Rickey's Costa Rica Travelogue, Part III

You’re probably wondering: why the hell is this prick blogging from his honeymoon instead of doing, ahem, other things? Well first off, the afternoon rain provides ample time for writing, and secondly, I’m doing all this mainly so I can remember this, not you (the rum down here is alarmingly plentiful). And with that cleared up, we move forward to…
Day 5. Marvel at rosy fingered dawn! Or is that sunset? I'm actually not completely sure (this goes back to the rum comment above).

The morning is consumed by a timeshare presentation. In order to snag two free days of comped meals and drinks at Villa Sol, the Hendersons have subjected themselves to something just a few steps removed from water boarding: a timeshare pitch. Jimmy, the guy who runs the presentation is nice enough. He’s animated, engaging, and quite topical. But let me tell you something about Jimmy: he’s undoubtedly stuffing Columbia’s national export into his nose on a regular basis. The dude fidgets, he wipes his nose constantly, and he bumps over a cup of coffee in the middle of his pitch. He’s making me nervous just looking at him.

A brief aside: one summer, I was looking for work and remember applying for a job selling CutCo knives door to door. I passed the initial exam with flying colors. When the regional manager in charge of new hires called me into his office, told me I’d got the job and started cutting through a beefy piece of leather with a CutCo knife to demonstrate the effectiveness of his product, I knew that sales just wasn’t for me. But hey, somebody’s gotta do the job I suppose. Today that somebody is Jimmy.

Because I was feeling frisky, I decided to turn the tables on Jimmy's timeshare pitch and ask him a bit about HIS background. He’s a Boston ex-pat who was born into a family restaurant business, then worked for Four Seasons for a while and was dating an occupational therapist. Now he’s single and hawking timeshares at the humid ass end of the universe. Jimmy has most definitely come down in the world. I feel a little bad for the guy saying no to him repeatedly after a 90 minute presentation (he even makes a little sad puppy dog face after we reject him) but hey, I’m pretty conservative when it comes to plopping down 80K for a timeshare that I’ll rarely use. I'm weird like that.

After being thoroughly tested, we head for lunch and enjoy some good eats and drinks. The salsa down here is a green tangy sauce that is absolutely incredible. I’ve been pouring it over rice and beans, eggs, toast, and pretty much every other solid food I can find.

Then we make for the beach in the afternoon, plop down in a nice shady spot and relax. After some soothing time doing the dead man’s float in the Pacific Ocean, I head towards land, decidedly hungry. A guy on the beach is selling ceviche for 5,000 colones. Having no idea whatsoever what that equates to in dollars, I gladly pay him and walk back to Mrs. Henderson with a Tupperware container of raw marinated seafood. She is at best apprehensive.Sweet fancy moses, is this stuff good. It consists of octopus, clams, some sort of raw fish, all marinated in lemon juice, cilantro, and hot sauce. I plan on putting this in a blender and feeding it to my unborn kid. Two doses and they’ll be lifting aircraft carriers above their head.

Then thunder sounds in the distance and we hastily head back from the beach to the hotel bar. Once there and having consumed many more drinks, we forge what will undoubtedly be a life long friendship with a verbose lady from Staten Island. She has flesh eating disease (a minor detail that she tells me after I’ve shaken her hand) and loves to gripe about pretty much everything in her life. It’s funny how listening to somebody else bitching makes you feel instantly better about yourself. The best I can tell her is that she should be very happy with her tap water back home.

After watching all we can bear of the Mets/Yanks Sunday night game on ESPN Deportes, we’re heading off for dinner. The beisbol world is too much with us. Same goes for this resort too. We’re pretty much counting down the days until we hop back in a rental car and start legitimately enjoying Costa Rica again. Don't get me wrong, it's nice ...just a little to sterile for us, you know? As much as we love staying in a highly regimented resort that’s governed more strictly than Leavenworth Penitentiary, we think that the more rustic funky parts of Costa Rica appeal more to us. On July 4th, we’re heading further south to a tiny little town on the cost known as Malpais. The surf at the beach down there is strong (it’s where they filmed “Endless Summer 2”) and the locale is wonderfully remote. It’s inhabited by absolutely no one and we’re fortunate enough to know somebody who is letting us use their beach house there. Coordinating the details via email, we're informed that someone named Preston will be staying at the house with us. I assumed that Preston is some sort of monkey butler, until I read that he also likes to surf in the mornings. Still, he could definitely be a surfing monkey butler, which is undoubedtly the coolest kind of monkey butler of all.

Day 6: To the fellow resort-goers, our rallying against the time share pitch has reached an almost evangelical tone. We watched the bartender, with no regard for secrecy, water down the booze by pouring equal parts water and no name brand rum back into a liquor bottle. We’re just a few steps removed from ordering t-shirts emblazoned with the slogan “never submit.”

Amenities at the resort are plentiful. Cigarettes cost less than $2 in USD. If you run over somebody in your rental car, you’re not obligated to stop. You just drive to the rental car company office and report the incident. Life here in Costa Rica is cheap. Several hundred years ago, the locals dropped to their knees and bowed down before the conquistadors who weighed anchor in their gulf. Three hundred years later, this area is pockmarked by beach resorts. Go figure.

To their credit, the Costa Rican government will only allow you to purchase an acre of land if you also purchase an acre of land in the rainforest and agree not to develop it for 100 years. I like that ethos. The founder of AOL wanted to buy some land down here and is finding it to be cost prohibitive. As of now, he still is reluctant to close the deal. Good riddance—there should be some places on this planet that are still wild, untamed and not governed by rampant greed.

Days 7-8. (I think... I've pretty much lost track of time at this point) Here’s where things get rather interesting. We go snorkeling in the morning. I get the hell stung out of me by a jellyfish.(At least I hope that's a jellyfish sting and not the onset of flesh eating disease). While lounging in the pool, I’m asked to join an impromptu volleyball game by a resort staff member. Choosing to ignore the fact that this is the same guy who just hours earlier led us on the snorkeling tour that resulted in me getting by jellyfish, I say yes, I’d love to play some volleyball, and enter the game.

When it comes to be my time to serve, my competitive streak takes over and I’m completely dialed in. I toss the ball up, push off and smack two rockets to the other side. Both of ‘em are perfectly places spikes, landing between a terrified 13 year old girl and a listless old man whose mind clearly isn't in the game. There may have even been some spin on the ball. I am officially dialed into this game. Ancient spirits of evil, transform this decayed form to Volleyball-Ra, the Ever-Living! Behold, Rickey in action:
Yeah, I’m a pasty white dude. Leave me alone. And hey, if you had a weird looking mole surgically removed from your back three years ago that resulted in a scar that looked like you were involved in a vicious knife fight, you’d be piling on the 60 SPF sunscreen too.

On the third serve, I get even more cocky and push off way too hard on my toes. Instantly, I feel something give. It feels like a tear in my right leg, like a piano cord snapping. I’ve seen enough Mets hobbling off the field to know what this means: some sort of leg injury has transpired. Yes, you're reading this correctly, I have managed to hurt myself playing pool volleyball. Hotel staff are dispatched to pick up anti-inflammatory medicine and I get to spend the rest of my time here gimping around and smiling sheepishly whenever somebody asks me how my leg is feeling. But on the bright side, while spending the next few lying days on my ass recovering, I get to make friends with the local wildlife:Now that's one big bastard of a bug. While lounging by the beach, we also race hermit crabs. I call the big one "Pinchy."

Anyway, the leg injury seems to be just a pulled calf and not a complete tear, so I should be good as new for when we head down to Malpais on Saturday. I'm able to put a little more weight on it now and feel like a full recovery is iminent. I have no idea if there's any sort of internet connection at this place in Mapais or not, so if we go into radio silence, you'll know why.

Cheers,
~Rickey

Rickey's Search for a New Outfielder

You’d think that being on one’s honeymoon in Costa Rica would exempt them from worrying about the Mets. And in anyone else’s case other than Rickey’s you’d be absolutely correct. But no, we wanted you to know that despite being roughly five feet from the sun, the Mets are very much still on Rickey’s mind. In fact, while vacationing down here in Costa Rica, Rickey has been conducting a thorough and exhaustive search for a replacement outfielder for the New York Mets.

Now despite being completely removed from the tri-state sports buzz, we are just barely up to speed enough to know that Carlos Beltran is woefully injured. Some anonymous mook is playing in left field. And not having any idea of that the recent box scores are, we’re pretty certain that Gary Sheffield is NOT performing up to the expectations that Mike Francessa has piled upon him:

“He’s a solid hitter. A solid hitter. He’ll get you 25 home runs, no problem. [30 second pause] He’s a solid hitter. I’d go to war with this guy any time.”

Yeah, thanks Mike. So Rickey has been searching around down here in Costa Rica for a new outfielder. After much foraging, we think we’ve finally found out candidate. Ladies and gentlemen, meet Pepe:Rickey’s not totally sure if this is a cow, or an ox, or some sort of water buffalo, but goddamnit, this magnificent bastard has intangible baseball talent. Once Rickey figures out how to smuggle a 1,276 pound land mammal past U.S. customs, we are officially in business.
The scouting report on this wondrous beast tells us that he’s surprisingly nimble footed, and should have no problem stretching singles out into doubles. He’s a bit sluggish tracking fly balls in the outfield and has yet to figure out how to hit a changeup, but we’re confident that a few weeks in AAA assignment should straighten out these minor issues. Also, there’s a slight issue involving Pepe wanting to gore Luis Castillo on sight (apparently Castillo resembles a rodeo clown that Pepe faced a few months back) but frankly, we don’t see much of a problem with this.

As an added bonus, just think of the money this will save the Citified grounds keeping crew. This guy trims the field for em! And hey, if things don’t pan out, he makes for a delicious tenderloin! Pick up the phone Omar, this is destiny calling.

Rickey's Costa Rica Travelogue: Part II

Day 4. We still haven’t adjusted to the time difference and keep on waking up at 5:30 in the morning and going to bed at 9PM. Who the hell gets jet lagged from a puny two hour time difference? (The Hendersons, that’s who).

Departing from Liberia, we head towards Playa Hermosa, a gorgeous beach resort town on the Pacific coast. Driving west, I’m struck by how much flatter the land is here. It’s almost like the Serengeti—squat trees punctuate vast fields and large mountains loom in the distance. The car GPS does a decent job with straight roads, but once you venture off them, things quickly devolve into a greek tragedy. There are lots of unmarked rutted dirt roads here that the folks at Garmin have absolutely no idea how to classify. But on the plus side, the GPS does helpfully alert you whenever you’re about to cross over a speed bump. I wonder who the miserable schmuck is who has to drive around every country marking speed bumps on satellite maps. That poor bastard definitely drew a karmic short straw. One could safely assume that an ancient ancestor of his raw dogged Magellan’s daughter.

We’re settling in for seven days in Playa Hermosa at a lovely resort known as Villas Sol. It’s one of those all-inclusive packages that removes all worries and replaces ‘em with unlimited drinks, helpful smiles, and terrific spreads. Mmmmm, the white man’s burden never tasted so good. The resort is built entirely on a sloping hill with levels upon levels of houses with of cylinder clay tile roofs—the kind that Buster Keaton would scramble up on and cause an avalanche of roofing materials to cascade down after him. Looking at how vertically situated everything is, I try my damndest not to let the word “mudslide” enter my vocabulary. We’re just a short hike from the beach. I probably won’t be updating much over the next few days since essentially all there is to do here is relax and enjoy the incredible views. By no means is this a bad thing.

Promptly after checking in, we make for the beach with due haste. The sand is a black volcanic ash color that stains the skin and massages the feet. Looking for a spot to set up camp on the beach, we’re quickly accosted by an ex-pat named A.J. selling timeshares. He hands us two scratch off cards and informs us that if we scratch off three monkey symbols, we get a free car rental for a week. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that this guy was working on commission. I swear these people would give up their first born for an opportunity to sell a condo. Uh, thanks but no thanks bub, the Hendersons would like to purchase a home stateside before they seek to expand their international realty holdings.We spend a while at the beach marveling at our surroundings. The surf is gentile and the sunbathers are friendly. We pick up our books and let the sun soak into our lanky Yankee bones. A guy wheels a cart down the beach selling cerviche. After careful deliberation, I decide to let my stomach settle with the normal local fare before diving into a cup of raw marinated fish (if no blog posts appear for a few days midweek, you’ll know why—I’ll have sampled cerviche and Erika will be attending to my foodsick stricken carcass).

There’s actually a good deal of stuff to do here. Tomorrow we’re doing pretty much the same thing: heading back to the beach followed by some pool action, but on Monday we’re going snorkeling. Tuesday is sailing. Wednesday is kayaking. In case you hadn’t already surmised, rolling Hendersons gather no moss. Back in a few days with updates.

Best,
~Rickey

Rickey's Costa Rica Travelogue

Hey folks, this is Rickey checking in from Costa Rica. The next few weeks will be an interesting experiment for this blog. Internet connection willing, I’ll be live blogging from the road on our experiences down here. Also, you get the talented Young Henderson keeping dibs on all things Mets-related. And if that’s not enough, you get Adam’s quirky writings as well (no, he doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll get the memo shortly). Act now and we’ll toss in a complimentary set of steak knives! So ironically, Rickey going on his three-week honeymoon will actually INCREASE the frequency of posts here at RwR. And so, without further delay, we present our first installment of:

Rickey’s Costa Rica Travelogue

Moooo. There are fuckload of cows down here. It’s no exaggeration to say they outnumber the people.

Day 1. We touch down in Costa Rica, specifically San Jose Airport, where we spotted Josh Hartnett disembarking the plane with us. He’s accompanied by a blonde female who he dispatches to pick up his luggage from baggage claim. Apparently when you’re Josh Hartnett and have starred in cinematic masterpieces such as “Pearl Harbor,” you get sullen aneorexic blondes to grab your suitcase for you. We would have taken a photo of him, but this is Rickey's honeymoon, not Josh Harnett's, goddamnit.

A hasty exodus was made from San Jose via rental car (not much to see there) and we headed for Alajuela, a small town south of the central mountains of Costa Rica. The landscape is breathtaking, the roads treacherous, and the drivers maniacal. We booked a room for two nights in Vista del Valle Plantation Inn, an awesome collection of bungalows featuring thatched roofs, cozy mosquito netted beds, outdoor showers, and awesome views of the jungle. (In case you can't tell, we're quite eager to be on our honeymoon). Getting back to the digs, you walk out onto the deck of the bungalow and there’s the jungle, rich green canyons and all. Layers upon layers of dense green vegetation. Promptly after checking in to the hotel on Wednesday, we got ambitious and hiked down an insanely treacherous path to a nearby waterfall. The flume of water fell from a height seemingly half the height of the empire State Building and a hawk lazily circled high above the summit.As night sets in, the bats fly about and chirp. Fireflies blink three times at once while the river roars below and thunder sounds in the distance over the mountains. Trees are gnarled and covered with moss. The ground is soft and entire hillsides have sloughed off, only to be replaced by yet more vegetation. Inside every hollowed out tree trunk some creature undoubtedly dwells. Nature leaves no surface untouched or barren. Every morning the sun rises just slightly off to the left of the bungalow deck and basks the entire landscape in vibrant yellows and oranges. It’s a living depiction of “Dawn in the Amazon.” In the afternoon, a cool rain falls from the sky, and we peacefully read books on the deck, a biography for her and David Sedaris for me, while the soothing drops pitter patter down.

