Henry Paulson to Wall Street: "Nothing is Fucked Here Dude"

Alright you Gordon Gecko shithead wannabes, listen and listen good: nothing is fucked here. I'm working on this. I got this shit, so everybody chill the fuck out, ok? Just in case you hadn't noticed, I've been laboring pretty goddamned hard on this, but you reckless pricks need to step up and return the favor. $1.2 trillion lost in one day ain't exactly good for anyone, you dig? I've got Jim Kramer FedExing me bags of dog shit and I've got five kids to feed, one of whom just started reading "The Wealth of Nations." You honestly believe I've got time for your fickle cocksuckerey? You think I enjoy being this year's Michael Brown? Horatio Sanz is playing me on this weekend's Saturday Night Live and that fat fuck doesn't even look anything like me. Shit.

I'm not sure how much you ungrateful little shits are aware of all the work I've been doing, so let me break it down for you. For the past two weeks, I've been waking up at 5:30AM, doing some light self flagellation, pouring myself a stiff libation, and then hopping in a limo bound for the Capitol Building. And you know who greets me there? Some of the most misanthropic and twisted fuckheads ever to roam the planet. For days I've slaved at banging out a compromise with these backwards lunatics. I get to spend Rosh Hashanah with Harry Reid watching "Fiddler on the Roof," and the man's not even Jewish for christsakes. He just likes the dancing. Ever try explaining to Barney Frank that he's going to have to cut back on daily intake of Cambodian boys in order to help fund a bill? Or trying to convince Nancy Pelosi that she shouldn't kick off a vote on the House floor by reading a section from "Robbie Has Two Daddies" aloud? Shit, the McCain camp had to suspend all campaign activities once again in order to stage a sock puppet theater show to explain to Sarah Palin how thirty year mortgages work.

And you dollar worshipping egomaniacs don't get to act all cute and blameless in all this. You fucks thought it would be a great idea to give a mcmansion to Roy the peg legged janitor. What in the hell does Roy need a five car garage for? That sorry fuck rides a lawnmower to work. But no, all you cared about were your profit margins. You immoral bastards care about two things: money and sticking large inanimate objects up your asses. You'll go to St. Vincents to have that fully articulated Lionel model locomotive removed from your asses and you'll still be out in time to make the opening bell next morning. What in the hell is government regulation going to do for twisted pricks like you?

So hang fucking tight, morons. When that bell goes off this morning, I want to see one thing and one thing only from you: calmness. I see the Dow so much as drop a fraction of a point, I'm coming down there and using every economic tool at my disposal to jam my fist up your collective asses. Everybody got it? Good. Paulson, out.

[Posted at Humor Blogs]

Your Weekly Mets Update: The "Yes, We Saw It Too" Edition

And so it ends. They weren't the baseball team we deserved, but they were the baseball team we'd been handed nonetheless. And for the most part, we hung in there. Putting our trust in Omar Minaya and his stalwart desire to acquire washed up and over the hill athletes. Believing that the offense was powerful enough to negate the inevitable bullpen implosions. Thinking that this year we could hang in there and scrape our way into the playoffs. And in the end, a possum offense combined with a kamikaze bullpen spelled the end for the New York Metropolitans. For those keeping score at home, this marks the second year the Mets have followed up an incredible performance from a starting pitcher by meekly bowing out of playoff contention on the last day of the regular season. And we're telling you right now: if it takes the Mets more than two business days to refund Rickey's credit card for the postseason ticket pack he charged to it, Rickey will be marching down to Shea Stadium, pitchfork in hand.

Let’s be honest with ourselves for a minute, sure, the Mets had their good moments this year, but they were never more than the occasional good run of five or six games. The great wins were few and far between and the devastating losses were so frequent that Rickey completely ran out of stock photos of train wrecks to begin snarky blog posts with. A professional baseball team cannot loose as many games in the same brutal fashion that the 2008 Mets did and still maintain a legitimate hope for a playoff birth. But in typical Mets style, they gave fans just enough of a glimmer of life to keep them watching until the last game of the season.

Where to go from here? Obviously, the bullpen needs to be completely gutted, Bob Vila style. Pedro Feleciano? It’s been not so nice knowing you. Scott Schoenweiss? Toodle-fucking-o. Aaron Heilman? Have fun schlepping mink carcasses on the outskirts of Vladivostok. Right now, the only bullpen member whose return doesn’t make us want to hide behind the couch is Joe Smith, and he was no bargain yesterday either. And Rickey doesn’t want to hear anything about signing Ollie Perez until the Mets have acquired themselves a decent closer.

We’d hate to see Jerry Manuel lose his job over this debacle, but we get the sinking feeling that’s the way Omar Minaya and the Wilpons will gravitate (strong work resigning Omar last week by the way, Fred, proving yourself to be once again a master of timing). One thing is for sure: as far as Rickey is concerned, the New York Giants’ season just began in earnest this week. And for those stalwart enough to still follow baseball, we absolutely recommend hopping on the Brewers bandwagon. Go Sausages. Hang in there folks, and don't take any guff from Yankees fans today (if one of 'em gets cute, politely ask them who played shortstop before Jeter--nine times out of ten they'll give you a blank stare). Remember gang, at the end of the day, we’re all just rooting for laundry. And yesterday, the laundry stank in Queens. Now if you’ll excuse Rickey, he has some memories to bleach out and put on spin…

[Posted at Humor Blogs]

Rickey's Weekend Live Chat Part II: The Little Hand Says it's Time to Rock & Roll

Well this is it: the last regular season game at Shea. We're way past "big speech" time here fellas. Here's to hoping that the bullpen can turn in a performance that was as masterful as yesterday's. See everyone at 1PM EST.



[posted at Humor Blogs]

Rickey's Weekend Live Chat of Ultimate Destruction

Fred Wilpon: The walls in the left field behind the AIG sign were bleeding. How do you explain that?

Resident Mets Priest: Officially, the church will not take a stand on the religious implications of these... phenomena. However, since they started, people have been lining up in every church in the city to take communion. We've had to put on extra priests. Personally, I think it's a sign from God. But don't quote me on that Fred.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jerry Manuel: You sure you're ready for this?

David Wright: I'll do my best.

Jerry Manuel: Your best? Losers always whine about their best. Winners go home and fuck the prom queen.

David Wright: Anna Benson was the prom queen.

Jerry Manuel: Really?

David Wright: Yeah.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That's right Mets fans, it's pucker time. Weather permitting, Rickey will be moderating a live blog during today's game at 1PM, EST. Then we'll update this space with a new chat for the Sunday game(s). Gird thy loins and steel your nerves, because this weekend will undoubtedly be a test of everyone's intestinal fortitude.



