Thursday, May 09, 2013

Jon Danger Hirsch doesn’t give a fuck about what the fucking pros are wearing

Jon Danger Hirsch doesn’t give a fuck about labor and delivery, barometric pressure, Tough Mudders, adapted screenplays, El Nino, vaginal hygiene, brother on brother Super Bowls, Frank McCourt, Magic Johnson’s son, the Eurozone, Kim Jong Un (Lil Kim!), cholesterol, east coast versus west coast (both have plenty of Jews, far as he’s seen), the McRib, Sandra Bullock, sixty-dollar T-shirts, surfing, crabs, lubrication, sinkholes, Batch 19, Black Crown, gluten-free, cage-free, farm-raised, locally-grown, heroin-laced, molly-spiked, Iron Man 3, Marc Gasol, torn Achilles, Mel Kiper Jr., March Madness, ozone, Oscars parties, evolution, intelligent design, steroid acne, Mork, Mindy, sunblock, laundry, lunar eclipses, solar flares, NOPA, wiping front to back, Armenians, MaxPreps, deodorant, fuel efficiency, The Richmond, long division, iced tea, white smoke over the Vatican, Hogwarts, the metric system, Kindles, The Dish Network, reruns, refunds, Hegel, slow jazz, San Jose, margarine, the Arab Spring, Code Red Mountain Dew, Colonel Jessup, pouting, winter Olympics, Bob Sagat jokes, dandruff, psoriasis of the liver, salmon roe, truffle oil, perpetual motion machines, Colonel Buendia, salt-rimmed margarita glasses, Geno Smith, lasting septums, The Brothers Karamozov, two-eyed strippers, Plan A, or what the fucking pros are wearing. He wants a blog. Give him a fucking blog. A real fucking blog, not some watered-down, heavy punches-pulled, new age, touchy-feely, Blog 2.0-bullshit. Jon wants the heavy bag. The big girl at the end of the bar with the biker already going down on her. Chicken-fried steak. Sheperd’s Pie. Five shots of whiskey and an IV of wolf adrenaline. Dethklok. Roman Bulldozers. Ass play. The gooch. Orgasm.

This is not a drill, people. This is real fucking life here. Fasten your seat belts and bite down on something.

Tsunami 7, Aces 2
The most retarded play in Tsunami baseball history repeats itself roughly every other time Laser Show runs the basepaths. A close second is Daniels taking a 3-2 pitch off the face like a date-raped cow napping on a driving range. Fortunately, Laser Show’s not here for his math, because his standard response of doubling next time up, scoring, and then explaining that, “I made it up for it, see!” does not hold up to advanced analytical examination: (-1 + 1 = 0; while +1 – 0 = 1; and +1 + 1 would actually = 2; imagine: 2!). So no, Mike, we’re not better off than we were before. Get yourself a graphing fucking calculator.

As for Daniels, well, Duck! It’s just plain stupid to go the plate with newborn-care reflexes. He still looked tough, though, sure. Even played it cool on the basepaths when teammates began heckling him from their fuzzy far-off dugout. You won’t get a rise out of Tsunami veterans.

At the plate, Black Label protested coach’s decision to bat him third by swinging like a Black Sock and striking out more times than he did last season, but Cooper came through with a big drive in the first to score Taylor from first. No one was driven in from second base because you’re not allowed ghost runners and Coach has yet to really consider the full potential of the Non-Runner designation to preserve outs. Old Crowe played a joke on Danger as the latter neared and rounded third, refusing to signal anything at all from the third-base coaches box, but the joke was on O.C. in the end: Danger refuses to do what anyone tells him to do in any situation outside of the bedroom, anyway, and scored easily. Just after Nuke tested how fast he could throw the ball off a moving composite barrel, Outlaw came to bat at the right time the next inning. With runners everywhere, he battled the straining Aces ace for seven hours, taking pitches and fouling them off, outlasting the determined Ace until Outlaw’s Adderall kicked in for the 15th or so pitch: game-breaking sharp single through the hole.