We discovered the food at the hotel to be fresh and new as we ate in an open air dining space resembling a tree house overlooking the valley. It takes the taste buds a little while to adjust to eating meat that hasn’t been injected with hormones and steroids. At first you think the steak is too gamey, but then it occurs to you that’s how beef is SUPPOSED to taste. The coffee here is the bar none the best I’ve ever had, something I’m told that is thanks to the sunny and moist Costa Rican climate. The company was excellent as well. We chatted with two Colorado natives who were seriously considering permanently relocating to Costa Rica. This seems to be a common refrain around here.

Day 2. Thursday, we started off with the traditional Tico breakfast of plantains, scrambled eggs, rice and beans, and an artisinal tangy spicy green sauce (yeah, I know, three days here and I already sound like freaking Frommers). While eating we peered through binoculars at goats grazing on a distant hillside. Then we hopped back in the rental car, a beefy 4WD SUV, (Costa Rica is one of those places where they’re actually useful) and made for the Poas Volcano. The drive up was incredible as we went through tiny villages, past sleepy farms, and up into the clouds. Farmers driving tractors smile and wave and tiny dogs yap at us as we drive by. Imagine that Tintin book set in Peru and you’re on the right track. You go up and down 25% grades, navigate crazy s-turns, while the rolling green countryside flies by and you totally love it. Just absolutely stunning stuff. The volcano was a massive smoking crater emitting enough toxic sulphiric gas to put the GOP minority to shame. After taking in the crater, we wandered around the grounds a bit more, winding our way up wooded spooky paths that seemed torn from some Tim Burton movie. Everything is rich here and teeming with life.
Afterwards, we headed to La Paz Waterfalls and Gardens, a touristy spot with a butterfly garden and some animal exhibits. A yellow beaked bird ate from my hand. Monkeys were fascinated by us. The jungle cats couldn’t be bothered to wake from their sleep. Overall it wasn’t much to write home about really, the star of the trip was the drive up there. Tomorrow we check out of the hotel and head towards Liberia for a one night stay before we settle in for seven days of beach relaxation at Playa Hermosa on the Pacific side.

Day 3. After killing a bug the size of my cell phone last night, it’s safe to say that we’re officially over the "charming rustic nature" of this lodge. The bastard was slamming itself against the bungalow door and emitting high pitched shrieks. Given enough time, he probably would’ve figured out a way to open the door. I swear to god, the insect actually screamed like a baby when I swatted him to death.And so we headed west towards Liberia, where we’re staying the night before embarking for Playa Hermosa. The drive was incredible, but fairly slow. In Costa Rica, it takes 4 hours to travel 80 miles. The roads are that twisty. Also, police set up checkpoints every few miles to nab speeders. If possible, Rickey would like to keep his honeymoon free of incarceration. Driving by scattered villages, we’re struck by how little in this country people have. They mostly live in cobbled together houses under sheet metal roofs. When a storm comes, they don’t file an insurance claim, they just rebuild, and somehow they’re always smiling.

We’re in Liberia now and wanted to go lounge by the pool but then the rain came. So we're hanging out in the room for the moment. The Ticos like to peek through the hotel windows at us. Not much to do in Liberia other than gamble at the hotel casino and catch a movie. We looked into seeing “Transformers” but were informed that it was dubbed in Spanish. I argued that this would only IMPROVE the experience of watching Shia LeBeouf attempt to act, but unfortunately, Erika felt otherwise. So it’ll have to wait until we get back in three weeks. Drat.

Logging on to the internet for the first time in a few days, I see that Michael Jackson has died?! The only english speaking tv channel we get in the hotel is Fox News (oh joy). Somebody fill us in, just what the hell are you people up to back home?

Meet the Mets (again)

Yes, that’s right folks: it’s time for a long overdue Mets update. But how is this Mets update different from all other Mets updates you ask? Because it’s being written by Rickey Jr., Rickey’s younger brother! You see after Rickey got married, his selfish side took over and he departed on a honeymoon to some tropical paradise other than the tri-state area (see previous post). Well, rather than deprive the blogosphere of quality reading, Rickey asked me, Rickey Jr., to step in and fill his shoes. A word of caution: Rickey Jr. will most likely disappoint and alienate all of you but will try to make the process an enjoyable one by writing in the 3^rd person. And now, let’s talk Mets…

…Even the casual follower of the Metropolitans is surely aware of the shitstorm of activity swirling around the team in recent weeks. And it’s mainly due to the injuries. Apparently, the Wilpons signed players with bones weaker than Sam Jacksons’ in Unbreakable. As a result, 40% of the starting team is injured and on the DL. Awesome. The only thing keeping Mets fans from putting garbage bags over their heads and jumping off the Whitestone bridge is the fact that the Phillies have also been stinking equally. It’s times like these that Rickey Jr. is thankful that he didn’t shell out money on the MLB package just to see the Mets (sidenote: Rickey Jr. lives in Orlando where baseball is frowned upon because it is a skilled sport….as opposed to turning left for 3 hours straight. As a result, Rickey Jr. doesn’t follow baseball as much as he should so pardon any errors in this post). But just as Mets fans begin to give up, the team shows some resolve and character in recent days. They took 2 out of 3 from the Cardinals and newbie pitcher Fernando Nieve had a great 1^st outing. Is this reason to be hopeful as we enter the subway series? Who knows, maybe the Steinbrenners will spontaneously fire both Cashman and Girardi in one fell swoop and the Mets will trounce them. Eh, probably not. But let’s go with it and hope for the best. Whether relying on 3^rd string players or using the ones with multi-million dollar contracts, one thing is for sure: the Mets will take us on some sort of journey this season and it’s better to come along for the ride than to idly watch it pass you by. Especially if you’re standing on the Whitestone and thinking about jumping. Don’t do that. Rickey Jr. prefers the blogging community alive and reading these fantastic posts.

OK, that does it for now. Stay tuned for more senseless news and analysis.

(Probably) The Last Wedding Post You'll Read on this Blog

Quite the adorable couple, no? Rickey on the left sporting the 'Lil Slugger baseball cap, (clearly foreshadowing his illustrious softball career) and Mrs. Henderson on the right rocking the bangs and pigtails. This little locket just happens to be Mrs. Henderson's wedding gift. Cutting up those photos to fit into the locket got me wondering: what would things have been like had I met my wife Erika when we were wee kids? She'd probably have beaten me up a couple times for hogging the swings at the playground, I'd tease her for her love of pigs, she'd laugh at my irrational fear of raisins, and maybe, just maybe, I'd get a little peck on the cheek at the end of the day.

How'd the wedding go? In a sentence, everything went wrong and then everything went right. There were flat tires, dead car batteries, late shuttle buses, house fires, malfunctioning ovens, broken collar bones, rainy weather, and cash registers that spat out a price of $6.66 for two bagels and a cup of coffee, but once we exchanged vows, all was well. There's a book waiting to be written about everything that's happened over the past week, and yet all that craziness was quickly forgotten once "The Only Living Boy in New York" started playing. We ate, we drank, we laughed, we danced, and I got to wake up next morning with a ring on my hand and a beautiful woman next to me who I have the incredible honor of calling my wife. Life is good.

Listen, we know, you don’t want to hear about Rickey’s wedding. You care not about the fact that Rickey spent the past few days affixing custom designed wedding monograms to gift bags, water bottles, and funnel shaped pieces of cardstock designed to hold rose petals. So we’ll skip over that topic altogether and discuss something a bit less alienating and more engaging: the honeymoon. Following the wedding, Rickey and the newly minted Mrs. Henderson will depart for Costa Rica, a strange and mysterious country of which Rickey knows relatively little (this will become quickly apparent as you read onwards). And so, dear reader, we proudly present:

Rickey’s Comprehensive Costa Rica Travel Guide

Costa Rica! A country of natural beauty and splendor! Home of primo coffee beans, world class sport fishing, and the hit TV series “I’m a Celebrity…Get Me Out of Here!” Costa Rica: the Switzerland of Latin America! Rickey and Ms. Henderson are thrilled to be spending three weeks in this virtually untouched Eden and yet there are most definitely several issues that those who travel to this exotic land must be aware of. For your enlightenment, we’ve listed them below.

Bandits. Here’s where Rickey sets the bar for this honeymoon’s success: NOT GETTING KIDNAPPED. If bandits kidnap the Hendersons and call their families demanding some sort of ransom, things will not go well. Rickey’s parents will kindly inform the bandits that they’re all tapped out after the wedding and recommend that the bandits have Rickey do some manual labor because he could use some sun and exercise.

Dengue Fever. We didn’t even know what this still existed until a day ago. This curious flu like disease has killed off no less than 35 supporting characters in various Hemmingway novels and now looms large over the Hendersons. Rickey and Ms. Henderson aren’t getting shots for any diseases, so wish ‘em luck with this one. Symptoms include high fever, severe headache, joint and muscle pain, nausea, vomiting, rash, and everyone’s favorite ailment: hysterical blindness.

Local Food. Is actually pretty good stuff from what Rickey’s read. Mmmm fish tacos…. We’re sure that one day the Costa Ricans will submit to our greasy American fast food legacy, but until then, Rickey’s got bigger things to worry about while on his honeymoon such as…

Mel Gibson. Apparently he dwells somewhere on the Pacific side. He moved his family there a few months back, presumably in an attempt to live in a country where there are no Jews. Well guess what Mr. Gibson? The Hendersons are inbound, and they’re bringing the Hebrew horde with ‘em. Before you know it, you’ll be up to your eyeballs in skilled lawyers, amiable accountants, and doctors with excellent bedside manner. Tremble, Mel, tremble!

Volcanoes. Coasta Rica has a whopping five volcanoes, one of which is very much alive and erupts every day. Should a full scale eruption occur, Rickey will have mere seconds to react, because lava travels faster than the speed of sound. Or something like that anyway. (Rickey snoozed through 8th grade Geology).

Roads. Apparently navigating the roads in Costa Rica is treacherous enough as it is, let alone for a guy who plans on administering himself a liter of rum daily while he’s down there. But hey, Rickey drove up Mt. Washington, so he should be adequately prepared. We hope.

Snakes. Look, Rickey freaked out when he saw a tiny garden snake last weekend. Costa Rica has angry pit vipers and other serpents that conceal themselves in trees. Rickey has briefed Ms. Henderson that in the event of a snake sighting she is not to tell Rickey about it. Should Rickey see a snake then he is to make good use of the rape whistle around his neck. The plan is ironclad.

Bees. All honey bees in Costa Rica are of the Africanized variety, which is to say that they’re killer bees. Terrific. In hopes of fending them off, Rickey fully plans on bringing a few Wu-Tang Clan albums along with him. That should placate them, yes?

Monkeys. If a coworker’s advice is to be believed (and really, who doesn’t heed 30 second tidbits of advice from coworkers in the elevator?) then the monkeys in Costa Rica are force to be reckoned with. They’re smart. They’ll steal your belongings if you leave them unattended. Let those simians try and pull something with Rickey--he looks forward to wrestling a monkey. Rickey estimates that he could easily best at least 13 monkeys before they overwhelmed him.

Velociraptors. Based on everything we’ve heard, these guys are a real menace. They're the complete package: lethal yet devious. They’ll break in to your hotel room, figure out the combination to your luggage and completely rearrange your socks. Lousy raptors. If Rickey sees a can of Barbasol in the jungle, you'd damn well better believe he's steering clear of it.

With a mere four days to go until the wedding, today we turn our attention to the important stuff: moichandizing. Some people call designing a wedding monogram “personalizing your wedding” but Rickey knows better. This is branding at its finest. Squeamish readers should probably look away at this point. We warn you: not since the reign of Louis XIV has anyone witnessed such a level of self promotion and self aggrandizement. (We shudder to think what would’ve happened had le Roi Soleil had access to Adobe Photoshop and a Michaels craft store). Behold:

Nick and Erika: The Beverage Coaster!

Nick and Erika: The Out of Town Gift Bag Monogram!

Nick and Erika: The Bottled Water! (this is even funnier if you know where Rickey works)

Nick and Erika: The Paper Funnel Thingy that Holds Rose Petals for the Guests to Throw!

Nick and Erika: The Cake Topper!

Nick and Erika: The Toilet Paper!

Nick and Erika: The Flamethrower! (the kids love these)

Nick and Erika: The Signal!

Wedding Update #756

Something called a "vegetable bowl" showed up on the doorstop yesterday, via the Hendersons' wedding registry. Rickey wonders: what exactly makes a vegetable bowl a vegetable bowl? Would something cataclysmic occur were one to put something other than a vegetable in the vegetable bowl? Would the earth tremble, the mountains sway, and a thousand norse gods of war emerge from their slumber to render the Hendersons' marriage null and void if Rickey was to put pasta in the vegetable bowl?

We have no clue. Ask the people at Waterford. Rickey's going outside for a smoke.

9 days...

Your Weekly Softball Report: On Gender Politics, The Zen of Right Field, and The Glorious Mercy Rule

Perhaps Rickey is reading into things too much, but there is a certain degree of sexism present in any coed softball league. League regulations call for a minimum of three females on a team, otherwise the team can’t take the field. Furthermore, if you add more females to your lineup, you can also expand your roster to include more men as well. The insinuation here seems to be that women are an inherent handicap and adding one more entitles a team to compensate for this by adding a dude. Call Rickey nuts, but this seems a rather bad message to send. Also, it potentially exposes an office to multiple EEO violations when the coach of your company softball team belligerently stampedes down the hallway bellowing “Broads! I need BROADS for the game tonight!”

We can’t help but wonder what Emmeline Pankhurst would’ve thought about all this. She’d probably travel through time and organize her own feminist all-star softball team consisting of Abigal Adams pitching, Susan B. Anthony at first base, Elizabeth Blackwell playing second, Margaret Sanger at shortstop, Gloria Steinem at third, and Ruth Ginsberg catching behind the plate with Mary Wollstonecraft, Lucy Stone, and Sojourner Truth manning the outfield. They’d be called the Bra Burning Betties and they’d totally fucking win.

Rickey ponders about this sort stuff while sitting peacefully in right field.

Right field is actually a terrific place to do lots of thinking like this. Right Field: home of Shawn Green! Right Field: inspiration for the classic Peter, Paul, and Mary song! Right field: where nobody’s expecting very much of you! As you can imagine, Rickey likes to keep a low profile in right field, and will dutifully (and happily) switch with the center fielder whenever a lefty batter comes to the plate. In fact, the only physical activity that’s required of Rickey in the outfield is to move to the edge of the infield when a lady comes to bat. This, friends, is yet another instance of odious sexism in softball. Whenever a female comes to the plate, like clockwork, Rickey’s team’s pitcher will turn his back on the batter and slyly motion for the outfielders to come in like it’s all part of some top secret and brilliant baseball strategy. Yes friend, you truly are the Tony La Russa of beer league softball! (deep down, Rickey’s totally rooting for the girl at bat to blast one into the center field gap).

Occasionally, a member of the opposing team will get wind of Rickey’s lackadaisical approach to right field. Either he’ll have noticed Rickey tossing a few warm up throws prior to the game or he’ll have simply sized Rickey up as the sort of person who has no business playing a competitive sport of any kind. Whatever the reason may be, Rickey’s stomach will turn whenever a righty batter looks right at him, pivots his body in mid pitch, and attempts to smack the ball into right field.

