Former NHL Star Turns to Lucrative Balancing Biz

Theodore Fleury, who used to make a living amusing fans as a toothless gnome on ice, has switched his racket to entertaining minor league baseball crowds with in-between inning ball-on-bat balancing acts.

Pedro Applying the Ultimate D-Stamp

With the MLB amateur player draft quickly approaching, and the G-men to have their highest selection since 1997, we've been taking extra interest in the talent pool.

Pedro Alvarez of Vanderbilt is touted by most as the cream of the crop, the knees of the bees, the Omar of the rip 'n runners. And really, the only chance of him falling to five is the Boras factor. Which is fine since Justin Smoak is a switch-hitting 'Cocksmith of Teixeiran power and average and would be a morpheus fit in SF (especially since he totes a glove that would be as close to Snow as the Bay Area has seen since JT departed.)

Ped-Al and An-Vil, though, as corner infielders would surely comprise the best 3-4 haymaker combo in an MLB lineup since... Chipper and Teixeira?

Two-Thirds the Innings, Four-Thirds the F*cking Fun!

Evin "The Locomotive" Murphy finds time to belt out taint-tingling prose for LBMS from his real estate office in Laguna Beach, CA. In this edition, The Loco waxes nostalgic and beats down kids for snack-bar-bucks-redeemable foul balls at the local little league ballyard.

When you’re in your early twenties and you ride a desk for a living there’s only one thing that gets you through the grind. For me that one thing is little league baseball.

I think about it all the time; the snack bar gummy worms, taking grounders with your friends, wondering when you’ll be big enough to put one in the seats.

My nostalgia for America’s pastime prompted me to conclude that I should join a hardball team; lather my senses with big league chew, manicured grass, bean balls, beer bellies and polish sausage. Plus, it will be something to break up the monotony of my memoirs, which currently read: “Day 7940: Jacked off again...”

Play Ball!

Moral for High-School Sophomores: Wear Giants Gear, Potentially Get Laid

Looks like Tommy's showing a little love for the only team that would have scored less than the Pats did in Super Bowl XLII.

On a serious note, it's refreshing to see a superstar sporting an SF cap in public. Our appreciation increased a few figures on the totem pole for Brady. We're that easy. Fortunately not as easy as the 15-year old giving him the f*ck-me eyes though.

WNBA Desperate, Tries Honesty For New Campaign Slogan

We conclude that their therapist advised them on this maneuver. Or maybe, the league is simply going through its blunt-honesty phase of menopause.

WNBA: Expect Great

For just one night let's not be co-workers, let's be co-people

Barkley got Burgundy'd last week by EJ on the TNT set. Later that evening Chaz consumed five pulled pork sandwiches and a litre of potato salad from the post-show spread, and was reportedly heard telling the Turner production staff to not "act like you're not impressed."

In other Anchorman news, apparently Will Ferrell and director Adam McKay will reunite for a sequel as soon as they take care of their current projects. Though tingling vibrations of Caddyshack 2 and Dumb and Dumberer just shot down our spine, we remain optimistic.

We Wonder If Bloatsburgh Has a Park This Nice; And Whether The Beets Have Played to a Sold-out Crowd There

As Giants fans who have been to PNC Park, we don't take kindly to those that favor Pittsburgh's confines to the Bay Area's. However, the above picture single-imagedly closed that gap betwixt the two a couple rosin bag-widths worth.

A gem of a yard no doubt. Though we'd prefer to be sitting down the first-base line than underneath Jason Bay's taint, as photographer Gene J. Puskar so selected.

For those, however, who aren't quite sold on the slight superiority of Pac BellAT&TMonster? SBC over PNC, try drinking Iron City lager out of an aluminum bottle after a frothy cup of Anchor Steam on draft. It's like chasing angellic breast milk with demonic outhouse sludge. Figuratively.

Or maybe we're just bitter the G-men can't buy, or barter with clubhouse blow-up dolls, a win in that god forsaken yard.

Undershirts are for the Cowardly

Congratulations to the Mad Dog on picking up his 350th career win last night. The most enjoyable part of that experience for us was the post-game press conference. We could listen to Maddux talk for hours on end.

From the reptilian tongue movement, to the commencing of each sentence with "you know, ahhh...", to the prolonged smiles after his jokes, giving the impression he just took a few bong loads in the training room; our women's hearts melt.