[Posted at Humor Blogs]

Your Weekly Mets Update: The "We'll Be Talking Entirely About Them From Now On" Edition

Rickey’s feeling a bit drained this morning, having spent a sizeable chunk of last night in various stages of distress and jubilation as the Mets finally eeked out a win in the bottom of the ninth. There are various factors which would help explain last night’s triumphant victory, but Rickey has a strong suspicion that his fiscal recommendations had an awful lot to do with it. At the conclusion of the game, Rickey picked up the phone and dialed his dad, a war battered Mets fan ever since the Brooklyn Dodgers skipped town (no joke, Rickey estimates that this team has aged him a good seven to eight years). Papa Henderson’s stoic advice: “don’t get too attached.” A sage recommendation, but it’s tough not to get a little worked up when your athletic team of favor is staring down the barrel of an intense set of weekend games and a possible one game playoff against the Brewers. Hang tight Shea faithful, this weekend, the Mets dine on Fish. In the meantime, we leave you Metropolitans fans with a bit of humor, courtesy of The Onion (hey, when Rickey can't get it done, Rickey hands off to those who can). Behold:

Struggling Mets Combine to Form Carlos Voltron

Just brilliant. Enjoy the day folks, and be sure to check in regularly over the weekend. Rickey may very well attempt to subjugate the nefarious dybbuk that plagues RwR’s HTML code in order to host another live chat during the games Saturday and/or Sunday. We hope to see you then for our latest installment of "Rickey: Live and In Person." In the meantime feel free to take up valuable bandwidth in the comments section with predictions for the upcoming monumental series of games.

[Posted at Humor Blogs]

Rickey Presents: Sarah Palin's New York City Itinerary

“Sarah Palin got schooled by world leaders Tuesday and quickly proved adept at the first rule of diplomacy - avoid saying anything of substance in public. The Republican veep hopeful and her 10-car motorcade snaked through Manhattan for tete-a-tetes with Presidents Hamid Karzai of Afghanistan and Alvaro Uribe of Colombia and former Secretary of State Henry Kissinger.” –NY Daily News, 9/23/08

Rickey recently spoke with Sarah Palin’s handlers who, in an act of unprecedented transparency, forwarded us the itinerary for her NYC visit. It is written in glitter on an American flag. Here now, is the full transcription:

7AM: Arrive at JFK Airport. Get to the bottom of how Jesus controls this airline flight traffic pattern thing.

7:30AM: Cab to hotel. Why aren’t there snow chains on the tires?

8AM: Drop off Todd and Levi at ESPN Sports Zone.

9AM: Visit New York Public Library. Politely inform library director that after inauguration, all copies of “Leaves of Grass” will be replaced with back issues of “Guns & Ammo.”

10AM: Meet with Bono. Golly, I can’t believe I’m getting a chance to talk to the King of Ireland!

11AM: Locate Naked Cowboy in Times Square and have him shipped off to Gitmo.

11:30AM: Go to St. Patrick’s. Bring camera crew. Pray. Loudly.

12PM: Lunch at Katz’s Deli. What’s a knish?

12:30PM: Sit outside PS 151. Taunt Darwinist high school biology teachers. Get a real job you elitist bums!

1PM: Meet with George Steinbrenner at Yankees Stadium. Inform him that his political donation checks made out to “porridge!” keep bouncing.

1:30PM: Find gun store. Inquire as to possibility of getting .50 caliber assault rifle by the end of the day in order to hunt caribou in Central Park. Stamp feet angrily when denied.

2PM: Find the building that FOX News Studio is in and try to get on camera. Always wanted to be on camera in background of FOX & Friends!

2:30PM: Go to top of Empire State Building. I can see Joe Lieberman’s house from here!

3PM: Hunt elusive black squirrel on Central Park with bare hands. Pounce upon squirrel and bite down until movement ceases.

3:30PM: Visit Madame Tussaud’s. Wonder why wax representation of John McCain looks more lifelike than actual John McCain.

4PM: Check out Natural History Museum. Lodge complaint over notable lack of exhibits featuring cavemen riding dinosaurs.

4:30PM: Swing by the Strand Bookstore. Pick up copy of “Dummies Guide to the White House.”

5PM: Hop on NYC subway. Attack subway musician for not being able to perform “Let the Eagle Soar” on demand. Have nice trophy photo taken with body of subway musician.

5:30PM: Pick up Todd and Levi from Scores.

6PM: Dinner and drinks at Delmonico’s. Enjoy cocktail of one part strawberry liqueur and one part light sweet crude oil.

8PM: Write down events of day in journal and forward to RNC for censors to edit approval.

10PM: Sleep. Dream of Jesus.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[Update] Today, the sun shines brightly upon Rickey thanks to some sweet, precious linkage courtesy of the NY Times. It’s a relatively skinny news day indeed when an RwR blog post qualifies as “All the news that’s fit to print,” but nonetheless, welcome to Rickey’s playground of fierce irreverence, dear City Room readers. We sincerely hope Rickey’s writing meets and exceeds your daily recommended dose of liberal media frivolity.

[posted at Humor Blogs]

Your Weekly Mets Update: The "Back in the Saddle Again" Edition

We’ll get to discussing the events of last night’s game in a minute, but first, a quick housekeeping item.

We want you to know that Rickey takes the matter of determining the winner to a caption contest extremely seriously. So when we tell you that Rickey spent all night mulling over the entries to Monday’s contest, you’ll know that Rickey is telling the truth. And on that note, we are pleased to announce that the kidney impaired individual named Renalfailure is our winner. Our sincere apologies to the multitudes of misbegotten madmen who sent in lewd captions involving Suzyn Waldman. Your time will come. (Also, in all fairness, yours were too long for Rickey to squeeze into a captioned picture).
Renalfailure, as we mentioned on Monday you now have your pick of three possible prizes, sadly, none of which will aid your hilariously ailing kidneys. Nonetheless, email Rickey at manofsteal@live.com to claim your much deserved award.

[update] he didn't take the porn! Who in their right mind wouldn't accept a treasure trove of fantastic links to previously unknown illicit websites? It's easily the most moving gift a man can give another man! Ah well. He wanted a shout out instead. So, uh, everyone go read renalfailure. There's like, words and stuff there. But no porn.

And now on to last night’s game.

Rickey was at first a bit nervous to witness Sean Marshall utterly dominating the Mets, but the bats finally woke up in the fifth inning and the Mets won the damned thing, despite the home plate ump’s very best effort to hand the game over to the Cubbies. We're not sure if the umpire was merely having a bad day or if he had just found out that Keith Hernandez and/or Gray Cohen slept with his wife, but one thing is for certain, we hope that for his own safety, he had an armed detail escorting him home from the stadium last night. The game had it all: a gutsy 125 pitch showing from Santana, Reyes’ 200th hit of the season, a freak hit involving the ball hitting the bat not once, but twice, and everyone’s favorite, Lou Pinella slowly ambling his way to the mound. A streaker made his way on to the field (and was then promptly tackled by security). Ms. Henderson even killed a guy with a trident. Things really got out of hand. Good thing the Hendersons forgot their camera in the car.

Sitting at the game and listening to the voluminous boos erupting from the crowd whenever Castillo came to the plate, it occurred to Rickey that there has never been another Mets player as utterly loathed as Luis Castillo is this year. Yes, Mets fans have grumbled about the likes of Kaz Matsui and Shawn Green, but no player arouses such rancor as Castillo does. He’s like the Henry Paulson of the sports world—everybody hates him right now. And now, a brief snippet overheard in Mezzanine Reserved, Section 9, Row A:

Rickey’s Buddy: Hey, want to go to the Friday game?

Rickey: Absolutely!