With the Tsunami tripling their preferred run output and then some, it was up to the prized staff not to spoil the party. Gigante looked the second most productive offense in SFNABA straight in the pants, and he liked what he saw, using the first nine batters faced to ripen his highlight tape. Nuke took a full stomach of Ike’s dirty sauce to the mound and experimented with dominance, wind currents, sudden energy loss, and applied existentialism in an uncharacteristically uneven performance. Or maybe he just wanted a little Danger. Happy to oblige, Jon D. Hirsch located Aces at first and second before borrowing a belt and remembering that his out-pitch is swagger. Backed by an extremely original and underused defensive alignment, Danger threw successive confidence balls until the Aces at last accepted their destined defeat.

Bump Kings
Gigante is good, you guys. 12K, 5 IP, O ER, 2 H, 1 BB. Just three base runners. Fuck. And, unlike certain several Tsunami hurlers, he doesn’t make fielding his position look like intoxicated judo.

Hot Sticks
Bradley Cooper with the big first-inning blast to score Everchill Taylor from first. Admitted thanks to the centerfielder who got swallowed by the moment.

Outlaw with the eighty-pitch clutch at-bat to drive in Daniels with two on and two out.

Everchill Taylor looked two years younger.

Laser Show had some, I think, but still.

Glove Love
Old Crowe calls Aces outfield “Little league. Worst I’ve seen in a while.” Drops fly in right. Redeems self by tracking down fly in center Daniels ignored.

Cooper and Danger in double-secret competition to take most time delivering ball to outstretched heavily-panting salivating Taylor. No worries, though: tie goes to the runner, but out goes to the winner on this day at Balboa Park.

MVChatter
Bradley Cooper. 31-game streak threatening to draw significant local media attention.

Basepaths (or, This Week’s Adventures In Dying):
Laser Show: Does anyone have a leash?

Black Label: Brilliant fucking dead stop on way to second in front of cannonball, exactly twelve feet in front of the bag, sending Laser home and drawing throw, everybody safe. The particularly rare RBI from 1st base. Well done.

Daniels: SB! Well at least the ump said so.

Game Balls
Gigante. With authority and ease.

Whoever paid off the base umpire.

The base umpire.

Black Label. He’s not an ass at the plate very often, far from it, but even when he is he plays SS and Catcher and he drove in a run from first base. Contract could get expensive real soon.

Outlaw. Big hit, even after being hit himself. With a bat. Ouch.



Well somehow we’ve already played over a third of the season. Yikes. Someone other than Vinnie Chase should probably start hitting. The starters should start stretching out. Coach should take care of his gear. And we should probably catch up on the offseason before we barrel into the All-Star break.

Offseason Moves

Jon Danger Hirsch completed his Ph.D. in Dolores Park and applied for a post-doc fellowship.

Tu-Lin tried to pop a wheelie on his motorcycle.

Autocorrect fostered twin tapeworms.

Homewrecker continued his pursuit of immortality, slept with a female midget this time.

Bradley Cooper launched a provocative podcast, insured his hair, proposed to at least one non-traditionally beautiful heiresses, got new brake pads on his home, registered to vote, built a park-adjacent treehouse for a homeless couple, and started worrying about cell phone radiation.

Black Label started several small fires in his pants.

Godfather had a room named after him in a jiggle joint near the University of Nevada-Reno campus.

Figoni rode the elevator up a floor, then down again, then up to the penthouse, and so on.

Lorenzo Gigante jerked off naked in a room full of mirrors.

Borenstein put potato chips on his peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Laser Show conquered vertigo, rejected condoms, protested pass-word protected adult content sites, shaved hourly, drilled a hole-in-one in a solo round at Lincoln, kept it to himself, bought white jeans, protested traditional team colors, paid immeasurable attention to professional athletes’ attire, rocked the chain and, once again, played up for his league.

Frankel won $37,400 on Jeopardy.

Toddamus did not tell a single lie.

Omaha, Consulting and Daniels succeeded evolutionarily.

Old Crowe hired four day laborers to remove his downstairs bath tub, dig a hole thirty feet under his building, install a secret phone-booth-sized room down there, create a hydraulic door to close his bath tub over the hole, wrapped the day laborers in plastic, murdered them with an exacto knife, composted them, went to Whole Foods, waited till his new fiancée was fast asleep, went deep down into his secret room, tried a thin slice of roasted pork, didn’t like it, didn’t finish it, threw up what he swallowed, set charges in the room and along the tunnel, demoed the room and the hole, made a quinoa smoothie, and went back to bed. Started a clothing company with Kelso in the morning.