Oh no, he’s trying to pull it my way. He KNOWS I’m terrible. He can sense my fear. Something wicked this way comes.

In this situation, Rickey quickly weighs his options. Yes, Rickey could immediately bolt off the field, run to the parking lot, hop in his car, and hastily drive to the bar and get a head start on the aftergame drinking, but that sort of thing is probably frowned upon in recreational softball leagues. So Rickey will man up and tough it out. Nine times out of ten, the batter trying to hit the ball into right field will screw it up and ground out, so in a way Rickey is actually serving his team by indirectly contributing to some nice defense. Rickey’s mere presence causes ground outs!

Rickey’s presence, however did not prevent his team from getting whomped and the mercy rule being invoked. Turns out the ladies on the opposing team were freaking powerhouses. The oft heard comment from Rickey’s team: “their girls are better than some of our guys.” Uh yeah, we’re pretty sure that Rickey is one of those guys. His team’s record: now 1-4.

Afterwards, the team regrouped at a local pub. Bud Light and a burger after a 13-2 softball loss taste …well, honestly, pretty much the same as they normally do. Back next week with a thrilling edition of: The Softball Report.

Your Obligatory Wedding Update: The "Groom Under Pressure" Edition

Weddings make already crazy people do even crazier things than they normally would. Take last night for example—Rickey was stuck in a traffic jam on the highway and running late for a wedding-related task. Rather than wait for the traffic to subside like a normal person, Rickey drove onto the shoulder and gunned it (those rumble strips feel fun when you continuously drive over ‘em at 45mph). In his hasty and highly illegal detour, Rickey drove past an ambulance, and a whole lotta pissed off commuters, including one guy who hollered: “you’re a bad person!” Well that fellow clearly wasn't in possession of all the facts. Good… bad… Rickey’s the guy with the tuxedo ties that need to be picked up. This sort of thing transcends good and evil.

In case you weren’t aware, Rickey takes this whole wedding thing quite seriously. Why should Ms. Henderson be the sole decision maker here? The poor girl is already busy enough responding to everyone on the face of the planet asking her if she’s eager for her wedding (this happens so frequently that she’s debating creating a t-shirt stating “yes, I’m excited about my wedding, now piss off you bastards.”) And this is where Rickey steps in, fine-tuning the playlist, finalizing the rental order, typing up escort cards, and generally doing things that you wouldn’t expect a guy who plays 35 hours of Halo a week to do. But let’s be honest now, if Rickey is unable to pick out a suitable color for the goddamned cocktail napkins at a wedding, then what possible chance does he have of purchasing a house and raising a family?

And so Rickey springs into action, studiously taking every boxed wedding gift inside the apartment and stacking them neatly (the Henderson’s living room now resembles the warehouse at the end of “Raiders of the Lost Ark”). Other tasks prove challenging. Sweet fancy moses, has Ms. Henderson neglected to write a thank you card to the person who bought that crucial All-Clad cheese grater off the registry? That shit needs to be looked into pronto! Was that ballroom dancing class scheduled for tonight or is tonight the night the Hendersons are meeting with their caterer? Does a mic stand at a wedding ceremony look tacky? Is powder blue the right hue for the tuxedo ties for Rickey’s groomsmen? Questions like this keep Rickey up at night. Quick, time to consult this wayward fucker.

All in all, you get the picture. Rickey’s got 18 days left before he gets hitched and, as they say… shit just got real.

Reggie Speaks!

For those of you who might be unfamiliar with the fellow whose likeness has replaced Rickey’s for the weekend, here’s a brief introduction to this charming gentleman, courtesy of J.D. Smith:

David Hirshey, a now ex-sportswriter for the New York Daily News, tells about his departure, as recounted by Alan Richman in "The Death of Sportswriting": Hirshey had heard that Reggie Jackson of the NY Yankees fantasized about harmonizing with the O Jays and decided it was worth a column. "I walked up to him at his locker, and asked, 'Reggie, I know you can carry a team. Can you carry a tune?' He was facing me. He turned around lifted a leg, farted, and said, 'How's this tune?' It was shortly thereafter that I left sportswriting."

In Reggie’s defense, that was a seriously terrible question for a sportswriter to ask. And now a few words from our proud pinstriped paterfamilias. Your mouthpiece for all things Yankee-related. Take it away, Reggie:

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

Hey there Yankee fans, Reggie here. Reggie Tittyfucking Jackson. I don’t know much about the uptight clown who’s been writing this blog for the last two years, but let’s get one thing straight: I don’t like big words. I don’t like words at all. You won’t see me using words like “monumental” or “equivocate.” Fuck, no. I’d rather just use my mind to lift heavy objects and toss them at Yogi Berra. Holy fuck I hate Yogi Berra.

By the way, you blogging weasels should be glad that the internet didn’t exist when I was in my prime. If it did, you’d be blogging about my antics 24/7 like they were the goddamned Tet Offensive.

Now, I’ve been called in to clear up a few errors that people make when talking about the Yankees. Things that you Yanks fans need to know about me and the Yankee Tradition. The first lie that the newspapers love to tell is that George Steinbrenner is a mean and tough guy to work for. Complete horseshit. When George was being investigated on those bogus campaign contribution charges, I went to him to comfort him. It was at that moment he told me that he’d always wanted to be a farmer. A farmer in the 18th Century who owned a cotton plantation with several thousand indentured servants who did his bidding. God bless that kind man.

Also, if anyone has seen George Steinbrenner lately, please let me know. Seriously, he’s been missing for 8 days now. His family is… well, I wouldn’t say they’re concerned, but Hank does seem to be bumping into walls a lot more than usual. Somebody said that George wandered into right field and disappeared like that “Field of Dreams” movie, but I had no idea what they were talking about because I only watch movies about the Yankees winning or Rommel in the desert. Rommel you magnificent bastard--you deserved to win that war.

The second flat out lie about me is that I dislike Jews. Again, complete garbage. I have no problems with the Hebrew people. Wait, what’s that? The author of this blog is a Jew? Holy shit I hate Jews. I bet he’s one of those fake-ass half Jews, you know the kind that just pretends to be Jewish so he can get away with making bad Jew jokes. Pop quiz: whats the difference between a Jew and a canoe? A canoe tips.

People love to gossip about how “hot-headed” I am. Bullshit. Let’s get this straight: I’m a totally respectful and polite man. Until you cross me. Like that one time when Yogi Berra tried to tell me how to swing against lefty pitchers and I threw him out of the team bus while it was traveling to Boston. That wrinkly old prick has never walked right since. Don't believe a word that fucker says about me. That man is a total liar. One time I caught him calling the traffic and weather radio station and reporting traffic jams that hadn't happened. Who does that shit? Yogi fucking Berra, that's who.

History books have gotten Billy Martin all wrong. The guy wasn’t a drunk or a mean spirited man. Let me tell you, Billy Martin was a prince and a gentleman. One time, on a long road trip in Oakland, I was feeling sick and Billy stayed up with me all night, cradling me in his arms and nursing me back to health with a bottle of his sweet sweet whiskey laced breast milk. Let's see that know nothing punk Joe Girardi do something like that.

The most annoying rumor of all is that I am a primadonna who doesn’t care about his fans. Total crap. Look, I was in an elevator a few years ago and a kid asked me for my autograph. I ignored him and told him I was going to the fifth floor and to push the button. Pushing the elevator button for that kid was a special enough moment for him. I’ll bet that little shit still shares that story with his whole family of shits every Thanksgiving. So no, stories about me being a bastard are totally untrue.

I do however moisturize my entire body with baboon's milk.*

It is true that all Yankee players are required to keep their hair a certain length. But did you also know that George Steinbrenner keeps these hair clippings in a large bag in his office for talismanic purposes? True story. One night, I snuck into his office to take a peek. I found the bag of hair, opened it, and inhaled deeply. The grease of Randy Johnson’s mullet, Thurman Munson’s mustache, and Don Mattingly’s thick sideburns blended together into a powerful aroma. It smelled of the No. 4 Subway, of 26 World Series rings, of old hot dog water. It smelled like…. victory.

I’m pretty sure that Yogi Berra is the Son of Sam killer.

I will say this much, after that Babington Plot mess, I’m no longer allowed to set foot in England. Shit, I can’t even be in the same town when the QE2 comes into port. Fucking limeys.

*h/t Adam for the baboon milk moisturizing joke. Adam's lewdness knows no bounds.

Announcing a Slight Change Here at RwR...

This weekend, the baseball apocalypse looms. Thanks to the scheduling devilry of interleague play, Yankees fans will root for the Mets (uh yeah, good luck with that guys) and Mets fans will root for the Yankees. And so in honor of this weekend, we become…Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Riding With Reggie, a thrilling new sports blog which pays homage to all things Yankees! It’s two day mission:

• To explore strange new worlds of smugness and baseball illiteracy
  

• To pay homage to each and every Yankee tradition, no matter how minuscule or trivial
  

• To provide regular updates on Chien-Ming Wang’s thrilling single-A career
  

• To commission a YouTube tribute video commemorating the life and times of Suzyn Waldman, set to the theme of “God Bless America” and featuring meerkats
  

• To celebrate the Yankees, regardless of the actual outcome of any game. 10-0 loss? No biggie—they committed zero errors! Johnny Damon’s uniform was nice and clean!
  

• To introduce the adjective “Jeterian” into the English lexicon
  

• To compliment C.C. Sabathia’s masterful ability to pitch despite being 24 months pregnant
  

• To create a needlepoint cushion bearing Joba Chamberlain’s face for Ms. Henderson (this counts as your wedding gift sweetie)
  

• To talk like John Sterling for 48 hours straight, employing the following phrases on a regular basis: “azure blue skies,” “them’s the breaks,” and “cut on and missed!”

• To not fixate on the fact that the Mets could’ve signed Orlando Hudson, Jose Reyes’ calf is shredded, Carlos Delgado needs hip replacement surgery, the entire lineup is in shambles, Jerry Manuel is shaping up to be an even worse coach than Willie Randolph, or that GARY SHEFFIED IS NOW THE EVERYDAY LEFT FIELDER FOR THE NEW YORK METS... GOD FUCKING DAMNIT THE PLANE HAS CRASHED INTO THE GODDAMNED MOUNTAIN.
  

Did we miss anything in that last one? No? Enjoy the shitty interleague weekend folks. Give serious thought to going outside.

Your Oligatory Wedding Update

And now for a discussion of weighty matters. With the Henderson’s June 20th wedding just a mere month away, Rickey has much on his mind at the moment. With each passing day, the monumental day grows larger on the horizon. Exciting and wonderful things such as buying a house and starting a family together await Rickey and Ms. Henderson, but today we must discuss an even bigger and more pressing issue: Rickey’s wedding band.

Now, Rickey isn’t one to wear a lot of jewelry, but when it comes to purchasing a symbol of his love and devotion for the most important person in his life, you damn well better believe he’s going to splurge on a little bling. After all, Ms. Henderson got to rock the ice for over a year, and we feel that it’s Rickey’s turn now.

For months, online wedding band vendors have dogged Rickey with offers of free tungsten carbide rings in exchange for advertising space here on Riding With Rickey. This never ceases to amuse Rickey because four of our readers are already married and our other seven single readers seem to be perfectly content staying in on a Friday night and masturbating angrily to reruns of the Bob Newhart Show. Also, tungsten carbide is about as valuable as Carlos Beltran’s mole excretions. So needless to say, Rickey turned down the offer.

And so Rickey headed to his trusty Libyan jeweler to shop for a wedding band and/or some plutonium. Quickly realizing that gold is a fairly boring metal and adamantium wedding bands don’t exist and even if they did, they’d probably be ridiculously pricey, Rickey finally settled upon a platinum ring. Nothing too gaudy, just a plain classic band. Behold, the precious:Note the heavenly ethereal glow basking the ring. That, friends, is no accident. Yes, we know, Rickey has weird looking hands. If we sold advertising space here at RwR we could probably have afforded to hire a professional hand model, but we didn’t so deal with it.

Rickey’s had the ring for a few weeks now, and he’s been extremely curious what it feels like to wear it for a day. You know, a sort of test run. Ms. Henderson has flatly ordered him not to put it on until the wedding, but then again, she also told Rickey not to watch “Angels & Demons” without her and look how well that turned out. No, Rickey had to know what it felt like to wear the ring for a day. Rickey is a curious cat, you see. And so, in the name of bold experimentation, Rickey carefully slipped the ring on. Below follows a running diary of the events that followed.

7:05AM: Nothing happened. Rickey didn’t turn invisible, Nazgul didn’t shriek in the distance, and there was a notable lack of hobbit-related shenanigans in the Henderson abode. For a moment, the room did seem to turn a sepia hue, but upon close analysis, this turned out to be the morning light. Well this was a whole shitload of money well spent.

8:34AM: Here’s a fun fact about platinum—it’s ridiculously heavy. So heavy that while walking, you need to adjust your posture to compensate for it or your left hand will drop to the ground and you’ll be stuck walking in circles around it.

11:15AM: Rickey leaves the apartment and hops in the car, ever mindful to steer carefully, lest his leaden left hand cause the vehicle to swerve off the road.

11:30AM: Rickey lends assistance to a deep sea underwater mining facility. Shortly thereafter, a series of calamities occur and the facility is quickly flooded with water. Rickey is able to avoid being trapped in a chamber flooding with water by jamming his hand in front of a closing door—the ring on his hand being the only thing preventing the door from slamming shut and trapping him. Rickey bravely escapes his watery confines.

[editor’s note: our bad, none of this actually happened. While driving, Rickey often likes to daydream that he is the lead character in major summer blockbuster movies -- in this case, Ed Harris in “The Abyss” -- this probably goes a long way to explain why Rickey failed his first two road tests]

12:09PM: Huzzah, the investment pays off! Somebody notices the damn thing! While on the supermarket checkout line, a fellow next to Rickey comments on the ring and says “aren’t you a little young to be married?” Rickey takes this in stride and calmly informs the gentleman that back on the compound where Rickey grew up, it’s not unusual for juveniles as young as seven to marry their special betrothed. The dude takes a step back.

3:34:PM: Rickey arrives home, deems the ring test run successful and attempts to remove the ring.

3:35PM: Uh, it’s not coming off.

3:36PM: Fuck.

4:15PM: How the hell is it that after 4.6 billion years of evolution, people like Rickey are afflicted with joints that are larger than the rest of their fingers? Damn you Charles Darwin, and your little pet beagle too.

4:20: Darkness closes in.

4:30PM: After little Vaseline and a whole lotta twisting, the ring finally comes off. Whew. Rickey won’t be trying that again anytime soon.

And now for your obligatory sappy photo to wrap up the post:

Watching Bad Movies So You Don't Have To: Rickey Reviews "Angels & Demons"

"To pay to see this movie would be an affront unto God, Man, and Good Taste" -The Gospel of Rickey, 5:18

Pop quiz moviegoers: what do you get when you make a movie featuring a lead actor who hasn't made a good film since "Bonfire of the Vanities," shot by a director who hasn't made a good film since "Apollo 13," based on a book by a guy who hasn't written a good novel since... well ever? You get one seriously terrible movie.