Ms. Henderson: bzz bzz bzz bzz (yes, the Hendersons communicate by means of a hive mind. Ms. Henderson is the queen bee. Rickey, the worker. And no, Rickey is not embarrassed to share this with you).

Rickey: bzz bzz bzz bzz?

Ms. Henderson: bzz bzz bzz bzz!

Rickey: (to his buddy) Shit, sorry man, I can’t. We have tickets to see Richard Lewis that night.

Random Fan: (interrupting) Uh, so let me get this straight, while we’re watching Mike Pelfrey pitch a no hitter this Friday night, you’re going to be watching Richard Lewis do stand up?

Rickey: I believe you’ve nailed it, yes.

Ugh. Well rest assured, Rickey will be praying for Friday’s game to be totally rained out so that Rickey can attend the makeup on Saturday. Sure there’s that small bit about giving the Mets pitchers an extra day of rest, but that pales in comparison, wethinks.

[Posted at Humor Blogs]

Rickey’s Word of the Day

DESPERATION
(Definition courtesy of Merriam-Webster-Henderson)

des·per·a·tion
Pronunciation: \des-pə-rā-shən\
Function: noun
Date: 14th century
1 : loss of hope and surrender to despair
2 : a state of hopelessness leading to rashness
3: driving into Queens this evening to watch the Mets play the Cubs and praying to your heathen god that Johan Santana can pitch a complete game and spare you the soul shattering agony of witnessing a member of the Metropolitan bullpen trot out onto the pitchers mound

Yes, that’s right, Rickey is going to tonight’s game. On purpose. Because if nothing else, watching Luis Castillo strand fourteen runners in one night builds character, much like driving 65mph through a hailstorm. This nosedive would be a helluva lot easier to endure if only the New York media wasn’t constantly drilling it into Rickey’s head that this is a repeat of September, 2007. And while it isn’t a verbatim retread of last year’s fiery plane crash, one does get that same feeling of a lifeless team going quietly into that dark and ashy Flushing night. So here’s Rickey’s ultimatum: either the Mets turn it around this evening or we’re taking a mental health day, going into complete baseball blackout mode, and you can look forward to a lengthy postmortem of the 2008 Mets season somewhere down the road. Oh yes, there will be cursing. Objects will be thrown. Feelings will be hurt. One thing we can tell you for sure—Rickey will not resemble anything close to sober when he ambles through the turnstiles at Shea this evening.

[Posted at Humor Blogs]

Caption Contest Monday

Last night, a nation bade a bittersweet farewell to a hallowed institution. We are of course speaking of the closing of the doors of the house that Ruth built, that Billy Martin relieved himself in, and that Suzie Waldman refuses to vacate and most likely plans on chaining herself to. Now, Rickey was able to watch the ESPN coverage of last night’s Yankees game for a whopping four minutes until the urge to set himself on fire and douse tobasco sauce in his eyes become too great and he flipped over to the Simpsons. Since when does the FCC permit full blown fellatio (courtesy of Monsieurs Miller and Morgan) to be broadcast on cable television? But that’s neither here nor there. We’re told that it was a night to remember. A night of magic, memories, and moustaches. And in honor of it, we’re running a caption contest. See image below. Feel the gravitas.
The person to affix the funniest, wittiest, and downright snarkiest caption for the picture above wins their choice of the following:

1) A shout out to your website on RwR

2) Eternal glory in the knowledge of a job well done

3) Porn links

Ready, steady go. Make with the captioning, folks. Now if you'll excuse Rickey, he'll be following the exploits of that other baseball team in New York with it's sights focused on the playoffs.

[Posted at Humor Blogs]

Adventures in Electoral Indiscretion: Announcing the Campaign to Write in Rickey!

Friends, Election Day is fast approaching and we’ve tried our very best to help raise your awareness of the pertinent issues at play in the 2008 Election. Now yes, we realize that the last time you voted, it was for the purple M&M, but this time around the stakes are considerably higher. Some of you readers may live in battleground states and if so, we urge you to vote wisely, and please bear in mind that voting for the party whose vice presidential candidate is an amalgam of Daniel Plainview and Brother Eli from “There Will Be Blood” might not do much to improve this nation’s reputation as the laughing stock of the civilized world. But what of the rest of you? What about you folks living in those navy blue or fire red states? Your votes don’t count very much now, do they? So what do you do, toss your vote in with the rest of the masses? Contribute to the ever growing culture war? Shit no, you’re doing the honorable thing: you’re writing in Rickey.
Tired of those fat cats in Washington running amok? Write in Rickey!

Fed up with being required to wear pants in a place of worship? Write in Rickey!

Disillusioned that F. Murray Abraham’s birthday isn’t a national holiday? Write in Rickey!

Not a big fan of Burnt Sienna being an official color in the Crayola Crayon line of hues? Write in Rickey!

Frustrated that the IRS no longer accepts envelopes stuffed with Swedish Fish as valid tax returns? Write in Rickey!

Here’s how this works: most states and municipalities leave a blank spot on the ballot to allow you the voter to write in your pick for President of the United States who may not have made it onto the ballot. It is this fun filled loophole that allowed Joe Walsh to run a write-in campaign in 1980, promising to switch the national anthem to “Life’s Been Good” and running on a platform of “Free Gas For Everyone.” And while the free gas shtick wasn’t a horrible idea (in fact McCain’s gas tax holiday gimmick is pretty much founded on it) it’s somewhat difficult to think that this nation’s founding fathers intended for its citizens to be required stand for a twenty five minute rendition of “Life’s been Good’ before every sporting event they attended.*

But no matter. The exploitation that the write in ballot allows is a paragon of democracy in action and we urge you to firmly grasp it in all its tumescent glory and on this Election Day, proudly write “Rickey Henderson” in this space.

Again, this applies only to readers who will cast their votes in either deep blue or dark red states. This means that if Chris Matthews has been spotted in your home town rooting through the neighbors' garbage, in the days prior to the election, YOU SHOULD NOT be writing in Rickey. You should be voting for Obama (or if eight years of cronyism, war mongering and a general destruction of your civil rights just haven't been enough for you, by all means, vote for Mumbly Joe and his merry band of fascists). Now as of this writing, Rickey has not yet selected a running mate. We’re kind of torn between Mr. Met (we hear good things about his tax reform policy!) and a haggis shaped like Abe Lincoln. We’ll be sure to toss up an announcement once Rickey selects a running mate with an adequate level of disregard for conventional logic and the principles of Newtonian physics.

[in the meantime, warm up for this voting thing by voting for Rickey’s post at Humor Blogs]

*[here’s a nifty little footnote: according to Wikipedia, during live shows, Joe Walsh is known to change the lyrics to “Life’s been Good,” such as 'Lock the doors in case I'm attacked' to 'Lock the doors and watch the War in Iraq!' to 'I watch the Lakers, they suck without Shaq!' and, more recently, 'Lock the doors, and vote for Barack.']

Scenes from the Mets Clubhouse: Singin’ Those Recession Blues

Scene: [Deep in the bowels of Shea Stadium, Jerry Manuel calls a closed door meeting with the players in the Mets clubhouse. Chairs are pulled up, a table full of sandwiches is provided, and three different kinds of juices are available. Clearly, Jerry means business]

Jerry Manuel: Well I suppose you’re all wondering why I called you here. Right now, we are a team on the precipice. Now my smooth rough & tumble laid back antics can only carry us so far, and now it falls upon all of you to carry the weight. Gentlemen, I have serious concerns about the message we are sending to our fans.

