Curt Schilling Still Can’t Shut Up

curt and fam
Curt Schilling (right), pictured with family of pod people.

Just a warning, this is going to get a little angry and disgusting by the last paragraph, so lock up the kids and the Catholics.

If you havn’t heard yet, Curt Schilling has been added to the mile long list of people who are complaining about Barry Bonds and the Steroid Era, which is the potential name (who am I kidding, it’s the probable name) for the Aughts, and possibly the decades prior.

Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, that is being said about Bonds right now has been said before. Nobody’s adding anything new to the debate. How do I know this? Because we still know no more about Bonds’ use of Steroids today than we did a year ago. It’s all fuel for ratings, because sports is slowly becoming something we’d rather debate about than play.

Is this because debate can’t be ‘juiced’? I’m not sure. Woody Paige is probably smoking up before every Around the Horn, but, then again, unless we’re in the Snowboarding competition of the Winter Olympics, or Ricky Williams is involved, I don’t think anyone’s going to claim weed is a performance enhancing drug.

Back to Curt, though. And here’s the point I wanted to make when I started writing this little rant; he publicly campaigned for George W. Bush, and used the Red Sox 2004 World Series victory to help him do so on Good Morning America.

Therefore, since he helped Bush get elected, for real, I’ve always thought that he’s lost all right to speak in public, especially when criticizing someone else. Curt, you’re a six-pack of DoucheJuice, and, just* like Patton hates Paris, I hope you get cancer of the AIDS of the leukemia of the eyes. Man, if this can happen, I’ll pay the biker to skull-fuck it into him.

*See “Werewolves and Lollipops”


By August, I will have:

Written something of quality, length, and … what else do you need … sincerity? That might be too much to hope for, but I’ll put that up here.

Read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Also: been to McNally Robinson’s Harry Potter For Grownups party. Hey, shuddup. I’ve been told that there is good reason to go.

Been to Rock the Bells. Saturday the 28th.

Seen TV On The Radio for free for the 2nd time. (Siren Fest 2004 being the first). @ McCarren Park Pool.

Hopefully beaten the Pit of 100 Trials for Flipside.

Hopefully have gotten some good news about the escape plan.

And then there’s August, which promises a rise in productivity in my own life, a possible trip to Las Vegas, and me getting off my ass in regards to my writing.

Henry Casey VS Baseball.

As I said goodbye to my Dad today, he asked, “So, ‘Go Clemens tonight, huh?'”

I looked back at him with a look of weariness on my face, and I said the following:

“You know what? Fuck baseball. Seriously. Fuck baseball.”

I could have gone on to say Fuck the following:

Bed Selig, The New York Tabloids, The Yankees Bullpen, Michael Kay, Joe Buck, Peter Gammons, …

Fuck all them because they’re the short list of things that’s taken the fun out of baseball for me ever since I started going to Bard.

It would have kept going on. I didn’t think, then, that I’d be where I am now: about to sit down to watch the Yankees take on the Twins, who I saw play at the Homer Dome less than a year ago.

Fuck me.