"Angels & Demons" kicks off much like any other subtle intellectual movie about the conflict between science and religion: with a member of the Illuminati breaking into a particle collider facility using the old "gouge out somebody's eyeball to get past the retinal scanner" trick, making off with a vial of highly destructive anti-matter, and then planning to annihilate the Vatican and all of Rome in a 5 kiloton anti-matter fueled cataclysmic blast. The Vatican gets word of this and a closed door meeting is convened consisting of a lot of billowing red robes and incense and a consensus is reached along the lines of "Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick, we're having a tough enough time getting our priests to keep their hands off altar boys--we ARE NOT equipped to prevent the detonation of an anti-matter bomb." And so the Catholic Church does what any other organization would do in these sorts of situations, they hire a consultant.

Enter stage right, Tom Hanks as Professor Robert Langdon. A man whose intelligence the movie goes to strenuous lengths to point out. Marvel as Tom Hanks mumbles aloud in Latin! He stares pensively at marble statues! He turns pieces of parchment upside down! He sees symbols and icons that non-academics like us could never perceive! He can detect when people are jetlagged! He went to Exeter! (Rickey can totally testify to the intellectual capabilities of Exeter men, by the way. A college buddy of Rickey's who attended Exeter once got rip-roaring drunk and tumbled down a flight of stairs and upon reaching the bottom immediately and correctly proclaimed that he had fractured his fifth metacarpal. Let's see one of you public school lackeys try to pull that off). Tom Hank’s character at first refuses the Vatican’s plea for help, because they’ve been denying him access to their library resources which he needs to complete his book about religious iconography. Even worse, he continues to gripe about his incomplete book throughout the entire damned movie, presumably because he’s worried about losing his tenure at whatever university he teaches at that’s cool with him squinting a lot and walking around like a complete prick.

After some cajoling, Tom Hanks finally agrees to aid the Vatican and sets off for Rome, the location in which both the Illuminati and director Ron Howard have chosen to hold their audience hostage for two agonizing hours. Hanks, with a sassy female scientist in tow, scurries around Rome trying to track down an Illuminati terrorist whose nefarious plan is unraveled by his ill advised decision to commit his crimes in easily discovered locations marked by Renaissance statues pointing directly at them. There's enough sweeping camera angles, flowing red robes, and pageantry in this film that one has a tough time believing that the Catholic Church didn't make the movie themselves. In actuality, the Catholic Church forbade Ron Howard from shooting "Angels & Demons" in Vatican City, apparently unaware of the benefits of any media coverage that distracts the public that we live in a day and age in which it's necessary for a religious organization to buy an insurance policy for pedaresty.

The action in “Angels & Demons” is completely uninspired. Trust us, you’ve seen enough movies shot in Italy with small European cars whizzing through crowded streets not to be impressed by this one. One thrilling scene even features Hanks trying to escape from the hallowed Vatican archives as oxygen is drained from an airtight reading room (and you thought senior citizens breaking wind at your local library was bad). The main bad guy is a bespectacled member of the Illuminati, a secret society introduced into the movie’s plot to pander to the highly coveted tinfoil hat/ten sided die owning demographic.
After much scurrying about the prominent tourist spots of Rome, the movie climaxes with a heroic priest played by Ewan McGregor grabbing the anti-matter bomb right as it’s about to detonate, hopping in a helicopter and flying it way the hell up into the sky, then parachuting out at the last moment as the bomb goes off. Call us nuts, but a movie that takes itself so seriously really shouldn't have parachuting priests in it. McGregor then lands in St. Peter’s Square and the amazed crowd promptly demands that he be anointed as the next Pope (the previous one was murdered—don’t ask). And this was when Rickey stopped watching. Twenty minutes remained in the movie, so we’re assuming that Ewan McGregor turns out to be the bad guy and that Clint Howard is made Pope, thus ushering in a brave new era for creepy pederasts everywhere.

To refer to the themes that “Angels & Demons” plays with as actual ideas would be an insult to sentient thought, but the central conceit of the movie seems to revolve around the conflict between science and religion. Kudos to Dan Brown and Ron Howard for dredging up a debate that’s every bit as fresh as Galileo’s corpse and continues to rage on to this day in yawn inducing poorly attended core curriculum courses across the nation. People refer to the “controversy” surrounding this Dan Brown nonsense and it irritates Rickey. Just like the Da Vinci Code, it’s all manufactured nonsense originating from a poorly written and misinformed book. Rickey was far more hyped and buzzed when Gillette added a fifth blade to their razors. If this movie actually was controversial, it might be interesting to watch, but no, it’s far worse than that. It’s a bore.

CNN ran a story this morning about how this movie was No. 1 at the Box Office, then they ran a story about a car bomb exploding in Iraq. Both stories elicited the same response from Rickey. Rickey’s verdict: avoid this one at all costs. And if you're one of the folks who contributed to this movie's $48 million opening weekend at the box office, say 56 Hail Marys and smack yourself upside the head.

Your Weekly Softball Report: The First Three Games

Ah coed softball, amateur sporting at it's most mediocre. A game that requires very little athletic prowess--just a $50 check, a pair of cleats and glove, and a willingness to subject yourself to the ridicule of others. Granted, Rickey has joined a beer league and the stakes are completely nonexistent, but that doesn't preclude him him from taking this venture quite seriously. Now, you'd think that hours spent watching professional baseball on television would transfer over into some sort of knowledge of how to actually play the damn game. And in Rickey's case, you'd be completely mistaken. Rickey is... how do you say... well... very not good.

The good news for Rickey's struggling softball team is that they haven't yet played a game that has necessitated the umpire to invoke the mercy rule. But at 0-3 with 9 games remaining in the regular season, there's still plenty of time for that. Below follows a brief summary of the relevant events from the first three games in which Rickey's softball team has participated.

Game 1: In which the season gets off to a most inauspicious start. Rickey, completely unaware that his team's color is red, shows up in a white logoed t-shirt. No jerseys are worn--everybody just wears red shirts like a motley crew of expendable Star Trek characters. Amongst the team members, there are murmurs of some season long ago when everybody was organized enough to design and purchase nice jerseys with their names on them, but those halcyon days are apparently long gone.

While creating the lineup, Rickey's coach had a complete lapse in judgment and decided to put Rickey at third base. For most of the game, Rickey channeled his inner D-Wright and performed reasonably adequately. The highlights of the game include Rickey expertly fielding a ground ball on a hop and proceeding to throw it 25 feet to the right of first base directly into the woods, resulting in a double, and another play in which Rickey deftly stopped a bullet of a hit by placing his upper torso directly in the path of the oncoming ball, with complete disregard for his physical well being (and the fact that he was wearing a glove on his left hand). Apparently the sternum makes a loud hollow thumping noise when hit with a ball travelling at 45mph. Rickey had every other part of the play right -- charge the ball and get your body in front of it -- but had simply forgotten to catch the damn ball, instead opting to bring it to a complete stop by blocking it with his chest like it was a soccer ball.

Judging by the complete silence that overtook the field following this play, we can tell you that Rickey's patented "sternum blocking maneuver" is a helluva great intimidation technique if you're trying to convince people how much of a softball badass you are. Next Mets game, we'd love to see Ryan Church pull this move on a hard hit ball and then let loose a sustained primal roar.

At bat, Rickey performed surprisingly well, even getting a nice base hit resulting in a single. With one out and his team trailing in the bottom of the seventh inning, Rickey realized that this was his time to pounce. Choosing to interpret the first base coach's advice to not get caught off base on an infield fly ball as "take 10 steps to second base and remain perfectly motionless between first and second base when the batter pops out" Rickey got caught in an embarrassing game ending double play. In Rickey's defense:

1) Even without that error, there's absolutely no way his team would've overcome their seven run deficit, and,

2) Were a tyrannosaurus rex to suddenly appear to the field, Rickey would've been perfectly safe (their vision is movement based).

Game 2: Citing a "conflicting obligation," and then gazing distantly away, Rickey weasels his way out of the game. Reports come in that the game was a close one, with Rickey's team losing 8 to 9. Under no circumstances are we willing to attribute the team's improved performance to Rickey's absence.

Game 3: This game showcased some marked improvement on Rickey's part as he landed a solid hit directly to the pitcher and somehow managed to beat out the throw to first base. The ump, apparently perfectly content with calling the play from behind home plate, yelled "safe" and lo and behold, Rickey was standing proud at first. Several hits later from his team and Rickey was sent scampering home, deciding curiously to not stop running until he had made back it to his team's bench. Rickey's time spent in the highly coveted and physically demanding position of right field was mercifully uneventful. Rickey's second at bat before he voluntarily removed himself from the game consisted of a weak dribbler following by the opposing team sarcastically congratulating their pitcher, "way to squeeze him, Jerry!" Ouch--that's gonna make Rickey drink extra tonight.

Then, following a barrage of runs from the opposing team, their coach pulls the ultimate indignity: he pulls the pitcher and replaces him with a ringer (because tossing underhand is so physically taxing). For a moment, some poor pitching from the opposing team's bullpen looks like it just might let Rickey's softball team back in the game, a development that Rickey sagely commented on while sitting on the bench and removing his cleats and getting ready to head towards the parking lot. To the surprise of no one, the rally is short-lived and Rickey's team loses the game.

And this recaps the first three softball outings of the season. As you can imagine, Rickey has yet to ask Ms. Henderson to attend one of his games. We'll be back next week with another edition of ...The Softball Report.

The Teabag Zone

[h/t to Adam for lending his photoshop skills to the post]

(music) Da da da da .......da da da da.

"You're traveling to another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound... but of mind. You're on a journey into a wondrous land, whose boundaries are only that of the imagination. You're entering a place where socialist re-education centers are sprouting across the land like mushrooms, where federal police are raiding trailer camps to confiscate assault weapons from the gun racks of law-abiding hunters, where right-thinking patriot vigilantes patrol the streets "armed and dangerous" to protect themselves from social activists and homosexuals infiltrating the schools and the voting ballots, where activist judges are bending the laws in the dead of night to serve their liberal agendas, where armies of IRS agents are stealing taxes from hard-working citizens and corporate billionaires. You're in a world of a million "what ifs?" and a billion "who knows?" where the sun goes around the earth, Charles Darwin never existed, and a zillion new life forms are created out of the blue by supernatural intervention, a world of dangerous aliens and terrorists behind every tree. You're about to enter right-wing talk show America and the Teabag Zone."

Your Obligatory "Star Trek" Review: Of Warp Core Ejections, Sandwiches, Ostentatious Lens Flares, and General Space-Related Tomfoolery

Hot damn, Star Trek is watchable again. Cool, even. This popcorn movie is a breath of fresh air for those of us who have suffered through an endless stream of uninspired and downright terrible Trek television series and film adaptations (they made an entire movie about rescuing humpback whales for christssakes). This one is an out and out crowd pleaser. Fans of the series will be delighted by the movie's faithfulness to the core sentiments and ideas of the Star Trek universe as well as the many nods to the original series. Casual moviegoers will have a blast with the pacing and action. And for the rabid Trekkies who nitpick stuff like the nacelles on the Enterprise not looking quite right, well quite frankly, this is a better movie than you deserve. You jackasses can live long and prosper in your mother's basement for all Rickey cares.

Whereas past Trek movies have felt like plodding exercises rehashing hackneyed plots about androids trying to be human or whether or not to disrupt the once peaceful lives of creepy space Mormons in order to save them from an interstellar mist, this movie just feels fun and original. Space is once again full of wonder and weird beasties. We're talking really good pulp science fiction--everything the Star Wars prequels should have been.

The film captures the excitement of a young crew hopping aboard a newly minted Enterprise and venturing into the interstellar void together. It's exactly what enthusiast of the property have been clamoring for: a handful of brave and cocky explorers in space, trading quips and playing fast and loose with the laws of physics, all rough and tumble and whatnot. The movie really gets the spirit of the franchise right. For example, one scene showcases the crew tinkering around with the engines of the Enterprise or something and somehow piloting a starship at faster than light speeds smack into into Titan's atmosphere, because they pretty much figured: golly, think of what what fun we'll all have!

Now normally, Rickey's not a huge fan of origin stories and their need to retell everything from scratch, but in this case, it was necessary and it works wonderfully. Is it a reboot? Technically, no. In a very clever plot twist, the movie's villain Nero travels back in time from the Next Generation era to the Federation's formative years, hell-bent on altering history. And he does, thereby effectively giving the studio carte blanche to do what they want with the characters in future sequels. What was once canon is now reborn anew. Yes, there are a few supernova sized plot holes in the script, but they're completely redeemed by the acting. The characters are very much the ones we all know and love: Chris Pine perfectly captures the cockiness of Jim Kirk, Karl Urban's impression of Dr. McCoy is so pitch perfect it's scary, and much to Rickey's pleasant surprise, Zachary Quinto's Spock shines as the real star of the movie. It's terrific fun to watch the movie fire on all cylinders as rejuvenated versions of Sulu, Chekov, and Montgomery Scott all shine. Another hour could've been tacked on to the movie's 120 minute run time and that would've been just fine with Rickey.

To give any plot elements away would be a great disservice to those of you who haven't seen the movie yet, so we'll boil down the important stuff for you into pithy bullet point format:

- In the future, there are sandwiches.

- Spock is a straight up pimp.

- James T. Kirk owns a copy of "Ill Communication" by the Beastie Boys. (h/t to Adam for the funny)

- Fencing actually has practical real world applications, thereby completely validating Rickey's jaunt on the high school fencing team.

- Director J.J. Abrahms LOVES lens flares. They're in every goddamned shot. The artistic insinuation being that the future is so brilliant and bright that it practically shines off the screen at the audience. It's a little grating, but we're assuming it was done primarily to render the pirated camcorder versions over at TV Shack nigh unviewable (not that Rickey would know anything about that. Ahem).

-Dudes wearing red shirts have cruelly short life spans.

Rickey's final verdict: go see it, pronto. It's most likely the best summer flick you'll see this year that doesn't involve giant robots punching each other.

Your (un)Official Guide to the Swine Flu

Because we'll be damned if we let this swine flu thing kill our sense of humor, below in handy Q&A format is a compendium of everything you need to know about this alarming outbreak.

So this swine flu, what is it?

This is the big one people. H1N1. The virus is a mix of human virus, bird virus from North America and pig viruses from North America, Europe and Asia. Rumor has it that it was created on a small and uninhabited volcanic island. And now, Prendick, once we have eaten and drunk, Rickey will explain how all this came to pass...

Rickey, how concerned are you about this outbreak?

Ms. Henderson has a well-documented love for pigs. By Rickey's count, there are no less than 23 pig-related tchotkes in the apartment. Suffice to say, Rickey is severely concerned.

But wait, how is this a big deal when HIV/AIDS kills over 5,000 people every day?

Because Lou Dobbs WARNED US about this swine flu thing a decade ago and we didn't build that wall along the border of Mexico like he told us to. Also because CNN has a whole lot of stock footage of pigs lying around. Got it?

I'm feeling ill tempered and am prone to fits of honking and hissing. Am I infected with swine flu?

No, that's actually swan flu, a different yet equally dangerous disease.

How can an animal that tastes so good be so deadly?

An excellent question. The big guy upstairs seems to have a rather morbid sense of humor, doesn't he?

What can I do to keep from catching swine flu?

Not going to Mexico City would be a good start. Also, as a rule, never kiss a sneezing pig. Additionally, consider temporarily switching to turkey bacon--it tastes absolutely terrible, but it just might save your life. Most importantly, avoid large crowds of sneezing, coughing people, they are all zombies. Shoot them from a distance.