Ryan Church: You mean our god awful performance? How we’re letting the division slip away? The fact that Mets fans are now jumping off our escalators intentionally?

Jerry Manuel: No Ryan, I am speaking of our financial solvency. This city is headed for dark fiscal times and I for one have noticed a lot of empty seats in the stadium at all our home games. I believe that this is no coincidence. Jobs are being lost, companies are going under, and people are being laid off. Who do these folks look to for role models? Those fat cats in Washington? No, they turn to us, a well managed sports franchise. We must set an example for our fans by doing some belt tightening of our own.

Brian Schneider: What kind of belt tightening are we talking about here Jerry?

Manuel: Well so far we’ve rolled out a number of cost reducing measures, which include but are not limited to: replacing our groundskeeping crew with a group of day laborers we pick up each morning in front of Home Depot, eliminating the fireworks displays when players hit walk off home runs, and waiting a few extra hours before turning on the stadium lights for night games. As you can see, even I have made cutbacks by no longer wearing my signature Emporio Armani glasses.

Carlos Beltran: But all you did was scratch off the bird logo on the frames!

Manuel: It’s the gesture that counts. Guys, we must no longer allow irrational exuberance to govern our expenditures. Yes, we’re a rich team, but we ‘aint Yankee rich. I have here an itemized list of personal expenses that we will need to slash [takes out clipboard]. First up is Carlos Delgado. Carlos, we struggled mightily with this one, and I’m sorry, but we can no longer afford to keep you on your current diet of live human infants.

Delgado: [roaring] But it is their tiny bones that give me strength!

Manuel: Yes but for now, you’ll just have to make do with Muscle Milk. Ok, on to Pedro. Now Petey, we understand that once upon a time you used to be an ace pitcher…

Pedro: I still am, Jerry.

Manuel: Well yes, arguably, but this hyperbaric chamber you insist on climbing into in between innings doesn’t exactly come cheap. To save on the electric bill, we’re shutting it down now, and for the love of god, please clean out the remains of Nelson de la Rosa from the machine before the technicians show up to dismantle it.

Pedro: A pox upon you Jerry! I will beat you like Don Zimmer!

Manuel: That’s terrific, Petey. Next up is David Wright. Now David, you’ve been driving around in a Cadillac Escalade for some time now…

Wright: Yep, its how me and Jose Reyes like to cruise around and pick up bitties!

Manuel: Yes, well we’re downgrading you to a 1991 Honda Accord.

Jose Reyes: &*$%^#!____!!!!!!!_____ &*$%^#!____!!!!!!!

Wright: You said it Jose, aw shucks!

Aaron Heilman: A 1991 Honda Accord? That’s an improvement for me, I want one of those!

Manuel: Uh, no Aaron, we’re actually putting you on mass transit. From now on, you’ll be taking the 7 Train to the game with the rest of the fans.

Heilman: The 7 Train?! They’ll tear me apart Jerry!

Manuel: You should’ve thought of that before you singlehandedly reduced game attendance by 17%. Here’s a Metrocard and a rape whistle. Think of this as something similar to “The Long Walk” from Judge Dredd, only featuring your candy ass rather than Max Von Sydow. Good day and good luck.

[Heilman hangs his head low, sadly and slowly exits the locker room to the crescendo of dramatic music]

Manuel: Who’s next? Ah yes, Fernando Tatis. Now Fernando, you’ve been using the theme from “Superman” as your intro song when you come to the plate.

Tatis: Yeah, it pumps me up, so?

Manuel: Sorry Fernando, but Warner Brothers is charging far too much for us to use the song. Your new intro song will be the theme to “Darkwing Duck.”

Tatis: Well fuck.

Manuel: Look, just be glad you’re not Mr. Met. We laid him off and replaced him with a guy wearing a barrel who throws fish carcasses into the crowd during the seventh inning stretch. Alright, next on the list is a groundskeeping item. The power costs for making the home run apple go up and down are proving to be exorbitant. Ramon Castro, from now on, you will live in the top hat with the apple resting on your shoulders. Assuming one of our players ever hits a home run again, you will hoist the apple up high above your head.

Castro: I shall become Atlas! [scampers off eagerly]

Manuel: Now that’s the spirit Ramon. Next on the list is Jose Reyes. Jose, where are you Jose?

Reyes: [hanging upside down from ceiling like a bat] ^^^ J ~ J ! ~ ^^^ J ~ J ! ~ ^ !!!

Manuel: Jose, in the spirit of belt tightening, we can no longer have you subsisting on a diet of Frosted Flakes and primo cocaine. We’re switching you over to crystal meth.

Reyes: &*$%^#!____!!!!!!!_____ &*$%^#!____!!!!!!!

Wright: But Rey-Rey’s September performance is bad enough as it is! There’s no way of knowing how he’ll react to this…

Manuel: Look David, do you know what Moises Alou’s hospital bills are costing us? $156,000 a day. And that’s even factoring in the profit we generate on exporting his bottled urine to small third world nations and selling it as holy water. We need to cut our costs, and we need to do it now.

[a small man wearing a suit and horned rimmed glasses enters the clubhouse]

Manuel: Ah good, he’s just in time. Listen up team, I’m sure you’ve heard about the recent layoffs from Lehman Brothers. Thousands of folks are out of work. Well, we found one that can throw a curveball. Gentlemen, meet the newest member of our bullpen, Herb Roth! Pedro Feliciano, you have one hour to clean out your locker.

[scene]

[Vote for Rickey’s post at Humor-Blogs]

That All Too Familiar Sinking Feeling

Well that's not very good now is it? This will certainly teach Rickey not to purchase a post season ticket pack ever again. What next, Citibank becomes the latest financial institution to collapse, Citi Field gets auctioned off and the Mets end up staying at Shea? We're sure that Chipper Jones would be pleased with that possibility...

[posted at Humor Blogs]

Introducing "Rickey, Live and In Person!"

Today, we’re introducing a thrilling new feature to Riding with Rickey: our first ever live chat, scheduled for 7PM EST tonight (that’s 4AM for our Madagascar contingent). Why are we doing this? Well, 'cause it's Friday; you ain't got no job... and you ain't got shit to do. What were you going to do tonight, read a book, go to the gym, meet up with some friends? Blogger, please. No, you’re going to log on to this site at 7PM and chat live with Rickey about the Mets game and other fun filled miscellany.

We’re titling this event: “Rickey: Live and In Person!” which in no way shape or form is a total rip off of the slogan adorning Shea Stadium this season (which was a slight upgrade from the 2007 slogan: “The Mets: Dead on Arrival!”) Please note that to access the live chat, you’ll first need to enter your full social security number and your mother’s maiden name. See everyone at 7PM, pants are optional.