He dresses up in golf attire to watch tv, and he's got just the right sprinkling of Lumbergh in his speech delivery to put you in a peaceful trance.

Or perhaps we just enjoy watching him address the masses with the notion that maybe, given enough time behind the mic, he'll start rambling about his alleged brown deliveries on rookies' uniforms, or leg urinations in the shower.

Because if you're a young player, there's no better way to begin a career than to be blessed with the notorious Mad Dog coating.

Maddux beats Rockies for 350th win [MLB.com] (Click the press conference link just above the story's text for a sampling)

Beane Defends Recent Thrifty Waiver-work: 'Construction Workers Currently Undervalued'

Always Crashing in the Same Teal Car

One of the best hockey games ever happened to be one of the longest hockey games ever. Which also happened to be one of the sharpest daggers to the balls that a Sharks fan has taken, ever.

Like grass dampening in the rain, or us bolting to the computer after a provocative late-night infomercial, another promising San Jose season has come to a disappointing end.

So as we bid adieu to yet one more underachieving playoff campaign, we honor the fifth-longest game in NHL history -- (Robert) Frost on ice, if you will -- with a poem of the shortest variety.

Red 42... Blue 68... set, hut, hut, Haiku!

Nab. Turc. Magic show.
Big hits rammed. Seven frames spanned.
Gulp whistle, (you fucking) zebra.

Mrs. FIGJAM and the Sightly Swede

Mrs. FIGJAM: It's stupid that just because my husband is jealous of Tiger that we can't hang out on our knees and wear matching knits all the time.

Mrs. Woods: LOL, I know, right! Forget the boys for once.

Mrs. F: Wow Elin, I'm glad you see it that way. Let's hold hands.

Mrs. W: Uhh...

Mrs. F: Come on chica, I want to feel your supple Scandinavian skin. Take your hand outta that sweater! Lol.

Mrs. W: Heh... I think I'll just leave it in actually.

Mrs. F: Well can you at least take off those darned glamour shades. Maybe we can try a butterfly kiss!

*awkward silence*

Mrs. F: My husband and I share bras.

Mrs. W: Check, please.

What's the Most You've Ever Lost on a Coinflip? The Shot at an Improbable Comeback

With Joe Pavelski's overtime goal Friday night to push the Sharks to a game six against Dallas, a game seven, and ultimately a game one of the conference finals for the teal and black (and orange), is now conceivably graspable.

Coming back from a 3-0 deficit is difficult, as proven by the thousands (hundreds?) of teams who have failed to do so in sporting seasons' past.

In the Sharks instance: the white, foggy haze enveloping their eyesight after the series' first three games has proven not to be heavenly clouds of a death confirmation, but gobs of white out smeared over their retinas.

And now, with the series at 3-2 and headed back to the Large Fourth Letter of the Alphabet, that white out is chipping off with each Dallas goal overturned.

It's within grasp. Game six feels like a coin flip to Sharks fans, and should the metal circle land favorably, game seven a momentum-fueled lock. No jinx-mo.

So a message to "Teal Town" going forward: don't get eaten by a shark. Because we now have a 50/50 shot at meeting a well-rested powerhouse in the conference finals.

Philosophical Punditry and Substance Abuse

Here we are in the dungeon of capitalism, and the election is getting weird. In a race to the toilet, ESPN and its cast of goons are outdone only by the current political landscape of goofy sophists and charlatans, two men and a woman addicted to lust, anger, denial and the big fix.

Praise to allah and death to capitalism. It's murky waters we swim in. If Welfare, medicaid, medical, SSI, ESPN and streaming pornography aren't sufficient to bouy someone of your intellectual fervor, the dream is gone. White picket fences, aging spouses and a giant hole in your soul don't have the appeal that they once did.

Some find solace in the translucent orange bottles of presecription meds, booze, vats of cocaine or a manic late-night frenzy of Skoal and party poker. Your chasm is expanding and the anesthesia of adolescence is wearing off.

Time to turn inward and harvest your sorrow. Piss on the flames. Tear your hair, shred your clothes, ejaculate on your existential dilemma. Douse your groin with talcolm powder and run wildly through the streets. Our time has come.

Assalamlakum.

-Locomotive