So can I use this as an excuse to call out sick from work this week?

Absolutely! (just don't blame Rickey when you actually do come down with it and have already exhausted your sick leave)

What's the U.S. government doing to combat this epidemic?

Very little. They're urging everyone not to panic. This of course raises the question of what to do when we're told that it is time to panic. We recommend panicking.

Do you have any snazzy resources to help underscore the pants shitting terror I should be feeling right now?

Indeed. Take a gander at this Google Map indicating cases of swine flu throughout the U.S. Watch the dots multiply in real time. Proceed to freak right the hell out.

Is there any helpful literature I can peruse to further educate myself about this menace?

Sure, there's a good deal of stuff out there. But your best bet is picking up a copy of "The Stand" by Stephen King. It will give you an excellent idea of what to expect in the days ahead. In the meantime, Rickey urges you to remain panicked and keep refreshing this blog every 15 minutes. It's for your own good.

What else can I do?

It's important to remain optimistic. Look on the bright side, if the flu wipes out a large portion of the population, it will slow down climate change.

Annoying Wedding Moment #649

A big shout out to the individual who purchased the solitary wine glass off the wedding registry. Rickey will enjoy sipping beverages from it. BY HIMSELF.

In other news, Rickey will be attending his first Mets game of the season this Saturday at the newly minted Citi Field. Mike Pelfrey will be taking the mound against Daniel Cabrera and the Nats (just missed Santana by one day, argh) We'd like to think that the Mets' chances against a baseball team that can't even spell their name properly on their jerseys are pretty good, but who knows? Either way, we'll report back on Monday with some pictures and Rickey's thoughts on the snazzy new venue.

What we will absolutely NOT BE reporting back on is Rickey's bachelor party this Saturday evening in Manhattan. As far as you folks are concerned, Rickey and a few buddies will be spending the night in the library doing academic research on the migratory patterns on the ruffed sage grouse. That's all that you, Ms. Henderson, and local law enforcement officials need to know. (Rickey has a bad track record at Bat-Mitzvahs for crying out loud, how do you think this is going to go?) Assuming Rickey's not dead or incarcerated following a night that's gearing up to be a 100 car train wreck, we'll be back on Monday.

Reviews of New Products: Rickey Tests Hot Glove

In the Arthurian tradition, there's a longstanding theme of the hero suiting up for battle. Whether it's St. George donning his armor to go off and fight the dragon, or James Bond getting some high tech gadgets from Q, or Batman buckling his utility belt, the common theme is that the hero needs to be equipped with the tools with which to embark upon their quest. And it is that great and noble Arthurian tradition that led to Rickey standing flummoxed in a local Modell's sporting goods store gazing at shelves of softball gloves late one weekday afternoon. Could Rickey have opted for a normal baseball glove, one that wasn't 14 inches wide and looked like a gigantic leather basket on the end of a twig when Rickey slipped it on his hand? Arguably, yes, but Rickey is participating in a softball league, and the proper tools to do the job are essential, you fool. Besides, it's strangely comforting to know that somewhere, a burly 6'3 high schooler is using the same exact glove, and she's winning, damnit. She's winning. And so, glove tucked under his arm, Rickey headed for the checkout aisle.

Of course the bigger challenge is breaking in a softball glove in a relatively short amount of time. Enter stage right: HOT GLOVE. Normally, Rickey is highly skeptical of wonder products like this, but what cinched the deal was it's ringing endorsement from the one and only Bobby Cox. Quoth the famed ill-tempered Atlanta Braves coach: "it really works great!" Well that's all Rickey needed to hear. If the guy who won every single NL East division title from 1866 to 2005 is endorsing a product, then Rickey is most definitely sold.
Much like Bobby Cox, this caustic substance is designed to wear things down. Much like Bobby Cox, it is also highly explosive, yet curiously ineffective after repeated use. Also, much like Bobby Cox, the instructions are completely incomprehensible, so we'll break it down for you in simple terms. In a manner similar to Bobby Cox's method of getting himself ejected from games, you work it up into a foamy froth, then proceed to slather the gunk all over your newly purchased glove. Preheat an oven to 300 degrees, roughly the same internal temperature as Bobby Cox's gall bladder, and pop the glove in there for 4 minutes. During those 4 minutes, feel free to muse upon the fact that Bobby Cox is just a handful of games short of being ejected for an entire season. Dwell on the possibility that in the steroid era, Bobby Cox's career ejection record may be the only legitimate statistic on the books. When the 4 minutes are up, take the glove out, flex it for a while, and you're good to go. Repeat as necessary.

Rickey's verdict: after three applications, this Hot Glove stuff works wonderfully and Rickey is now in possession of well-weathered softball glove. Further applications beyond that seem to be governed by the law of diminishing returns. Rickey now eagerly awaits the start of softball season, as well as his royalties check from the Hot Glove people.

PRESIDENT OBAMA DEBATES ACCEPTING FACEBOOK FRIEND REQUEST FROM VENEZUELAN LEADER

President Obama returned to America from a two-day summit with various leaders of the Western Hemisphere this Monday. On his arrival in the Oval Office, the following email awaited him: "President Hugo Chavez has sent you a Facebook friend request. Add to Friends?"

Obama openly admits to being cautious about the request. "I just sat there and looked at it. I thought to myself, is this the kind of person I want reading my status updates? He's not going to make me take one of those quizzes about which Smurf I am, is he?"

This is not the first time that an issue on Facebook has given the President pause. Obama went on to state that William Ayers still appears on his "People You May Know" tab and he has yet to decide whether or not to add him as a friend. Obama left open the possibility of adding Ayers under a special designation, such as "It's Complicated."

Obama made it clear that he takes such decisions very seriously, and has convened his cabinet for several closed door meetings to debate the idea of him joining the Facebook group "I Don't Like the Letter H." He is currently listed as "maybe attending" for future group meetings.

Yet despite longstanding disagreements between Venezuela and the United States, President Obama has considered the possibility of using Facebook to move American diplomacy forward in more innovative ways.

For example, Facebook has allowed the President to stay abreast of recent developments in North Korea. In recent weeks he has received a notification stating "Kim Jong-il just poked you with an intercontinental ballistic missile. Poke back?"

The social networking that Facebook allows also has helped Obama to strengthen his domestic policies. He explained that "just last week I gladly responded to a (lil) Green Patch Request from EPA Chief Lisa Jackson. I was told that by contributing a batch of virtual petunias, together we could help fight Global Warming and I eagerly await her status report on how that's coming along."

Obama has attempted to convince the Democratic leadership to join the Facebook network, but has met fierce resistance from Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid, both adamant Friendster users who refuse to make the jump. Further confusion has occurred due to Senator John Kerry's practice of changing his profile picture every 10 minutes.

Nonetheless, the President perseveres. Obama explained that "fostering more constructive relationships with countries such as Venezuela is a top priority for my administration, and frankly, if that means reading a Facebook status update from Hugo Chavez stating that he's eating cheese in the bathtub, well, then so be it" he said.

Not everyone is pleased with the idea of President Obama and Chavez fostering a Facebook friendship. GOP minority leader John Boehner went on record say that such a decision would "undermine our moral authority and make the United States less safe."

Boehmer continued to say that "this is a huge tactical and strategic mistake" and that he would have no option other than to "unfriend" President Obama if he was to accept the Venezuelan President's friend request.

Rickey Recommends

This is where Rickey posts recommendations of noteworthy consumables, practices, and pastimes that have been deemed invaluable for the reader’s betterment. All products and pieces of advice listed herein have been Rickey tested and approved. Again, this is in no way shape or form a complete rip off of McSweeney’s (fa-la-la-la-la, lawyers, Rickey can’t hear you). Enjoy our latest installment of

RICKEY RECOMMENDS

The Daily Puppy. Confused? Here’s how this works: each and every day a new image of a puppy is posted on this website. People go there and look at the aforementioned images. It’s all very complicated, we know. Web users are free to check out the website, bask in the adorability, then curse their octogenarian Yugoslavian landlady for enforcing a strict no pets policy in the apartment. It’s similar to Cute Overload, but featuring puppies (much to Rickey’s deepening concern, there has been an influx of frogs, bugs, and other non-puppy related material trickling in over at Cute Overload). Rickey’s current fave: Tin Tin. Goddamn that little bastard is adorable. He’s so cute he makes Rickey want to swear. Fuck. Is there some sort of job out there that involves playing with puppies all day long while getting paid a hefty six figure salary?

“No Line on the Horizon” by U2. We’d bitch and moan about how this album doesn’t measure up to earlier efforts like “Joshua Tree” or “Achtung Baby,” but that would be an exercise in futility and wanton negativity. Bottom line: even a mediocre U2 album far surpasses 99% of the garbage that’s out there these days (yes, Rickey’s looking at you, John Mayer). See, everyone complains about the quality of modern rock/pop music, but whenever a band tries to do something different, their fans whine and yearn for the "good ol' days." Bands that try to create the same music over and over are boring and not worth listening to and we’ll take U2's efforts to do something different on every CD over uninspired dreck any day. If Rickey wants to hear “Joshua Tree,” then Rickey will listen to it, end of story. This isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement, we know, but there are some seriously great tracks on this new album, ranging from intimate and mysterious to downright shoe tappingly good. Pick it up.

Killzone 2. Much to the alarm of watchful parents everywhere, videogames have reached a point where the only thing more realistic than your average M-rated FPS experience is actually signing up with the Army and demanding a pocket knife and immediate deployment to Mosul. Short of that, you’ll be hard pressed to find a more immersive experience than Killzone 2, as you play the role of a space marine (what’s with all the space marines these games?) and take on the Helghast, a fierce militaristic race whose only weakness is their ill advised decision to leave conspicuous red explosive barrels everywhere for the player to shoot at. Fireballs ensue. Rag doll physics are demonstrated. Good times are had. And speaking of turning the nation’s youth into cold-blooded killers, Rickey also recommends….

The Nerf N-Strike Vulcan EBF-25. Wow. You could singlehandedly liberate an entire grade school with this thing. Toys like this make Rickey wish he was a kid again. If the government was smart, they’d just take away everybody’s guns in the country and replace them with assorted Nerf weaponry. Racially motivated shootings would suddenly be entertaining to watch!

Almond Milk. It’s like soy milk but without all the pesky calories. Give it a shot you unhealthy bastard.

Not flying Qantas Airlines anytime soon. Look, it's one thing to leave off the 'u' in your company name if it starts with the letter 'q'. That's ok we guess. Rickey can forgive that. But allowing a bunch of snakes to escape mid flight? Completely unacceptable. For those keeping score at home, between this and the kangaroo uprising we mentioned on Monday, you now have no reason whatsoever to visit Australia.

Compressed Air Canisters. Egad, have you looked in between your keyboard keys recently? There are untold worlds of microbes living in there! Vast universes of germ colonies eagerly plotting the downfall of your fragile immune system! A few periodic blasts from your good friend the compressed air canister do wonders to attenuate the situation, as well as nurture your inner Howard Hughes. Never has something so ridiculously flammable been so useful!

Michael Chabon. Nine years late to the party, Rickey finally started reading “The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay” and it’s terrific stuff so far—a wonderful look at the great mythmaking tradition of the comic book industry circa WWII. We’re deluged with lousy watered down comic book movies, so riddle Rickey this: why couldn’t this book be developed into a movie? Oh and by the way, for you geeks out there, Chabon’s currently working on the script for the film adaptation of “John Carter of Mars” which is a lot like Mario Puzo writing Superman II, but times a bazillion on the coolness scale.

Stew Leonard’s. Somewhere along the line, somebody got the bright idea of making grocery stores fun, kind of like a theme park. But unlike a theme park, this actually serves a purpose, because you get to go home with some seriously good food instead of a case of motion sickness and a severe distaste for consumerist culture. What thrilling excitement awaits you around the next corner? A trio of mechanical cows playing banjos? Perhaps some tasty handmade mozzarella cheese? Buy the ticket, take the ride! Just remember, rather than the typical supermarket layout, Stew Leonard’s aisles are set up like a winding path, so if you forget something, it’s nigh impossible to retrace your steps and go against the ebb of traffic. So you must do your very best to leave no kumquat behind. And remember, when the nice lady offering free samples of banana donuts asks if you’d like one, you say YES. Yes you’d like a banana donut. You’d like 10 million banana donuts.

Notes from the Citi Field Groundskeeping Crew, Following Last Night's Game:

1) Apparently building a stadium five feet to the left of the old one wasn't enough to divert us from under the LaGuardia and JFK flight paths. Whoops.

2) Paint entire section of right field walls in warm, soothing colors. Gary Sheffield will be out there Wednesday. Gary Sheffield's mental well being is very important to us.

3) Remove magical talisman buried under pitchers mound causing HEATH BELL to pitch above expectations.

4) DO NOT acquiesce to Mike Piazza's demands that he be given the cell phone number of the lead male vocalist of "West Side Story."

5) Double supplies at Shake Shack. Doc Gooden loves him some shakes.

6) Call ANIMAL CONTROL. Come on people, cats living in Queens is downright unnatural.

Your Weekly Linkage

(Rickey wishes the pic was his doing, but no, it was something he stumbled upon in his internet forays. Hello, new office wall adornment).

Rickey has long believed that there are two basic kinds of Germans: the industrious, polite, and efficient ones ...and the nut jobs. This individual, who thought it would be fun to go for a frolic in the polar bear tank in a German zoo, falls into the latter category . People, if LOST has taught us anything, it's that polar bears are fierce and terrifying adversaries, and a whole lot different than the animated variety you see in those Coca-Cola commercials during the holidays.

A while back, Rickey joked that Somali pirates were quickly becoming a hip new trend. Well, yesterday pretty much marked the end of that. The new hotness? NAVY SNIPERS. Need three targets in a bobbing boat simultaneously taken out from a distance of several hundred yards away with absolutely no margin for error? They'll do it. Best of all, they'll do it on Easter.

Leonard Nimoy is coming to "Fringe." Odds of him being cast as the mysterious William Bell? Pretty good, Rickey's guessing. Odds of this having a lot to do with the new Star Trek movie coming out next month which Nimoy stars in and just happens to have been created by the same producers/writers who gave us "Fringe"? Even better.

Via the NYTimes, apparently the Treasury department is directing G.M. to brace themselves for something known as 'surgical' bankruptcy. Yep, Detroit, take due notice thereof and govern yourselves accordingly, because it's a good bet that the surgery will be performed by this fellow:
Aww, the Obamas purchased a puppy! It's a Portuguese water dog, a breed of sailing dog known for it's dense curly fur and curiously shaped paws which allow it to tread water quite well (apparently the Obama family takes this polar icecap melting thing rather seriously). Cue the Rush Limbaugh sketch mocking the media's Obama celebrity fixation with "Puppy Love" by Paul Anka playing in the background in 5... 4... 3... 2...

Good news fatties: brown fat may help you to lose weight faster. Apparently somebody gave some of the stuff to a lab rat and it turned into the Lance Armstrong of the rat world. Also rumored to be helpful for weight loss? A healthy diet and regular exercise.

It's standard procedure for videogame developers to dole out "press packets" along with the games they ship to reviewers to play with. Not so standard? EA, the distributor for the upcoming Godfather II game, shipping brass knuckles and garotte wire with their review copies of the disc. Now the writers are in possession of what many states consider to be illegal objects. Whoops.