[Posted at Humor Blogs]

Your Weekly Political Diatribe: In Which Rickey Gets Pedantic

You know who doesn’t give a flying fuck about your wonderfully nuanced political beliefs? Rickey, that’s who. Friends, there is an alarming tendency in the blogosphere to assume the role of Monday Morning Media Meathead and talk about politics through the prism of whether a news story is helpful or detrimental to a candidate’s campaign. You know these people, they tend to say things like "golly, I thought Obama had the breadbasket locked down, but this recent Matt Drudge story about him wrestling a rooster while wearing an American flag diaper really puts Pennsylvania into play." Too often, bloggers will avoid actually judging the validity of a story and instead focus on which candidate’s presidential aspirations a news story best aids. Rickey gets it: you too want to be featured on MSNBC blathering about how campaign ads approved by a pig wearing Groucho Marx glasses bolster the McCain campaign. You are without a doubt, a beautiful and unique snowflake with deep insights into the complexities of the modern political arena.

And you could almost get away with it, except for the fact that it is becoming increasingly difficult for any self respecting individual to speak in a calm and rational manner about the 2008 Presidential race. We don’t know about you, but we’re finding it somewhat challenging to have an intelligent conversation about a political campaign that features loathsome hypocrisy, outright slander, and commercials with scary wolves. So Rickey urges you to give the media role playing shtick a break and just pick a goddamned side already. We know, you’re just dying to sit down with your friend, family member, or loved one, and have a long in depth debate on each candidates’ stances on the major issues. You’ll spend a stimulating evening drawing up comparison charts, going over each candidate's votes in the Senate, and sifting through their speeches. You’ll learn something about yourselves and each other. And under normal circumstances, all this would be fine and dandy, if only one candidate wasn’t a batshit crazy old man who’s hellbent on killing us all.

Now we get it: you’re hesitant to pick a side because you want to appear to be well informed and you’re scared of contributing to the ever widening culture war in the U.S., but seriously now, what precisely is the major holdup here? Can the battle lines be any clearer? Because if you think things are bad now, woo boy, just you wait and see. Rickey can at least somewhat understand the mentality of the GOP base—they’re a pack of masochists who have been duped into voting against their best interests, year after year. But these undecided voters, who in the hell are these people? How much more analysis does one need to do before picking a candidate? Do these people have some sort of underground crime lab that they retreat to each evening to ponder each day’s political developments? Enough with the over thinking already, how much more do you need to know about a presidential ticket featuring a reckless lunatic and a zealot with a sickly sweet smile? So man up and just accept the fact that the decision has already been made for you, because if nothing else, Rickey is profoundly anti-intellectual in his opposition to a political party that itself is profoundly anti-intellectual. We urge you to think likewise.

[Vote for Rickey's post at Humor Blogs]

Rickey’s 300th Post About His 300th Post

Planning on meandering out into a crowded thoroughfare to shout at traffic? Considering banging your head against the wall for a few hours? Thinking about taking the day off of work to expose yourself in the men’s bathroom of a nearby Red Lobster? Tell us friends, how do you plan on celebrating Riding with Rickey’s 300th Post?

Indeed, today is a truly magnanimous day. Today marks our 300th snark filled and ellipsis riddled post here at RwR. So let’s pause for a moment to reflect upon just how far we’ve come, shall we? It all began a scant twenty one months ago when we decided to give this whole blogging thing a whirl. We liked sports and other whimsical miscellany. We thought we had stuff to say. We thought we could write kinda good sometimes. And so, Riding with Rickey was born on January 23, 2007, boasting a pitifully incorrectly spelled URL and a mentality of fierce irreverence. That first month we racked up a whopping 289 site visits, of which Rickey was personally responsible for approximately 250 (give or take).

Three hundred posts later we’re pushing the 70,000 hits mark and Rickey can no longer identify every daily visitor as a friend or family member. And yes, Rickey absolutely included this statistic with the specific intention of blowing your mind. Along the way to 70,000 hits, we even managed to rope in a part-time partner in one Adam, author of The Jack Sack, whose present whereabouts are a complete mystery to us, we swear. Hey buddy, your loss--we were totally planning on offering an RwR dental plan (in which an inebriated Rickey shows up at your house wearing a pirate hat and extracts teeth at random).

To those proud few who’ve been with us from the start, many thanks. We also realize that much of our traffic still derives courtesy of inbound links. Sweet, sweet, previous links. While there are the occasional windfalls coming from poor lost fools googling Rickey Henderson’s whereabouts, unsavory sexual predilections, buffalo wing recipes and the like, we especially appreciate folks like Toasty Joe, Mr. Furious, Mike’s Neighborhood, Remote Access, Nice Level Swing, I'm Not One To Blog, But..., Around the Keg, Sports by Brooks, and all the miscreants at Humor Blogs who have tossed a link or two in our direction over the past months. We love you guys. And if teabaging could be construed as a legitimate sign of affection, rest assured, Rickey would teabag you magnificent bastards until his teabagging muscles were sore.

But enough of the sappy crap. This is the part of the article where Rickey is supposed to look ahead to the future. The “vision thing,” if you will. But as you can plainly tell, Rickey’s been pretty much winging this blogging venture since Day 1, so a detailed mission statement isn’t exactly going to come easily for us. But here’s what we can tell you: we pledge that Rickey will never outgrow his penchant for crude innuendo and vulgar language, we pledge that Rickey’s unfathomably deep well of rage for all things Geena Davis related will never run dry, we pledge that Rickey’s half assed sports commentary will never fade away, and most importantly, we pledge that Rickey will wash his hands before and after blogging each night. See everyone tomorrow for #301.

[Vote for Rickey's post at Humor Blogs]

Collider? Rickey Hardly Knows Her!

This just in from the “What Me, Worry?” Department: today, the switch is flipped on a device bearing a name that’s just begging for a typo, the Large Hadron Particle Collider. The biggest atom smashing device ever created by mankind, this machine is capable of providing stunning insights on the origins of the universe (which, contrary to Sarah Palin’s progressive beliefs, is slightly more than 750 years old) and we’re told it also whips up a mean cup of cappuccino. And when it comes to inventing devices that rile up the religious right and disprove the beliefs of wacky creationists, Rickey says: “Let this abomination unto the Lord begin!” For your reference, a picture of the massive machine can be found below:
Egad, they’ve built the machine from “Howard the Duck.” Nothing, absolutely nothing is cooler than science (well except for Rickey, of course). Although judging by the looks of that thing, Rickey sincerely hopes that the people who built it also set up some security to ensure that Lando Calrissian doesn’t fly into it and blow it up. But before you get all ecstatic about this giant leap forward for mankind, allow Rickey to tell you about the twinkie. What about the twinkie, you might ask? Well you see, according to some experts there is a possibility, however slim, that this massive machine might create a black hole that would devour the planet earth. Now we’re not scientists or anything, but this sounds like somewhat of a bad thing. Rickey kind of digs this whole existence thing, you know? Don’t these hubristic scientists realize what they’re doing here? Perhaps they’ve heard of a little movie called “Superman?” Jor-El told everyone that Krypton would blow up within thirty days. No one believed him and look where that got them. Dead, that’s where.