Everchill Taylor experimented with heroin, silky lingerie and bicycle accidents.

Consulting signed the original Port Huron statement.

Nuke fucked up the email chain.

Outlaw’s whereabouts: unknown.


Tsunami Teammates Behind the Scenes

Daniels, texting on a Thursday morning: Go for a run? Bike ride later?
Everchill Taylor, three minutes later: No, I want to be nimble for Sunday’s game.

Frankel: It’s like I’m never mentioned in this blog except for being Jewish.
John Danger Hirsch: I know. I’m so sick of being stereotyped. [re-buttons his jorts, adjusts pink tank top borrowed from mother]

Autocorrect: Getting pretty tired down here.
Lorenzo Gigante: Keep trying.

Black Label: Hey, Mi—
Laser Show: Shut up, Tom.

Nuke: Damn, Vic, where’d you get this sweet ride?
Outlaw: Stop asking questions or get out of the car.

Laser Show: I wish I could put whatever you put in your arms into my penis.
Jon Danger Hirsch: I wish you could put your penis into my arms.

Autocorrect: Is this even doing anything?
Lorenzo Gigante: Well your braces sure aren’t helping.

Jon Danger Hirsch: Mike! You know Morgan, right?
Morgan: Hi, Mike.
Everchill Taylor:

Daniels: Fatherhood!
Consulting: Doing things.
Daniels: Crazy, man.
Consulting: Performance.

Black Label: Mike, what do y—
Laser Show: Nobody loves you, Tom.

Jon Danger Hirsch: Do you think I’m fat?
Sam Galifinaikas: You’re beautiful.

Autocorrect: How was Vegas? Elevator?
Figoni: Got on and just pushed all of the buttons!

Godfather, 9:30 pm on a Friday: Getting late, Matty. Text you tomorrow.
Old Crowe: [been asleep for one hour]

Black Label: Can I see it?
Kelso: No.
Black Label: I just want to know how I stack up.
Kelso: SECURITY!

Jon Danger Hirsch: Maybe I should work out more?
Sam Galifinaikas: Like we already don’t spend enough time apart!

Homewrecker Chase: Giants game. Your place or mine?
Laser Show: Well not my fucking place. Tom obviously lives here.

Daniels, texting on Saturday morning: Gym? Bball?
Everchill Taylor: Busy, dude. [opens Racer 5, winks at creeped-out girl walking by his porch, laughs]

Sam Galifinaikas: Do you think I’M fat?
Jon Danger Hirsch: Not really, no, I mean, ugh, no of course not!

Black Label: Mike, do y—
Laser Show: How anyone fucks you, Tom!

Tu-Lin: Can we ever beat those guys in Kan-Jam?
Laser Show: Maybe if we break Todd’s arm.

Daniels, texting on Monday evening: Bike fixed yet?
Everchill Taylor: Nope. Sucks. [laughs, shows text exchange to 500 Club bartender]

Toddamus: I hope everyone’s not giving you too hard of a time.
Black Label: That’s what she said.
Toddamus: Shut up, Tom.

B. Cooper: If you were Neo, would you’ve chosen the red pill or the blue pill?
B. Cooper: [wrinkles face, rubs chin, drives his house up and down Ocean Beach, parks, rubs chin, repeats, clears throat] Well, there’s just no way to know until you’re in that situation.

Black Label: Sabathia’s looking shar—
Laser Show: Damnit, Tom! [stands up, leaves room] We can’t sit in silence for just one weekend?

Autocorrect: Wanna find a better team?
Lorenzo Gigante: I don’t know. We already got the jerseys.

Laser Show: I said break TODD’s arm.
Tu-Lin: My mistake.

Daniels, text on Thursday, 7 pm: Ocean Beach, run or bike?
Everchill Taylor: I wish! Swamped. Still at work in San Jose.
Daniels: Bummer. Just gonna head to The 500 then.
Everchill Taylor: [spits out Racer 5, grabs hoodie and sprints out of 500 Club]

Going Forward
Rivalry week is once again upon us, you guys. Saturday, 1 pm-ish, hosting the Bay Sox after an eternal road trip. In the meantime, enjoy the fog, sear your meat, get plenty of rest and, above all, try not get captured.
Posted by Tsunami34 on 05/09 at 10:09 AM
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