This stupid heifer wants to pull out the old "she's not gaining any advantage" line on me too. You know, if she wasn't gaining an advantage then why would the National Federation of State High School Associations have it in their book? Is it their contempt for trees? Do they feel the need to print insignificant shit just to waste paper? No, It's a rule you tard, get used to it.

So this call gets levied on her a few more times and she is none to happy with the old Mole. That's fine, she's not the first coach to be upset with me and she won't be the last. But, I'm doing my job, I'm doing it well, and her players are cheating. It's as simple as that.

It gets better though. Later in the game we have a steal and the defender is blocking the runner’s access to the bag. The runner slides into the defender; the defender catches the ball, and puts a tag down. Me, I rule "dead ball" give the signal for delayed dead-ball, verbalize "OBSTRUCTION" and rule the runner safe. This call however doesn't sit well with coach, so she calls time and waddles her fat ass across the field to question my call....again. "Blue, I have to appeal this one. She got the tag on before the runner reached the base, you totally missed it". To which I responded, "Coach I'm not going to disagree with you but this runner is safe as a result of the obstruction". She then proceeds to do what all professional coaches do, she rolls her eyes like she's lacking a constant flow of oxygen to her brain, and stomps back to the dugout. Does she ask me for a rule interpretation, does she ask what I saw and why I ruled what I did? No, panting because she had to remove her gelatinous can off that damn ball bucket, she just drags herself back to the dugout. No other comments, no words exchanged the rest of the game, and following day, I'm scratched. Again, to quote the book, Rule 2-Article 4-Section 36:

"Obstruction is the act of the defensive team member that hinders or impedes a batter's attempt to make contact with a pitched ball or that impedes the progress of a runner or batter-runner who is legally running the bases, unless the fielder is in possession of the ball or is fielding a batted ball. The act may be intentional or unintentional, physical or verbal."

For those of you not following along, defender had no ball, blocked bag, runner slides into defender, defender catches ball, and tags runner before runner reaches base successfully. I understand that the collegiate knowledge base of this coach is the same as average Dallas stripper, but how could she be upset about this call?

I've been stewing on this for a few days, and there are two things I find upsetting. One, if you're a coach, don't come to me arguing a call when you haven't spent the time and effort to read the damn book. The thing isn't really long, and it's not Homer. It's easy to comprehend the first time through. Secondly, if you're an official, grow a proverbial pair, let them drop, and make the call. Some of you are so eff’n scared of a coach it's laughable. They're just people, like us. By not making that call you're doing a disservice not only to your fellow official who comes in behind you making that call, but to the girls playing, and the integrity of the game. Because of the ineptitude of a coach that is either illiterate, or should work on her reading comprehension; and my fellow officials that won't make the hard call because they don't know to, or because they're a pussy, I'm scratched.

Oh and one other thing, to her red-neck dad that uses "cain't" and can't seem to pronounce the 'G' in the 'ing' suffix, you sucked when you called ball. You didn't have the sack for the job and that's why you quit. Do us all a favor and quit trying to recite rules you didn't know 5 years ago and have changed since you pussied out of calling.

I'll be working toward my college try out while you're trying to keep your daughter from dating "them boys"

Clown