Now this post was set to automatically publish on 12:01 on Wednesday morning, so there’s a slight chance that with the time difference, those mad scientists over in Switzerland flipped the switch already and that the planet was quickly devoured by a black hole and this entire post was a relatively moot exercise. In which case Rickey has absolutely no regrets about his last major act on Earth being the publishing of an entirely inconsequential and quasi scientific blog post. But if you’re reading this post and the switch hasn’t been flipped yet, and you’re cowering in fear that you’re about to get sucked into a massive black hole, just remind yourself that the planet survived eight years of the Bush administration and we’re pretty certain that it can withstand this too. But if you feel the sudden urge to empty your bank account, buy a Ferrari, and go out in style, then by all means, go right ahead. We’re not sure if this end-of-days-black-hole-devouring-the-earth-thing will take nanoseconds or hours, but we imagine you should have time to squeeze in a round of golf before it happens.

[Vote for Rickey's post at Humor-Blogs]

September with a Side of Angina: Your Weekly Mets Update

Ladies and gentlemen, it may have taken forty years to develop, but there appears to finally be a genuine rivalry between the Philadelphia Phillies and the New York Mets. The good news is that despite this past weekend’s disappointing 1-2 performance against the Phillies, the Mets are two games up in the NL East standings. Now it’s time for fans of both teams to return home, wash up (just this once we’ll be gracious and allow the possibility, however remote, that Phillies fans bathe themselves) and gear up for nineteen games of rock ‘em sock ‘em baseball. Obviously, which baseball club makes the playoffs all comes down to which team is better equipped to beat up on its national league brethren. So let’s take a peek at the adversaries the Mets and Cubs will be playing for the remainder of the season, shall we?

Marlins. Hello, suicide hotline? You just got back from a baseball game attended by 600 people? Last night was “Balance your Checkbook Night” at the stadium? Your team’s wildcard hopes are dwindling more rapidly than the manatee population? You’re hitting yourself for not jumping on the Rays bandwagon? Hey, you’re not a Marlins fan, are you? Yeah, we’ve got another special hotline set up for you guys. I’ll transfer you, operators are standing by.

Nationals. Poor Manny Acta, imagine the intestinal fortitude it takes to coach a last place team comprised of Lastings Milledge, Elijah Dukes, Dmitri Young, Ronnie Belliard, and Christian Guzman. Frankly, we’re shocked that Acta hasn’t clambered up a bell tower with a rifle and a list of names yet. Enjoy ‘Midge, you foolish Nats fans, we’re doing just fine with our good friend Ryan Church, thank you very much. By the way, if we were to hop in a Delorean and travel back to December of 2007 and tell you that Ryan Church would be a star player on the Mets and Aaron Heilman would be getting booed off the field, you’d tell us we were out of our minds, right?

Brewers. Is there an angrier and more determined man in all of baseball than C.C. Sabathia? We’re guessing no. If the Brewers were smart, they’d harness it and have him pitch every damned game, but no… For the record, Rickey totally hates this team. First they go and rob the Mets of a wild card shot, and then they insist on having those insipid sausage races at the bottom of the sixth inning at every game in Milwaukee. Mark out words, something very unsavory is going on with those sausage mascots. We can’t put our finger on it, but when news breaks of Brett Wurst and Frankie Furter lathering each other up with condiments in an airport bathroom, don’t be too surprised.Braves. Whenever you hear your self complaining about the Mets health woes, consider this injury plagued lineup: John Smoltz (shoulder injury), Mike Hampton (is alive?) Jair Jurrjens (away helping Bilbo find the ring) Tom Glavine (stricken by the Almighty’s righteous retribution). We’d check in on a Bravos blog to see what it sounds like when Braves cry, but the city of Atlanta isn’t nearly cool enough for Rickey to be familiar with its blogs. Sorry.

Cubs. And in other news, the Cubs continue their gutsy quest for baseball immortality as… oh no wait, we take it back, shit’s completely falling apart out there in Chicago. We’re not sure what’s funnier: getting beaten by the Reds, or Lou Pinella getting completely lost on the way to Cincinnati. Either way, Rickey is now eagerly looking forward to his 9/23 Mets tickets against the Cubbies.

And now, a word on the Billy Wagner debacle… Just as Yankee fans have the wonderfully effeminate and unreliable Alex Rodriguez to gripe about, Mets fans have had the distinct displeasure of getting to know one Billy Wagner over the past several years. For the last few weeks, we’ve watched as Billy Wagner has thrown countless simulated games, and in turn, we’ve been forced to simulate our hope that the schmuck might actually get healthy again. But no more. Now that the news is pretty much definitive that he won't be returning in 2008 he's out for an entire calendar year, Rickey feels that the time has come to throw this bum where he belongs: under the bus. For too long we’ve been forced to bear witness as Wagner repeatedly decided that there just wasn’t quite enough drama transpiring in the Mets organization, both on and off the field. Much like some ornery southern critter, the man hops from hot spot to hot spot, spreading problems wherever he goes: slamming his teammates in the press, inexplicably praising the talented bullpen wizard that is Aaron Heilman, or flat out losing games altogether.

Moreover, have you seen images of Wagner recently? The man's in slightly better physical condition than John McCain (who in turn is in slightly better physical condition than William Taft was is). The guy is one of the highest paid closers in the game and he can't stay in shape? Most of all, we’re downright elated that we will no longer held hostage by our crippling fear of Billy Wagner blowing games at the most inopportune times imaginable. We have absolute confidence that the remaining members of the Mets bullpen will step up to fill that role nicely. We are assured of this.

And to wrap things up, Rickey would like to announce that it is finally safe to begin earnestly complimenting the baseball playing abilities of Carlos Delgado. The man could go into a horrific slump right now and you’d still have to give him credit for helping to carry the team for the bulk of the summer months. We find ourselves in the unbelievable position of having to tip our caps to a man whose grave we’d happily shoveled dirt over earlier in the season. Well done, Mr. Delgado. That having been said, Rickey still does not agree with the idea of him returning in 2009. Enjoy your day everybody, Rickey’s off to Shea this evening for the Mets/Nationals matchup.

[Posted at Humor Blogs]

Your Monday Memerey

Courtesy of Mike, Rickey has opted to engage in a fairly simple little exercise in food. As a rule, we relish any/all opportunities to discuss culinary items as well as flaunt our well roundedness (think of Rickey as your own personal Tony Bourdain, but even more full of himself). For those wayward individuals looking to partake in the meme, the rules follow below:

1. Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
2. Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.
3. Put asterisks after what you must try before you die.
4. Put a question mark (?) next to the ones you had to look up because you had absolutely no idea what they were.