Apparently, the most expensive movie ever made is ...Tron 2? That's pretty impressive for a movie that Rickey didn't even know existed until just now. Hey, for $300 million, couldn't they just build a virtual computer world that people can travel to and race light cycles in?

And so the Kangaroo Uprising begins. Never get chummy with an animal that hides a smaller version of itself on it's body. That sort of behavior is just untrustworthy.

And finally, in anticipation of tonight's inaugural game at CitiField, here's a fun little article on the Fan Walk bricks in front on the main entrance to the new Mets ballpark (one of which bears Papa Henderson's name in honor of his 65th birthday).

Why is This Blog Post Different From All Other Blog Posts?

Because in this blog post, we discuss a most Hebraically significant day. For our uninformed gentile friends who focus their attention on the Easter Bunny or Crime Fightin' Chocolate Jesus, or whatever it is you non-chosen ones like to worship this weekend, the Jewish holiday of Passover commemorates the Exodus of Ron Jeremy's ancestors from Egypt. Moses, decidedly unhappy with the Pharaoh's refusal to pay his laborers prevailing wage rates on a handful of major construction projects, gathered up his peeps and walked off the jobsite altogether, never to return. Meanwhile, back in Egypt, mass chaos erupted when it was discovered that all the workers had left their tasty Pillsbury crescents in the oven and frogs started plummeting from the sky, much like the end of "Magnolia," only without musical accompaniment from Aimee Mann. After a brief jaunt in the desert, Moses settled his people in a nice sunny spot by the sea where they lived happily ever after and no one ever bothered them again. The End.

And that's Passover in a nutshell. For the first time in a while, Rickey's not going to a sedar. Is this a development that Rickey is a little, shall we say, Baruch Attah el-annoyed with? Not really. The lack of a formal sedar suits Rickey just fine--it's all about the food anyway, why pretend otherwise? So Rickey will be merely cooking for the occasion--trying his hand at some sort of yet undetermined roast beef dish and serving up his trusty matzo ball soup.

Because an integral part of any respectable Passover sedar involves some sort of game for gullible children, we feel that now is an entirely fitting time to announce the winner of our caption contest from earlier in the week. A hearty mazel tov goes out to Smitty, of Around the Keg, for grasping the low hanging fruit Rickey dangled in front of him and squeezing comedy gold from it. Smitty, your prize awaits--email Rickey at manofsteal@live.com with your mailing address, full social security number, and mother's maiden name, and we'll dispatch your signed photo posthaste. Enjoy the holiday weekend everybody. Boils, hail, and locusts permitting, we'll be back on Monday.

A Brief Rant And then Something Entirely Different...

There's a lot of hang wringing going on about some of the contradictions at play in the Obama administration. Critics rational enough to move past the frantic cries about creeping socialism are struck with a sort of cognitive dissonance when examining President Obama's recent decisions. Whether you agree with the guy's policies or not, there's a certain inconsistency at work in his first 100 days. Why spend hundreds of billions on homeowner relief yet refuse to allow the government to make direct loans to homeowners? Why force out the CEO of General Motors while leaving the leadership at equally failed institutions like Citibank or Bank of America in power? The broader question is, if you're going to initiate an activist government, why not go all the way? Perhaps it's like we said in our inauguration post: dude's complicated, simple as that.

But let's cast aside the hand wringing for a moment and remind ourselves how much of an upgrade Barack Obama is over his predecessor. We know, you've already had a few months to bid a not so fond farewell to the Bush Administration, but with these rumblings of discontent emerging from the left, now seems like a good time for a bit of a reality check. A little something to remind us of how far we've come. To this extent, Rickey's dad, Papa Henderson, writes in with a mammoth five act satirical play about the Bush Presidency, modeled loosely on "Macbeth." There being no objections, and this not being a democracy, we're running it because goddamnit, Shakespearean references are good for you.

No it's not Rickey's material, but if it's any consolation, just paginating the freaking thing took three times as long as any normal blog post would. There's four acts after this one, and they're equally lengthy, so let Rickey know if you enjoy this first installatment and he'll toss up the others. Enjoy:

THE TROUBLESOME REIGN

OF

KING GEORGE:

ACT I

Scene 1: In which Prince George and Sir Cheney encounter three Witches of the Sixties, who greet them with prophecies of future greatness.

Scene 2: In which The King and his court celebrate another Elephant victory over the Donkeycrats. The King and Lord Cheney confer with the Dukes of Frist and Hastert on bold action to reform the Social Nest-Egg Plan.

Scene 3: In which The Donkeycrats lament their defeat but rise in renewed vigor with news of the King’s plan to scuttle the Social Nest-Egg Plan.

Scene 4: In which The King, the Queen, and Lord Rove urge Parson Perkins to exercise restraint in his plans to rid the Kingdom of buggery and other anti-family evils.

Scene 5: In which Lord Cheney, Lord Rummy, and Don Gonzalez report to the King on their successes in bending the law in the War on Terror.

Dramatis Personae

George Bush, (Prince and) King of America
Lord Cheney, Viceroy of America and Privy Counselor to the King
Lord Rove, Counselor on Domestic and Campaign Affairs
Lord Rummy, Minister of Offense
Don Gonzalez, Minister of Injustice
Lady Rice, Ministress of State
Lord Snow, Minster of the Exchequer
Lord Chertoff, Minister of Homeland Security
Lordling McClellan, Mouthpiece to the King
Parson Perkins, Minister of the Church of Family Values
Duke of Hastert
Duke of Frist
Duke of Lieberman
Duke of McCain Leaders of the King’s Two Houses
Duke of Kerry
Duke of Reid
Duchess of Pelosi
Duke of Biden
Gadfly Howard of Dean
Sir Scooter Libby
Sir Harry Wittington
Laura Bush, Queen of America
Barbara Bush, Queen Mother of America
George H.W. Bush, Paterfamilias of America
Lady Armstrong
General Casey, Leader of the King’s Iraqi Forces
Three Witches
Palace press reporters, attendants to the King, secret service agent, messengers of bad news

Act I.

Scene 1: A heath near Arlington, Texas. Three Witches of the Sixties, Prince George, Sir Cheney.

[Prince George and Sir Cheney in an auto, Prince George driving]

Prince: I could have sworn the road back into town
led off that way.

Cheney: Indeed, my Lord, though my
directional parameters are keen,
I too am at a loss as to our
whereabouts. This dreary landscape and these
ruffling winds, portentous monitors of
atmospheric tumult, quite disorient
my otherwise well-ordered bearings.

Prince: It’s sure weird how the weather’s shifted. Hey!
Who’s that there? Three dressed-down critters – dudes or
ladies I’m not sure –perched out along the road.

Cheney: Three strangely sorted derelicts they seem,
in unisex-type outfits that bring back
dark memories of the Sixties and their vile,
degenerate excess. I like them not.
Let’s hasten back and call a constable.
Why do you slow down and roll down the window?

Prince: They ’re signaling us to approach.
Maybe we can get directions from them.

Cheney: To where? Some carnival or freak show they’re
appearing in? They make my skin itch.. Let’s get
our carcasses away, or else, who knows,
we’ll find ourselves stuffed into some old laundry
bags and fed to barracudas.

Prince: Hell, they
look harmless. I’ll step out and see what’s up.
Say, what’s the nearest place to get a
chili dog?

First Witch: All Hail Prince George, the owner of the Texas Rangers!

Second Witch: All Hail Prince George, the Duke and Governor of Texas!

Third Witch: All hail Prince George! That shall be
King of America hereafter!

Cheney: Predictions of encouragement and worth!
Can you strange objects of conjecture now
unfold more riches from your potent bag
of prophesies and let me know what might
lie down the road for me in the as yet
uncharted future?

First Witch: All hail Sir Cheney!
Less mighty than Prince George, yet mightier!

Second Witch: All hail Sir Cheney!
Less well-connected than Prince George, but with
more gravitas!

Prince [aside]: What’s “gravitas”? Astronomy
has never been my strong suit.

Cheney [aside]: I‘ll tell you later

Third Witch: All hail Sir Cheney!
Though not quite King yourself,
yet shall you lead one!

Cheney: Strange presences, when may we reconnoiter
and confer with you again?

First Witch: When future
circumstances call you forth, unto this
heath convey yourselves and here invoke and
summon us, and we’ll appear at your command.

Prince: [to Witches] Can you back up on what you told me here
and fill me in on it some more? I know
I’m the Rangers’ owner – a big improvement,
on those dry oil wells Pater Bush unloaded
on me some years back. And it’s funny how
you mention how I might be the Duke
of Texas – something that’s crossed my mind. It’s
almost like you’re ferreting around inside
my head. But King of all America –
whoa, now, that’s quite a mouthful! Whoever
got out that idea, and how did you get
wind of it?
[Witches vanish]
Goddammit! Where’d they go?
They cut and ran!

Cheney: Vanished like some distasteful,
drug-induced hallucination that deludes
the mind. Best to dismiss all this and go
our way.

Prince: Maybe so, but what’s with all those
“more than this”s and those “less than that”s” they
threw at you? Why can’t they just come out and
say things plain? You take the wheel, Sir Cheney.
I’m too ticked off to steer right now.

Act I, Scene 2. Eleven years later. Ballroom in the King’s Palace. King, Queen, Royal Family, King’s counselors and ministers. Dukes of the Houses, attendants to the Court.

Duchess Rice [gesturing to a campaign poster of the King]
Behold the face that launched a thousand bombs,
deposed the tyrant King of Babylon,
hauled him ensconced from out a spider hole,
and opened up an incremental path
(forward two steps, then back a step or two),
to sow the seedlings of democracy
throughout that suffering kingdom’s desert sands
and spread before its long-starved denizens
the fruits and blessings of free enterprise!
[Cheers and applause]

King: Thanks, gentle, yet still tough, State Ministress.
We’ll need your grittiness and expertise
as we pursue the Evil Axis and
all other foes of freedom round the globe.
But what say you, Lord Rove, our Architect
of campaign strategy, about this new
election triumph, both for us and all
the Elephants?

Rove: Our message of confidence
and optimism has again prevailed.
Our spirited campaign, well-prepped,
well organized, and well supplied
with dedicated staff and gushing funds,
has brought us victory. You, Sire, can sail
into the quiet harbor of your reign,
unvexed by re-election worries or concerns.
All Elephants can look to tighten more
their firm grip on the instruments of State
that drive our Kingdom’s engines. I foresee
a future filled with joy and glad success
to challenge good King Ronald’s palmiest times,
when Elephants maintained unrivaled sway
and all things smiled on us.

Cheney: And they again
shine forth with beaming and propitious ray.
Lord Rove and Lady Rice, we hail you both.
In spite of lurking dangers, you have raised
our Party to hopes of even happier days –
leading the Kingdom in the War on Terror
as the armies of our Elephants advance
in battles foreign and domestic.

King: I celebrate with all you gathered here
this triumph o’er the limping Donkeycrats,
who sought to shake with oddball, ill-conceived
suspicions the firm pillars of our reign –
patriotism, profit, and piety.
These triple policies by which our Party
lives and breathes and moves, sound forth their clarions,
and spread their banners through our juiced-up ranks.
I’m not surprised that Donkeycrats now sink,
their butts hard pounded by the stormy blast
of national defeat. And now’s the time
to spend the capital we’ve earned and cash
our blue chips in on legislation bold
and suitable to our designs. Look soon,
after close consultation with our Party’s chiefs
to learn of enterprises we’ll pursue
to serve us in the years ahead.

Rove: Let’s shout it now unto the vaulted roof:
hail victory, low taxes, and King George!

All: Hail victory, low taxes, and King George!

Rove: We call on Parson Perkins now to grace
us with his benediction.

Perkins: Protect us, Lord, in this long war with Terror,
from spiritual sloth and Liberal error.
Be with King George as he leads forth our legions
at home and in the broad globe’s troubled regions.
Confound our foes and all whom they abet,
and may the FCC clean up the internet.

All: Amen.

King: Until our evening revels, let’s recess
Then we’ll feast and trip our heels while we exchange
happy congratulations with ourselves.
Dukes Frist and Hastert, Lord Cheney and myself
would seek some words with you. [Exit all]

[King, Cheney, Frist, Hastert]

King: As leaders of our Houses, gentlemen,
the sharers of our triumphs and success,
what bold new legislation might we craft
to print the Elephant and its grand deeds
in history’s golden ledger?

Frist: Why any new legislation, Sire? While
terror stalks and profit margins rise,
why stir the settled state of things with change
and giddy innovation? Such tactics smack
of Donkeycratic social schemes, best shunned
by our staid, sober Party.

Hastert: Honored Sire,
will not our noble tax cuts, set to last
into the unconfined future, sound
your legacy? On those, commingled with
your steadfast prosecution of the War
on Terror, lies your glory and the sure
recompense that history will bestow.
Strange and unnatural, it seems, suited
to neither our Party’s needs or membership,
is the project of concocting of new reforms.
Hold fast to what we have is my advice.

Cheney: Gentlemen both, your principles are sound.
Far be it from us to propose a law
that plunges us heedlessly into some
future that unsettles our estate.

King: Rest assured,
we’re looking firmly backward in our plans
to happier times that came before the ills
and the entitlements that plague us now.

Frist: My Lords, we listen to your greater wisdoms
with eager and attentive ears.

Cheney: Think back to old King Franklin Roosevelt
and the evils he imposed to manacle
our liberties with hateful regulations

Hastert: King Roosevelt! When I was but a lad,
tender in years and with a waist as small
as is the circle of an eagle’s talon,
my granddad took me on his knee
and told me tales of Roosevelt’s dark reign,
I sucked his words in as a hummingbird
imbibes the nectar of the sweet musk-rose.
To him I pledged eternal war against
all social programs, all taxation schemes
that skew the workings of Free Enterprise.

Cheney: The time has come, the very instant calls
us to fulfill that pledge -- while power
is firmly in our grasp -- to resurrect
our ancient liberty and bring to heel
the plan the Donkeycrats designed and passed
under King Roosevelt – the Social Nest –Egg Plan.
astertHastert

King: Reasons abound for scuttling it. It’s payback’s
small. Its costs are rising as our people age.
Our exchequer’s over-pressed. We can’t afford
to fund it any more.

Cheney: We’ll privatize the Social Nest-Egg Fund
and educate our citizens to join
the Ownership Society.

Frist: The Donkeycrats will bray and bellow at
this plan.

King: Let them. With Lord Snow’s help, we’ll take
the Royal Stage and bring it to town meetings
through the Kingdom. I’ll massage the ears of
citizens hand-picked and screened with care for
loyal responses.

Frist: What happens to
those counting on their social nest egg plans
to line their nests during their sunset years?

Hastert: Maybe we can borrow something more
and pay it back when private funds roll in
from all the profits of free enterprise
and prudent, wise investment practices.

King: Now that’s good thinking, and I’m sure that we
can tinker somehow along lines like these.

Cheney: We’ll work on the details as we go on
and do our best. The world’s hard state enjoins
some souls less fortunate to gird their loins.
You can’t make omelets and save the yolk.
Some eggs in nest egg plans will just get broke.

[Exit Frist and Hastert]

Cheney: My Lord, what’s this about Lord Snow?
Since whendo we make fiscal policy with thoughts
of what a Minister of the Exchequer
might say about them?

King: The name popped up, that’s all.

Cheney: We’ll bring Lord Snow into our planonce we’ve devised its execution.

