Oh, Sweet Heavens, My Dreams are Coming True

Most of us with clear memories of the '80s do not find ourselves longing for a return to the days of tight-rolled jeans, giant hair, and those tube socks with the colored stripes at the top. But if I could travel back as a 20-something I would, for one reason and one reason alone: Reaganomics.

No, not really. (Sorry, Hack.)

I would, however, happily go back -- via flux capacitor, natch -- for a little face time with The Rockers, particularly Shawn Michaels, who's downright dreamy. If you are not familiar with The Rockers, let me introduce you. And if you find that you don't like them, then we probably can't be friends.



"Napoleon Dynamite" taught me that time machines aren't real, so unfortunately I can't participate in Marty Jannetty's hard-drinking days or break shit with an angry Shawn Michaels. But here's the next best thing: RAW in St. Louis on February 2. It's a taping, which means the Heartbreak Kid Shawn Michaels is likely to be in attendance, along with the jorty John Cena, badass Rey Mysterio, and irritating intercontinental champion Santino Marella. (Yes, TGF, I know you love Marella. Why don't you just marry him?) Marty Jannetty will be busy working third shift at at 7-11 in Iowa.

So February 2. Be there. Or be dead to me.

The Mmm! Hall of Fame

I’ve been watching the World Series closely, scouting for additions to the Mad Librarian’s All-Star Fantasy Team, if you know what I mean. My top prospects:

Cole Hamels, Phillies, P. Cole, I’m going to throw something out there. If you like it, take it. If you don’t, send it on back. I want to be on you. No, shh, don’t talk; you sound like a schoolgirl. But still: I want to be on you.

Jayson Werth, Phillies, RF. As several members of the Flex noted independently, local boy Werth looks startlingly like Edge. Edge = hot. Werth = Edge. Therefore, by the transitive property of hotness, Werth = hot.



Chase Utley, Phillies, 2B. When it comes to lookers, the Phillies don’t have the depth of the Rays squad, but Utley’s a solid third. I wouldn’t mind seeing him down a couple sandwiches or some ‘roids to increase his tree-felling and bear-fighting abilities, but he’s a good-looking fellow and the only active second baseman with crush-worthy play.

David Price, Rays, P. I don’t have anything clever to say here. You’re adorable. Your fastball is smokin’. Marry me.



Evan Longoria, Rays, 3B. I missed my chance to slut it up on Longoria’s tour of downtown St. Charles, so my next best bet is joining him on field as an honorary third baseman. Think I can pass as a 12-year-old? (Either way you answer that, I'm probably going to be angry.)

Carl Crawford, Rays, LF. Boy, you look good sliding into home.* Hey-o!


* OK, obviously that’s not home. Looks like third? But I’m not one to let technicalities like “truth” and “accuracy” get in the way of a juvenile comment.

Booty Check

I've been defending the '08 Cardinals as only moderately shitty since spring training, but I must admit that I've had one nagging problem with the squad: They don't give good ass. In years past, I brought binoculars to the game specifically for the purpose of getting a closer look at Scott Rolen's finely sculpted rear view. I've tried to find a suitable replacement butt crush since we shipped Rolen north and brought in the flat-assed Troy Glaus, but I just couldn't get excited about what the team had to offer.

As much as I love Jason LaRue (yeah, you read that right) and admire Yadi, catcher butt isn't my thing. And although many ladies are crazy about Ankiel, the pirate face he makes while batting turns me off so much that I can't look past it to his ass. But then: Enter Joe Mather.


Mmm hmm. Get that wrist well, Joe. I look forward to ogling your ass next season.

I see London, I see France...

There's not much I love more than a man who could fell a tree and/or survive at least one minute in a bear fight, so I have a warm spot in my heart for Brett "The Hitman" Wallace and his massive lower body. The man is a beast. Like, he could fell a tree while fending off a bear and mashing with his non-dominant hand. Like, he's going to go Hulk-style up in here if you look at him the wrong way. Like, watch your back, Chuck Norris.

So the boys and I are at Modern Woodmen Park (hee hee) to scout the Hitman last Saturday. HMW is eating a hot dog covered in death and delicious bacon. Sir is promising to tell me a story so amazing it cannot be shared at a minor-league ballpark. And I am mentally planning the ice sculptures at my extravagant wedding to Brett while I watch him lumber about third base.

Next half inning, I'm eying him on deck while he's stretching, taking a couple practice swings, giving a fine display of his beefy form ... and, wait, is that a panty line? Yes, that’s a panty line. The Hitman is rocking it dad-style in tighty whiteys, and there's no hiding them in those baseball pants.

I suspect he can't find any BVDs that can contain his powerful thighs, but now that he's rolling in signing bonus there's no excuse. Get some custom-made D&G diamond-encrusted boxer briefs, stat. Seriously.