1. Venison
2. Nettle tea (is that like the nettle cozy that James Cromwell used in that episode of Six Feet Under?)
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare (Rickey digs raw stuff--Rickey actually made this himself once)
5. Crocodile* (no, but alligator is tasty)
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht (best summer soup ever)
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari 12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart (Rickey once watched a friend drink a cup of grey hot dog water from a street vendor's cart on a dare)
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle*
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns*
20. ,Pistachio ice cream (absolutely disgusting. Pistachios have no place in ice cream)
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras (inhummane? Yes, but tasty nonetheless)
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese (fuck and no. Rickey draws the line at head parts. Maybe if they came up with a better name for it Rickey would consider it...)
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper (what the hell is this, a drink or a vegetable?)
27. Dulce de leche*
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda (huh? As in: "Rickey graduated bagna cauda?")
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi (the dog?)
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail (er, no thanks)
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects* (We're venturing into Andrew Zimmerman's territory, but yes, Rickey will try it one day)
43. Phaal (?)
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
46. Fugu* (even though it almost killed Homer Simpson, Rickey's willing to try it)
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin*
51. Prickly pear*
52. Umeboshi (?)
53. Abalone*
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine (?)
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin (?)
64. Currywurst
65. Durian (?)
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake* (Sorry, Rickey hasn't been to many street fairs)
68. Haggis*
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost (?)
75. Roadkill (no way, no how, no raccoon)
76. Baijiu (?)
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail (quite tasty)
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum (?)
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky (fuck is that? those pocky sticks?)
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant* (sure, assuming one actually lets Rickey in)
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers (dandelions are tasty!)
89. Horse (nuh-uh. What is this, the Great Depression? Who out there is eating horse?)
90. Criollo chocolate*
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish (mmmm breaded pan fried catfish...)
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox (pretty much every Sunday morning foe the first eighteen years of his life)
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake (abso-fucking-lutely not. snakes terrify Rickey. Dining on one will not alleviate Rickey's crippling fear of them)

[Posted at Humor Blogs]

Normally, we're not big fans of the "heywouldyalookatthat!" format of blogging, but this case is the exception to the rule. Why Larry David only creates a new season of "Curb" every two years is absolutely beyond our comprehension, but nonetheless, here's a brilliant reminder of his evil genius. Enjoy:

Posted at Humor Blogs

How Sweet is the Shepherd's Sweet Lot: Rickey Reviews “Viva Piñata: Trouble in Paradise”

Today, we venture about as far away from politics as one could possibly get. Today, we discuss the zen tranquility of gardening (well sort of anyway). You see, Rickey, faced with the increased possibility of our next President ordering a full scale nuclear strike on the nation of Moldavia because he couldn’t figure out how to program his VCR to record Matlock, has opted to retreat from the realm of politics for the time being and delve into a far simpler and peaceful realm. A realm of lush trees, green grass, and playful piñata animals. Today, Rickey reviews Viva Piñata: Trouble in Paradise for the Xbox 360.

And now that you’ve realized that Rickey has completely lost his mind, allow us to attempt explain to you the allure of this title. You see, sometimes, Rickey likes to forsake the frag-fests of more “mature” titles like Halo 3 or Call of Duty 4 (when we all get drafted to invade Moldavia, we’re going to be doing the real thing anyway, right?) Sometimes, Rickey likes to beat his swords into plowshares and revel in the sublime pleasure of tilling the earth. And that’s precisely what Viva Piñata: Trouble in Paradise allows Rickey to do. To the best of our knowledge, it’s the world’s only gardening videogame, and it’s a damned fine one to boot. Also, it has the added distinction of being the only videogame that Ms. Henderson will agree to play with Rickey (despite Rickey’s best efforts, shoot ‘em up games featuring bloodthirsty space marines still tend to offend her delicate sensibilities).

Now, Microsoft, true to its idiotic form, isn’t marketing this fantastic game at all, so for the understandably uninformed, here’s the basic premise in the Viva Piñata world: you are a gardener. Your arsenal consists of a shovel, a watering can, and a packet of grass seeds. You plant, water, and fertilize flowers, trees, bushes, and other organic miscellany in an attempt to lure colorful anthropomorphic piñata animals into your garden. Once they’re there, your job is to make them happy, in the hopes of mating them and creating baby piñatas. And woo boy, Rickey would love to see Rick Santorum’s take on two rainbow colored piñata squirrels doing “the romance dance” as the game playfully refers to it. The game is rated “E for Everyone,” so obviously there’s nothing tawdry going on here, just a whole lot of crazy critters romping about and forsaking modern birth control, much like the Palin family. And while this gardening premise may seem shallow to the seasoned gamer, Rickey cannot emphasize enough how easy it is to get sucked into the world of videogame gardening. The sheer variety of piñata inhabitants that come bounding into your garden is overwhelming. One minute it’s a colorful wobbly lamb, the next it’s a slinky tiger, thus prompting a “did he who made the piñata lamb make thee?” comment in the Henderson household. Although the game looks like something that only young players would enjoy, but as Kipling might say (assuming he had access to an Xbox), the glory of your piñata garden lies in more than meets the eye. There’s a huge amount of depth and freedom here, allowing you to sculpt a stately and manicured English garden, a wild and untamed Eden-like garden, and everything in between. Yes, Viva Piñata is primarily aimed at the same audience that might enjoy the animated TV show of the same name. However, much like hitting things with sticks or eating candy, you're never too old for Viva Piñata’s appeal merely because you can get into R-rated movies, drive a car, or claim a pension.

At this point, you’re most likely wondering: “Why not just start a real garden, jackass? With real plants that aren’t, you know, imaginary?” Well friend, Rickey and Ms. Henderson are currently renters, and other than the landlady allowing Rickey to harvest fresh mint from her garden for his mojitos and occasionally leaving overripe fruit from her garden at their doorstep, Rickey doesn’t have any horticultural resources at his disposal. So for the time being, Rickey will just have to make do with his “Lawnmower Man” gardening simulation. Besides, the inhabitants of real gardens are absolutely nowhere as cute and as their piñata brethren.

Indeed, one of the major hooks to this game is just how goddamned adorable it is. We’re talking about tons of doe eyed critters that would give the folks over at Cute Overload a collective full-blown diabetic attack. Even the snakes are cute. We don’t care what planet you’re from, if two fuzzy piñata rabbits splashing about playfully in the water doesn’t warm your cockles then we’re sorry, but you’re a cold hearted bastard and there might very well be something wrong with you. And this is where Rickey’s decidedly unhealthy emotional attachment to piñata critters comes into play. Rickey doesn’t care if it’s weeds, poisonous candy, or garden wrecking ruffians, if you fuck with Rickey’s piñata animals, Rickey will fuck you back with the intensity of a thousand angry Norse Gods of War. Contributing to Rickey’s misanthropic gaming tendencies is how Viva Piñata allows the player to name their own animals. So for the sake of argument, let’s say that you wanted to name your newt piñata Newt Gingrich and your weasel piñata Alan Colmes, you can do precisely that and watch these two natural enemies go at it in your makeshift garden political arena (what, you thought we’d actually forsake our usual half-baked political commentary here at RwR?)

But rest assured, you don’t have to be a crazy as Rickey to enjoy this terrific game. Ultimately, Viva Piñata is a game that's extremely difficult to dislike, a game that just oozes charm and personality from its every paper maché covered pore. Rickey highly recommends this game to anyone for a bit of playful frivolity and urges you to govern yourself accordingly.

[Liked what you read here? Vote for Rickey's post at Humor Blogs]

Rickey Presents: The Republican National Convention Drinking Game

For a while, Rickey has pondered a way to make the Republican Convention slightly more bearable to watch. Ever a fan of games, Rickey toyed with the notion of a Ronald Reagan memory game, or perhaps even a Larry Craig themed game of Men’s Bathroom Twister, but in the end, we realized that the only tolerable way to watch the kabuki theatre that typifies a political convention is with the aid of a drinking game. Indeed, Rickey will see your “Maverick” and raise you a ”POW” because behold, its…

The Republican National Convention Drinking Game!