King: Okay. But Snow signs all the Kingdom’s checks.
He’ll have to know just what we’re up to with this whole privatization plan
before we move much farther.
Someone I’m sure will up and
pop a question to him on it.

Cheney: In good time
Lord Snow will know just what he needs to know.

King: Good thing I’m King and checks I write can’t bounce,
especially these days.

Cheney: Prithee, no more of that. Let’s hasten this
Nest-Egg business on.

Act I, Scene 3. An abandoned union hall in Washington. Duke of Kerry, Duke of Reid, Duchess of Pelosi, Duke of Lieberman, Gadfly of Dean

Reid: Fellow Donkeys, we must resolve what means
best serve us as we face four years to come
of Bad King George and his retainers all,
along with his accomplices in rule,
in office and in full control of both
the Kingdom’s Houses, from whence they’ll work their
way to wield the instruments of power
with even further insolence and pride.

Pelosi: Election night, Lord Kerry, how our hopes
rode on the prospect of the exit polls
presaging victory! And then, how turned
to empty air, like some mirage before
the heat-oppressed brain of travel –weary
desert wanderer so cruelly snatched away
from parching tongue!

Reid: Those early evening polling
counts sure let us down.

Dean : It’s strange how every
voting glitch tipped toward King George
and made the swing vote in Ohio go
his way and how in Donkeycratic districts
our faithful had to wait so long to vote.
This smacks of hanky-panky to my mind.

Kerry: Nay, let that go, we haven’t time or means
to prove our case. ‘Tis best we move along
though it sticks harshly in our craws.

Lieberman: Besides, voters don’t cotton to sore losers.
Four years ago, in our loss to King George
and Lord Cheney, I accepted our defeat
with due civility, a course I urge
us now to follow.

Dean: Our thanks to you, good Lord,
and all your due civility and graciousness
for the state our Party and our Kingdom
are mired in today.

Lieberman: Mock as you wish. Excepting
jihadist terrorists, I choose to be
a friend to all and bring my foes to me,
like flies, with honey and not vinegar.

Kerry: We lost because of Terror and the fear
of new attack that Elephants campaigned on.
The jihadists are the best enemies
the King and Elephants could have designed.

Reid: In sooth, Lord Kerry, I must tell you flat,
your campaign bumbles didn’t help our cause,
your vote against the war in Babylon –
“after I voted for it,” you explained –
made you look a fool, as did your zigzag
windsurfing in those Elephant flip-flop
campaign ads that did you in.

Lieberman: And your umpteen-point positions in debates
with King George also turned folks off.
While you droned on, they grabbed an evening lunch
or switched to reruns of “The Brady Bunch.”

Dean: Why can’t’ we Donkeys better sell
our message to the Kingdom? Why must Lord Rove
make us all look like amateurs? Next week
let’s give the pink slip to the Earl of Schram.
and get his carcass and his pimply face
off of the TV screen. It’s time to find
someone more photogenic, like the Earl
of Mehlman, the Elephants’svelte PR man.

Kerry: OK then, Gadfly Dean. I here propose
that you serve as the Donkeycratic Chair
for the next King’s election. Take the reins
of our campaign and lead us forth into ’08.

Pelosi: You have my blessing.

Reid: Add mine thereto as well.

Kerry: At our next
Party meeting, we’ll present your name. Our
joint voices doubtless will hold the day.
Will you accept?

Dean: I might, my Lord, have other plans.

Lieberman: Put them in cold storage for a while.
Your bravura TV roll call list of states
you shouted after your defeat in Iowa
was well managed by the Elephants to
brand you a loose, hyperventilating cannon,
unfit to be a King.

Dean: I’ll think on what you say. How they
turned on that speech and twisted it awry!

Pelosi: ‘Twas a rough night.

Lieberman: Nights most of us have known.

Reid: From all I’ve learned from text or anecdote,


the course of campaigns never did run smooth.
Either they’re stymied by a staff dispute –

Pelosi: Short-sighted team that shoots at its own foot!

Reid: Or else some sound-bite blunder drags them down –

Pelosi: O cursed statement that you can’t disown!

Reid: Or by some breaking scandal they’re derailed –

Pelosi: Hard fate when dirt’s exposed and gets you nailed!

Reid: And like the lightning in the darkened sky
that shows its instant glory to the eye
or meteor that plummets through the night,
to burn itself and vanish from our sight,
so too, campaigners on a victory dash
may snuff themselves out in unseemly crash,
giving their reputations a contusion
and casting their careers into confusion

Kerry: How should we then proceed?

Reid: Much as we wish,
‘tis hard to prove the King has lied us
into war without hard evidence to
back the charge and lay before the Kingdom.

Dean: Even so, this war in Babylon that
Bad King George and High Lord Cheney wage
remains a running sore that we should fight.

Lieberman: Not I, my Lords. I’m foursquare with the King
on Babylon. So long as Zion lies exposed to cruel jihadic rage,
I say we stay the course and battle Terror on its breeding ground.

Dean: It didn’t breed in Babylon until we bombed it and invaded it.

Lieberman: Your arguments
won’t lead our Donkeys on to victory.
And don’t call the King a liar.
Voters cringe at such words as mouthings of the rad-lib fringe.

Dean: What should we do then? Why are we called here?

Pelosi: Oh sorry state! Alack and welaway!
How can we Donkeys ever gain the day?
With Elephants in charge of all House councils,
I’m so despairing, I could stay at home
and wring my hands and just collect my paycheck.

Dean: My friends, I come with hopeful information
from Elephants across the aisle to help
dispel the lethargy of the distracted
musings that I‘ve overheard from you.

Reid: Speak on. We’re at a standstill here.

Dean: While we sit here in doleful disarray,
the Party of Private Profit hatches schemes
to eliminate the Social Nest Egg Fund.
They plan an ad campaign, a Royal tour,
across the Kingdom to select supporters,
stuffed full with crafty arguments
of why and how we should or can or must
junk something that has worked so well.

Lieberman: Abort the Social Nest Fund! Good Lord!
An act of heinousness to be abhorred!
[Aside] Though if Elephants would sit me down and say
why it should go, I might see things their way.

Dean: Of all the Kingdom’s programs that these jerks
are hot to scuttle, they’ll cut one that works!

Pelosi: I hereby throw to earth my fruitless woe.
On this cause we’re united, so let’s go
reeneergized into the fight ahead
until this hateful scheme is left for dead!

Reid: This cause defines us; we’ll fight tooth and nail.
It’s our last stronghold, and we dare not fail![Exit all]

Act I, Scene 4. The King’s palace. King George, Queen Laura, Lord Rove, Parson Perkins, followers of the religious Right

King: Greetings, good Parson, may your churchly ways
bless this great land and brighten all its days.
Our recent re-election gives us cause
to thank our Holy Father up above
for all His blessings. And what brings you today
to ask this special visit? May our Queen,
in honor of her valued wifely gifts,
join with us here and add a helpful thought,
or maybe two, to what we say?

Perkins: That suits me fine.
All things that foster family values win
my praise. When spouses meet and interchange
their minds and hearts in conversations sweet,
my pulses, like a drum, beat in strong sympathy
And that, my King, now brings me here to ask
that you might turn our Kingdom to the task
of making sure that those in wedlock’s bands
be of mixed sexes when they join their hands.
The horses of perversion snort and neigh,
and far too many sodomites abound.
Now that those Donkeycrats just took a bashing,
can’t we give those gay marriages a bashing?

Rove: A worthy goal, and one that we might press
if circumstances on our chances smiled.
But too many Liberals, in laxness schooled,
will cast a vote that can’t be overruled.
We’re with you in our hearts on all the fronts –
abortion, stem-cell research, you just name it --
we’ll do our best to stymie it or blame it.

Queen: And I’ll expound, in talks across the Kingdom
that no child be left behind, in school or womb
and that all marriages keep in the bounds
of normal gender and tradition.
A woman’s sure, deft touch can sometimes help.

Perkins: No more than this? We vowed to you our vote,
exchanging it, we all thought, for your pledge
to wield strong family values as a wedge
fencing off Liberal wolves from Christian sheep.

Rove: Now calm down, Parson, get a grip on things.
These innuendoes rile our Jewish friends.
Why tick them off? Old Joe, the Duke of Lieberman --
best Donkeycrat our Party ever had --
good Richard, Earl of Perle, whose ardent voice
helped us design this Babylonian war,
the Earl of Mehlman, GOP Party Head,
the Duke of Specter, worthy moderate –
all these and many more crowd our large tent
with due civility and scant dissent.

Cheney: Recall too Lordling Fleischer, another
from among the tribes of Abraham whose
loyalty and service has sustained our
cause, at his press interviews, reminding
would-be-critics of our anti-Terror
policies to watch their words –or else!

Rove: And physicians of the Hebrew ilk
combating welfare schemes like Medicare
are strong allies and friends of influence.
We need their hearts and votes, so why embrace
an issue that offends the hook-nosed race?

[Angry murmurings from the Christian conservative gathering]

King: I love you all and do respect your cause,
but understand, good holy folk and true,
as God’s anointed, I do what I must .
Withdraw, friends, take a good, long walk and think
of all I the things I’ve done for you so far.
Consider those posteriors I’ve plunked
in big seats on so many Federal benches.
to argue for our values and traditions.
I couldn’t do better for you than I have
unless I junked and burned the Bill of Rights --

Rove: A course good Parson, not beyond our reach
if you but bend your patience and your service
to our designs. Let’s bide our time until
occasion and God’s grace shine forth for us.
Back off a bit for now, recall your place,
and let your duty still restrain your zeal.

Queen: And let me add my voice to this advice
for both our Kingdom’s and our Party’s weal.

[Exit King, Queen, and, Rove]

Perkins: Good friends in faith, I’m in no mood to halt
our noble efforts to enforce God’s laws
because of promises and declamations,
though spouted at us by a sitting King –
wind-pledges, puffery, the empty spate
of one too customed to impose his will.

Follower 1: We made this King of clay and now he turns
against the very hands that built his throne.
Prayer meeting next, good brethren, let’s contrive
to move our wishes forward.

Follower 2: We will speak further on this.

Perkis: A King who turns his shoulder on his Base
will stumble in his next election race.
[Exit Perkins and Followers]

Act I, Scene 5. Lord Cheney’s castle at an undisclosed location. Lord Cheney and Sir Libby.

Cheney: Thanks for thy needful services, good Sir,
rendered of late in the Plame-Wilson business.

Libby: It cheered me, Lord to undertake the task
that you and Fortune laid upon my door
to execute your wishes.

Cheney: When agent Plame and her vile Left-wing spouse
jointly took arms and raised a sea of quarrels
seeking to undermine our Babylonian war
with insubordinate attacks, we had no choice
but to expose her cover. Sir Libby,
you and good Lord Rove have served the Kingdom
well in this affair.

Libby: You made this rebel
couple learn what their foul deeds have brought
upon their heads.

Cheney: Especially Sir Wilson.
His that villainous Op-Ed piece in the Times,
railing against our motives and our cause
in Babylon still makes my molars grind
in rage.

Libby: I trust he’s safely been exiled
from any enterprise that touches on
high state affairs so long as good King George
or any minions of our Party still
hold sway.

Cheney: Fear not.

Libby: Why then, my heart rests easy.
Let Wilson seek reward and favor from
the crew of Liberal scribes to whom he leaked
his information. There let him sup his fill
on their seditious buzzings and reports
and dine on all the slop that’s vomited
from their distasteful stew of calumnies!

Cheney: Ho ho! you speak with good hot pepper there!

Libby: One question yet disturbs my rest. A friend
of ours, Sir Novak, did release a tale
whose substance yet perhaps may implicate
us and our Palace staff. But know for sure
I’ll use all wiles and stratagems I can
to keep your hidden hand in this affair
clear of all scrutiny.

Cheney: And might not good
Lord Rove dispense disinformation to
aid our enterprise? He’s full of useful guile.
We know the timely wonders he’s performed
in all the King’s campaigns. He knows the mindset
of our Faith-based Base with more than mortal
cunning and can wind them like a well-set
clock to chime the tune of your commands. I
marvel at hisr gifts! How faithfully he
helped me beat the drum to call forth reasons
for our foundering war. We all are much in
need of him. But now the King speeds towards
these broad gates to confer with ourselves, Don
Gonzalez and Lord Rummy on several
weighty matters of the State. So I must
take your leave.

Libbe: Farewell, and I do pray your
businesses will blossom from your discourse.

Cheney: I doubt it nothing. My attendants, Sir,
will lead you homeward in the usual way.
[Exit Libby]

[Enter King George, Lord Rummy, Don Gonzalez and attendants]
My liege, and nobles all, I bid you welcome.
I trust your journeys hither were attended
with cheer and comfort.

Gonzalez: With comfort yes, but Sir, the inky cloak
of darkness that accompanied my trip
while blindfolded I was conducted here
gave me much cause for wonder.

Cheney: Best safety
lies in caution, honored Lord. So in this vexed
post-9/11 world, where enemies
abound and breed, I find it meet to shroud
my whereabouts and their coordinates,
from outside guests and passing visitors,
even from those like thee of deepest trust.

Rummy: I like your secrecy. It answers to
the weighty needs of prudent policy
and meets with my consent. If, God forbid,
a member of our Court fell in the hands
of some jihadist tormentor, poor soul,
wracked sore with pain, he’d spill the beans on us
and do us all collateral damage.

King: Lord Cheney’s ways are wise. The less that’s breathed
of us and our affairs, the better for us all.
[to Gonzalez and Rummy] Now then, twin ministers, to thee I turn,
Lords of Injustice and Offense, speak each
in due succession. Don Gonzalez,
answer me first --how fares Injustice?

Gonzalez: Across this Land and to the globe’s far reaches
in all its branches, Sir, Injustice thrives.
Those named as enemy combatants stay
ensconced at Guantanamo under close guard.
No need for processes or trial to halt
our use of needed means to punish them.
We’ll glean what information that we can,
and keep them there confined with no set limit.

Cheney: Indeed, shame would it be to waste the fruits
and blessings of democracy on those
who scorn its offerings.

King: And goes this forward
smoothly? Do judges leave us free to prosecute
our foes without encumbering bars?

Cheney: Some cavil at our course and fall back on
murmurings of “civil liberties,” but most
accept our many arguments of State.
The multitude don’t give a fig about
souls whom we captured on the Afghan fields.
The world’s at war. Those days are gone when men
might walk in pre-post 9/11 liberty.

King: And our surveillance of those messages,
domestic and abroad, whose oversight
we hope might trap some would-be terrorists?
Need we submit to FISA for consent?

Gonzalez: No need. Lord Cheney and myself concur in this.
Let’s press ahead with speed and secrecy.
We’ve both let Admiral Hayden understand
the Fourth Amendment’s moldy arguments
must yield before our Kingdom’s pressing need
for strong security. Besides, Lord Rove
and oracles who read the polls confirm
our citizens don’t care for lawyers’ chatter
when Terror threatens.

Cheney: And even if they did,
it matters not. The laws are ours. They
and their execution lie within our grasp.
We’ll do what we think best and not be swayed
by grumblings from the vagrant mob.

Gonzalez: At Gitmo all is lawful. It’s carte blanche in fact,
so long as inner organs stay intact.
I’ve had it checked by our attorney, Yoo –
anything goes, short of the rack and screw.

King: Then all sits well for us. And do
those forced renditions move ahead?

Rummy: They do.
As you commanded, Lady Rice and I
consulted privily with chiefs of state
whose customs, unrestrained by lenient laws,
allow stern punishment to prisoners
To them we sent jihadists formerly
detained by us.

Gonzalez: With speed more rapid than
the cannon’s discharge, or the chaste
thoughts that escape a maiden’s heart, we shipped
them where a fate ‘tis best you know not of
awaits fell execution.

King: Let’s hope our friends,
the Kings of Poland, Hungary, Rumania
and their loyal ministers can twist from these
war-hardened enemies and hell-bent souls
such information as may serve us well
in our crusade against foam-frothing Terror.

Gonalez: So all of us do pray, my Lord.

Cheney: If not, then let them rot.

King: Lord Rummy, now’s
the time for your report. Give me the news
on things in Babylon. What victories
or at the least, what hopes for such might mark
the looked-for sunset of my reign?

Rummy: Like some
elusive bar of soap that slips out of
one’s hand inside an Abu Ghraib shower
stall, firm victory may slip beyond our
reach till as ex-King you wander Crawford’s plains.
But freedom’s on the march. Insurgency,
approaching closer to its final throes,
(as good Lord Cheney’s wisdom has revealed),
will yield if we stand firm.

Cheney: And may I add
this swelling note to the Imperial theme:
Free Enterprise gains ground in Babylon.
Although some blood be shed and monies lost,
and our exchequer shrunken just a tad,
bold mercenary captains, pockets full,
stream home with gold from the war-riven East
to stimulate more economic growth.

Rummy: Defense deals flourish like a humming hive,
and like Injustice, our war profits thrive.

King: Aye, that’s the tune our Party likes to sing.
What profits oil from Babylon would bring!

Cheney: Patience, my Lord, until these things mature
and pipelines and plumbing are made more secure
in Baghdad.

Gonzalez: Another legal plus that helps our cause
regards our armed defense contractors, who,
unbound by rules of war, can execute
whatever means they must or wish to use.
to fight insurgent suspects in Babylon.

Cheney: And main or kill them, for that matter.

Rummy: Or elsewhere as it suits our need.

King: Gentlemen, this is good news indeed
You’ll, keep me posted on it, won’t you now?

Gonzalez: You bet.

Rummy: Sure thing.

Cheney: We’ll take good care of things.

King: Tonight I’ll snooze more soundly knowing that
I’ll head back to the Palace. Blindfolds, please?

Cheney: Attendants, to your posts. Good evening, all.


[Exit King, Lord Rummy, Don Gonzalez]
Gun up the motors, drive them quickly home.
This settles well with our deep purposes.
Putting all power into private hands
removes all obstacles to our commands.
[Exit Lord Cheney]

Caption Contest Tuesday! (as opposed to those other days when we run half-assed caption contests)

Lost amidst the hubbub over Rickey's sudden and inexplicable decision to reveal a picture of himself, (and by default, his devastating handsomeness) was this little gem of a photo:
Yes, Rickey is indeed the Eddie Adams of socially awkward photographs. Now we turn the canvas over to you: make with the captioning in the comments section below. After a period of time, (most likely measured in geologic terms given the lack of posting here as of late) Rickey will announce the winner and award them a prize. What prize you ask? How about this photo of Rickey and Mike Francessa, autographed by Rickey himself? It's valued at -$4.65 by Sotheby's and will be mailed to whichever of our four readers come up with winningest caption. Is Rickey doing this because he's got a whole lot of stamps left over from wedding invitations? Possibly, but the mistake would be yours not to cash in on this prime opportunity.

DISPATCHES FROM THE FIELD: In Which Rickey Noshes With Joe Girardi

Having braved some incredibly bad weather and faulty intel to get into Manhattan (turns out the Hard Rock Cafe on 47th Street has been closed for several years and the only Hard Rock is in Times Square--whoops) Rickey's reporting in with a recap of the events of the Joe Girardi breakfast with Mike Francessa this past Friday.

Finally locating the venue, Rickey and his buddy wasted no time gorging themselves silly at the sumptuous buffet, opting for the hormone free eggs over the A-Rod style eggs. Then the interview began, conducted in an informal "Inside The Actor's Studio" fashion. We'd report in on what was said, but it was mostly a lot of talk of Yankee tradition, the Steinbrenner legacy, and how nice and unassuming a fellow Johnny Damon is. To be perfectly honest, Rickey was far more interested in going back for second helpings of the tasty french toast bites they were serving at the buffet. Below, in snarky caption format, follow Rickey's comments on the pictures he took.

Hm, three orange juices and two bottled waters? Sweet fancy moses, that's a lot of fluids. Why do speakers always demand ten gallons of liquids at events like this? Are they planning on competing in a triathlon afterward? And more importantly, where is Mike Francessa's trademark Diet Coke?Oh, whew, there it is. We had to sneak around the stage to get a better shot of it. This, ladies and gentlemen, is investigative blogging at it's finest.

No, that white hot light isn't Rickey's camera playing tricks on your eyes. The omnipotent Mike Francessa actually has it stipulated in his contract with WFAN that he be basked in a heavenly glow at all public engagements.

Once the interview was over, the Q&A session began. Rickey walked around to the other side of the stage, watched a few folks ask some questions, and then it was Rickey's turn.

Rickey nervously stepped up to the plate and swung away. (Note Girardi's "who the hell is this scrawny prick?" posture). Here's verbatim what was asked:

"Hi Joe, thanks for taking my question! I'm actually a life-long Mets fan. (slight boos from the audience) I won these tickets when I called in to WFAN thinking it was for Mets tickets. Uh, apparently not. (laughter from the audience--Rickey knows how to work a crowd). So since I'm here anyway, I guess my question is: from the Yankees skipper to a die hard Mets fan, what do you think of your guys' chances against us during interleague play this season?"

And then he and Francessa responded by good naturedly talking about the excitement of interleague play, blah blah blah. Yeah, it was a stupid heckling question, but it was fun and it caught everybody off guard. Also, it was helluva lot better than the boilerplate WHY'S JOBA NOT IN DA BULLPEN? comments. If anyone finds a video of the event on YouTube, please let Rickey know--he'd love to see it.

Anyhow, then the session ended and the obligatory autograph signings commenced. Who's the guy wearing the Superman t-shirt? Mike's security detail? We'd like to think that Mike Francessa can afford a better bodyguard than that... If any of our readers are interested in an exciting career in personal protection, get those resumes in!

Once wonders: how much could a baseball signed by Mike Francessa possibly be worth? A ham sandwhich? Possibly even two ham sandwhiches?

We're not sure about you, but Rickey hasn't been to many of these sorts of events. Most likely because they're pretty sycophantic. Everyone lines up for autographs: there's the young and starry eyed budding sports fans ...and then there's everybody else. The intense sports fans. Grown adults who should be out looking for gainful employment rather than sitting in the Hard Rock Cafe at 8AM on a Friday morning hoping to get a glimpse of a watered down iteration of Jimmy the Greek. We didn't nab a picture of him, but Bruce from Bayside was in attendance, and yes, he is every bit as unseemly as you'd expect.

Sign Joe, sign as fast as your fingers will allow!

Good lord, is Francessa doing the Hustle?

The goofy guy in the middle who keeps on wringing his hands like a nefarious Bond supervillain is Mark Chernoff, the program director at WFAN. He's a serious doofus, just like you. And he's landed himself a fantastic job. Moral of the story: don't give up on that dream of breaking into sports broadcasting.

Damnit guys, you know I can't go with you two standing there watching!

And then, it was finally time to meet the big man himself. Rickey sidled up next to Mike Francessa and had his buddy take a snapshot. Hey, is it just Rickey or does it kind of look like he's related to Mike?

And then Rickey, feeling like he had to say something meaningful, uttered the following ridiculous sentence: "I just wanted to say that you've brought a lot of joy to my father."

OK, there are two major problems with this statement. First, it makes Rickey's father sound like a frail bedridden man who tunes into WFAN as a source of solace and relies upon Mike Francessa for some sort of psychic tether to life. Rickey's dad is in fact healthy as a horse and in prime physical condition. Secondly, the suggestion that Mike Francessa brings any semblance of happiness to Rickey's dad's life is completely and utterly untrue. In reality, the opinions voiced on Francessa's radio program have probably raised Papa Henderson's blood pressure more than any stock market tumble, war, or tax hike ever possibly could.

But hey, it sounded like a good thing to say at the time. Anyway, it was a fun morning and if nothing else, it got Rickey excited for the upcoming baseball season. Enjoy the weekend folks, we'll back on Monday.

BREAKING NEWS: Rickey Will Be Noshing With Joe Girardi Tomorrow Morning

No this isn't a late April Fool's joke. On a whim, Rickey called in to WFAN today and scored himself a pair of tickets to a breakfast with Yankees manager Joe Girardi at the Hard Rock Cafe in Times Square tomorrow morning. The omnipotent ogre Mike Francessa will be moderating the event. Yeah, we have no idea how or why this happened either. Everyone always says this, but this was the first time Rickey has ever called in for a radio contest. In all honesty, Rickey thought he was calling in for Mets tickets. But we suppose that Rickey will just have to make the best of the situation.

Here's the fun part: the event allows people attending to ask questions of Joe Girardi. So we're opening this up for suggestions. What questions should Rickey pose to the Yankees skipper? Leave your suggestions in the comments section. Make 'em good. Make 'em funny. We'll be back on Monday with photos of the event and a recap of the madness.

[we now return you to your regularly scheduled blog post--see below.]

Rickey's Comprehensive Guide To London

With Barack Obama overseas panhandling for money ahem, we mean spreading international goodwill, at the G-20 conference, we figured that the time was right for a brief travel guide for the city of London. No, it's not the capital of the world -- ironically enough, it was a Brit (John Lennon) who first named New York as the globe's crowning metropolis -- but it's a terrific town nonetheless. From his semester abroad spent there (we believe it was featured on "Stuff White People Like") Rickey has fond memories of strolling on Charring Cross Road down to Trafalgar Square, then down Whitehall to Westminster. Let Rickey tell you, the view from Westminster Bridge on a rare sunny day is incredible. It's truly a wonderful city, there's something cozy about it, kind of like New York in Christmas, but all the time. As an added bonus, it's also a great place to go and not feel out of place for your syphilis and brown teeth. So without further adieu, we've put together a brief travel compendium for Mr. Obama during his stay in the Old Smoke.

Economy. If the slick haired Gordon Geckos at CNBC are to be believed (and really, what possible reason would they have to mislead us?) then the UK is about 6 months behind the U.S. in terms of it's economic welfare. So things are deceptively stable at the moment. Look for that alluring Dickensian mystique to take over in a few months and the ranks of street urchins and chimney sweeps to grow exponentially. If you own a business selling soleless shoes or fingerless gloves, then now is the time to pounce.

Cuisine. The great thing about London is that it's a cosmopolitan city with multicultural roots. We think it has something to do with that whole conquer-and-enslave-native-civilizations-and-bring-them-back-to-our-rainy-island-to-toil-in-a-life-of-servitude thing that the Brits used to do back in the day. The long and short of it is, if you're jonesing for some Indian food, great sushi, some tasty hot curry dishes, or the world's best kebabs, then London has you covered. As you've probably heard, it's best to avoid the famously unappealing British dishes. But if you absolutely must partake, be sure not to settle for being served any imitation gruel. Demand the real thing. Although nine out of ten coal faced groveling orphans can't tell the difference, Rickey can most definitely tell you that there is one. Also, avoid the meat pies on Fleet street--those things are murder on your stomach.

Technology. Yeah, they've got this internet thing over there as well. The London Bridge even has it's own Twitter account. And it's every bit as awesome you'd expect it to be. In fact, we'd go so far as to call it Fergalicious.

Night Life. Put it this way: London has roughly one pub for every 30 citizens. And most every Brit in every pub just loves Americans (just avoid mentioning the Revolutionary War--that's like their Vietnam). In other news, CNN has just announced that Ted Kennedy will be joining the Obama envoy on a fact-finding mission to London. Zing! What's that you say? Ted Kennedy drinking jokes got old 20 years ago? Hm, Rickey missed the memo...

Noteworthy Sites. Let's see: the Eye, the British Museum, Piccadilly Circus, the Globe, the National Portrait Gallery, the New Tate... suffice to say, there's a ton to see. And the view from the top of St. Paul's is absolutely breathtaking. Also, did you know that the name Big Ben only refers to the bell? The clock tower itself is actually named St. Stephen's Tower. One day you will drop this obscure bit of trivia at a dinner party and everyone will marvel at how knowledgeable an individual you are and anoint a laurel wreath atop your heard.

Transportation. In terms of navigability and ease of use, the buses and the Tube far exceed any form of mass transit system we've got stateside. But be warned that it can get quite crowded--be fully prepared for pelvis-to-pelvis contact with a random rugby jersey wearing muppet should you attempt to squeeze on to the Northern line during certain hours. But as an added bonus, whenever a train arrives or departs, a loud booming Orwellian male voice announces "MIND THE GAP."

Crime. The crime stats would have you believe that London is a relatively safe town and that their police, are able to keep the peace with their their funny hats and sophisticated European sirens. However, Rickey will tell you that London can actually be a very violent town if you wear the wrong football jersey into the wrong pub. Judging by the fact that a Brit invented this charming device, we're going to go out on a limb and tell you that it's borderline "Gangs of New York" over there.

Fashion. Rather than admit to the possibility that London is an urban and hip city, Rickey prefers to keep his silly prejudices. So we're assuming that everyone in London dresses like this guy: Now there is a man who is clearly unhappy about not getting the lead part in a Gilbert & Sullivan musical.

Sports. Rickey tried to wrap his head around the game of cricket but came away even more confused. Moreover, we're pretty sure that nobody in Britain actually watches a full game of cricket--they just want to know who won. Football is their sport of choice, and Rickey dove into it whole heartedly while he was over there. It's a major reason why Ms. Henderson used the parental controls on the cable box to block the English Premiere League soccer channel in the Henderson apartment. Treacherous wench--you shall not stifle Rickey's undying allegiance to the Blues!

Carefree, wherever we may be,
We are the famous CFC,
And we don't care
Whoever you may be,
'Cause we are the famous CFC!

Language. The slang over there is profane yet delightfully charming sounding. To this day we have absolutely no idea what it means to "cock a snook" at someone, but that doesn't stop Rickey from using the phrase on a regular basis.

Culture. For a city that has survived plagues, fires, and aerial bombings and is known for possessing citizens with stiff upper lips, it's kind of funny how Londoners embrace their frivolous tabloid culture. If you thought American tabloid culture was bad, you ain't seen nothing. For an entire semester, Rickey watched Robbie Williams and the members of Oasis get into various scuffles outside pubs and the press lapped it all up. Good times. Now they've got Lilly Allen who is kind of like our Lindsay Lohan, yet marginally classier.

Travel Recommendations. Mr. Obama, whatever you do, don't make the same mistake Rickey made when he went abroad to London. DO NOT attempt to continue your long distance relationship with that freshman tennis player attending SUNY Binghamton. She will leave you for a soccer player, refuse to return your signet ring and half your DVD collection, and all you'll be left with is a hole in your heart and thousands of dollars in long distance phone bills. One day you'll want that two disc Criterion Edition of "Armageddon" back, and you'll never get it. Just trust Rickey on this. Walk away, Mr. Obama, walk away.