The rules: you take a sip of a frosty adult beverage when any of the following criteria listed below are met. Need help picking out a brew? Go check in with these guys, they know a helluva lot more about beer than we do (assuming he ever did them, Rickey’s beer reviews would consist of one sentence: “mmmmm, tastes like beer”). Anyhow, proceeding onwards to the game, you will take a sip…

1) Every time there is a pregnant pause in Sarah Palin’s speech. (zing!)

2) Every time the camera focuses in on an aged GOP delegate wearing a cowboy hat and you, sitting in your living room, suddenly feel twenty years younger.

3) Every time Bush Senior is awakened from his peaceful nap by the applause of the crowd, exclaims “damnit Levi, why couldn’t you just pull out like I pulled the hell out of Iraq?!” and them promptly dozes off again.

4) Every time a CNN commentator uses the phrases “finger on the button,” “hockey mom,” or “one heartbeat away from the Presidency.”

5) Every time John McCain looks out into the audience and utters the phrase “My Friends,” despite the fact that 95% of the delegates at the convention bought the 2000 Bush smear campaign against McCain hook, line, and sinker.

6) Every time the camera focuses on Cindy McCain who appears to be playing her own “Stepford Wife Percocet Self Medicating Game” in the stands.

7) Every time the appearance of Wolf Blitzer on your television reminds you how much of a total waste of an awesome name this guy is.

8) Every time Sarah Palin uses the phrase “the Sanctity of Human Life” and the camera pans to a war Vet fresh back from Iraq who’s missing an appendage or two.

9) Every time Fox News cuts to a commercial for the Rudy Giuliani 9/11 Bobblehead Doll.

10) Every time Chris Matthews mentions Winston Churchill and/or interrupts a guest to inform them—for absolutely no reason—that he is Catholic.

11) Every time prayer is invoked. (This one is for the seasoned drinker only. Unless alcohol poisoning is your bag, Rickey recommends skipping over it. They love their ostentatious displays of piety at the GOP convention).

12) Every time the name Reagan is used. (Give someone your car keys, take two Tylenols before you start, because will not be able to walk by the end of the night). If you’re looking to tailor this one a bit, Rickey advises you to do it this way: take one drink anytime anyone invokes Ronald Reagan, two drinks if they compare themselves to Reagan and three drinks if they declare that Reagan spoke to them in a dream.

[update] In the interests of full disclosure, Rickey wrote this post prior to last night's speeches. We joke around here a lot at RwR, but what Rickey watched on television last night was an absolute atrocity, top to bottom. It was a complete repudiation of everything Rickey knows to be right and true in this world and Rickey can honestly say that he's fairly embarrassed to be an American after watching it. Go read Mike's terrific post on the matter, he sums things up accurately and introduces a great new phrase into the political lexicon: "gutter patriotism."

[Posted at Humor Blogs]

Rickey’s Weekend Recap: The Northern Overexposure Edition

[Insert Shotgun Wedding Joke Here]

Rickey spent a sizeable part of this past holiday weekend watching nonstop Hurricane Gustav coverage on Fox News. It’s somewhat of a guilty pleasure—strangely riveting stuff. You give Rickey a bowl of snack food, a natural disaster, news anchors in windbreakers, and a Fox News set that looks like the bridge of the U.S.S. Enterprise and you’d damn well better believe Rickey will spend a large chunk of the day soaking it all in. The most enjoyable moment was when intrepid news personality Geraldo Rivera was broadcasting live from New Orleans and a massive propane tank broke loose and started drifting about precariously and suddenly out of nowhere, some completely insane Army Corps of Engineers guy dives into the water after it, and heroically attempts to tie a rope to the wayward propane tank. The guy’s bobbing around in harsh water, Geraldo is in full blown sensationalist mode and screaming at the top of his lungs, and Rickey is sitting on the couch with a bowl of pretzels yelling at the tv: “paddle you magnificent civil servant, paddle!” Now that’s just damned fine television.

But then Rickey’s decidedly unhealthy television session was interrupted as Ms. Henderson cajoled him into going for a nice walk outside. Which was a complete shame because Rickey totally missed the second fun filled storm of the day: the Sarah Palin debacle. Indeed, the more information that trickles in about Palin, the more Rickey is convinced that he spent more time deciding which shoes to wear this morning than John McCain did on picking his running mate. And while some of you more upright and principled bloggers might feel that’s it’s unsporting to focus on this baby daddy scandal, and that family is “off limits” because the candidates' kids aren't seeking office, Rickey asks of you: what office was Chelsea Clinton running for when John McCain made a disparaging remark about her being fathered by Janet Reno in 1998? Come now, do you seriously think Rickey is going to turn down the opportunity to lambast the GOP version of Juno? Sorry, but the entire Palin family is fair game primarily because they’re the latest embodiment of conservative hypocrisy and all around poor judgment on John McCain’s part. So, uh, how’s that insistence on abstinence only sex education working for you Mrs. Palin? Perhaps a government mandated chastity belt program would’ve worked better? You better believe that when Rickey has a kid that he’s getting the full monty in sex ed from a very early age on. The child will either go on to become the Surgeon General or the second coming of Ron Jeremy. Either way, Rickey will be proud.

And this sort of scandal is what happens when you essentially pluck a flaky family out of an MTV reality show and put them front and center. Somehow, we doubt that Joe Lieberman’s family could ever have provided this level of titillation (maybe a bit of grumbling here and there about Joe’s kids not turning off the lights when they leave the room, but that’s just about it). Bottom line, if you present the public with a vice presidential candidate who is clearly better suited for a reality television show, then you can’t be shocked when the public starts treating your campaign like an episode of Jerry Springer. Take a peek at the Palin family. Look at a picture of them sometime. You know these people, they’re cookie cutter red state Americana: they wear hooded sweatshirts, they drive massive SUVs, they’re not too keen about reading, they go crazy for sweet sixteen parties, and they get dolled up for church each week. These people are assholes, plain and simple, and while we’re sure they’d fit right in on an episode of “Laguna Beach,” they seem no less out of place on the campaign trail than Harriet Miers was when she was nominated to serve on the Supreme Court.

But hey, what else should be expect from a campaign that has demonstrated it’s willingness to traffic in pop culture themes by using attack ads comparing Barack Obama to Britney Spears and Paris Hilton? If you ask Rickey, the chickens have come home to roost, because drunk driving and teenage pregnancy are two things that the Palin family shares with the Spears and Hilton families. Like it or not, the Palin family is America’s real face, and if McCain is going to stick with Sarah Palin in order to relate to average joe voters, then he’s just going to have to deal with the inevitable baggage and accompanying ridicule. Rickey’s still voting for the guy who wrote for the Harvard Law Review, thank you very much. Funny, in all this, we didn’t even get around to discussing any substantive politics. But honestly, who needs an in depth political discussion when it already says an awful lot about Sarah Palin that she’s perfectly ok with her daughter marrying a winner like this Levi Johnston fellow? Here’s to hoping for a Rose Garden shotgun wedding, complete with pickups on the front lawn.

[Vote for Rickey’s post at Humor Blogs]