Stalking Chase: An Admirer on Tracks

Dear Chase Utley,

Thanks for ripping twenty eight homers with your short, jerky swing. Your VORP is like that of John Lennon, there is only one.

It’s time for you to find a Hollywood publicist and a public vice. Spend your nights outside Philly’s finest strip joints with Stephen Jackson, firing automatic weapons into the air, slurping Grey Goose on the rocks and snorting cocaine off Destiny’s backside. Let your hair down Chase, we wanna see your dark side.

The way you flick those wrists makes me wonder if you’re into S&M.

-Locomotive

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!

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

Bay Area Diagnosis Negative: Smoke 'Em If You Got 'Em

Two weeks ago I woke up and realized the Giants are driving hard for the number one pick (Ed. Note: They're too scrappy for that nonsense.), the Warriors (with the exception of Monta) collapsed on the court, the Niners are fundamentally weak, the A's are moving to Fremont, Kobe Bryant is going to win the MVP, Orestes Destrade is getting more face time than Peter Gammons, I need to do my laundry, pay my taxes and invest in some household paper products but with diesel stroking me over a barrel to the tune of $4.25 a gallon, or $75 a fill up, I can't afford paper towels, or my preferred 2-ply Charmin ultra soft luxury liner toilet tissue.

I tried a coffee shop to numb the brain. Nice people, good prices, live music, delicious lemon bars. It worked for two consecutive days but then what? I need sport! Where is it? Don't tell me about playoff basketball. I would rather dig out my old MS-DOS computer and play wheel of fortune. Man vs. machine, good vs. evil, Vanna White's pixelated tits, a human struggle.

Unless something shifts, I'm headed towards a Limbaugh lifestyle. Horse sized doses of Oxy-Contin, turquoise inflatable rafts, Hawaiian Tropic, Cubans the size of your forearm and my iridescently-clad fruit bowl clearly stating my cultural indifference. No more yuppies, no more teeny boppers, no more fat people. I don't care about your petty psychological needs. I don't care what your boyfriend said to so-and-so, or how many lbs you've lost on your new diet, or what's in your 401k. I don't care how hard you studied for your fourth period chemistry test. I don't care if you're on your period. Fuck off and find your own pool, I live alone.

-Locomotive

Coming In At No.11... King Tut's Mummy

Brian Sabean has the patience to play chess against a corpse. Check out this Baseball America claim...

"A former eagle-eyed scout who helped build the Yankees' late-1990s dynasty, Sabean says he's committed to rebuilding San Francisco's farm system and churning out homegrown position players to match the constant stream of pitching talent the organization has produced. The Giants haven't signed a player who has developed into a homegrown all-star since drafting Will Clark with the No. 2 overall pick in 1985."

Get him out of the front office and back on the beat, please. And what is this crap about Joe Crede? Are you kidding me? Average white player if ever there was one...didn't he hit sub .250 last year?

Can't wait until 2011 when the A's new yard opens up in Fremont. Giants are more like an Elks club than a baseball team...BINGO!

-Locomotive

Top 10 Prospects: SF Giants [Baseball America]

Locomotive: I Take Dirty Pictures of Sharapova on my TV Using a Canon PowerShot

Recently I had the pleasure of uncorking a fine bottle of diet RC cola, plopping down on the couch and stuffing my bulbous face with Olestra potato chips, artichoke dip, and the sweet flickers of eastern bloc voyeur erotica, err Maria Sharapova playing tennis. Her moans slathered over me, God bless America played in my head and I slid to the tranquil bosom of effeminate comfort...let the good times roll.

-Locomotive

Moronic Personnel Decisions? Or Jealousy Fueled Youth Dumpage

When the Lincecum for Rios trade gets approved by Sabean I’ll be loading up the family garbage with my entire Giants’ paraphernalia collection. I’ll grab the i-Pod, head down to the local mall, snag myself a Sbarro slice, some Christmas silk boxers, and a sparkling new Blue Jays hat.

I can’t watch any more if Lincecum is gone. The dream is dead.

I will, however, get some encouragement if this trade goes through. It will validate my front office-back door Magowan/Sabean love affair theory.

Why do you think Magowan sits in the front row instead of the owner’s box? To be one with the fans? No, he’s trying to guard against the easy association that can be made from “GM and owner, owners box, San Francisco, long term deals”…the silver lining is Sabes chillin' solo in the box behind his Oakleys, ogling Petey Mag’s whispy blonde locks.

More proof: Sabes trades any player under thirty and only signs players in their forties…why? Because he doesn’t want Magowan to get a wandering eye. Even in the Schmidt trade, the best trade of Sabean’s career, handsome youngsters were shipped off for one of the weirdest looking eggheads in baseball.

Joe Nathan? Get him out of here. We’ll take the junkyard loudmouth A.J. Pierzynski. No threat there.

Into this treacherous love fest scenario comes shining Timmy Lincecum. He’s young, bouncy, bendable, and now he’s on his way to freeze his ass off in Canada and the American League, far away from the clutches of Magowan’s bewitching charm. So long Timmy, bye-bye. (Ed. Note: Fortunately, Lincecum made it safely through the winter meetings in black and orange, and appears safe in the City. For now. *Knock on Sabes' head*)

-Locomotive

A Dark New Day in Equine Gambling Circles

Already under fire by twelve steppers and politicians the nation over for its promotion of congenital gambling, horse racing was TKOd today by a congressional donkey punch, banning the sport nationwide.

Congress’s aggressive move received praise from a number of political figures. Global warming mobster Al Gorelioni stated: “Horse flatulence is a serious issue. Methane gas is 20 times as damaging to the ozone layer as carbon dioxide, and the methane gas flatulated by a single one of these monstrous, sweat covered, glistening, hormonally stimulating, beasts in a single day is enough to fill 150 2-litre soda bottles... and that’s a lot of Horsey Cola.”

Hillary Clinton commented: “It’s not that I have a problem with whipping… I have a problem with grandiose carbon hoof prints.”

Reverend Jesse Jackson screeched: “I’ve never seen a brother whipping the shit out of a white horse! Despicable. Little white men riding big powerful blacks to victory. It’s degrading, it’s enraging, it’s enslaving, it’s perpetuating, and it’s engraving our young black folks with an image of white domination. Psychologically it’s damaging! Period.”

Social scientists believe that horse racing will be pushed south of the border and into small underground betting circles.

-Locomotive

An Afternoon of Glorified Pop Warner

Evin "The Locomotive" Murphy finds time to belt out taint-tingling prose for LBMS from his real estate office in Santa Cruz, CA. Ed. Note: Loco is a recovering golden domeaholic.













"I looked the man in the eye… I was able to get a sense of his soul” -Bush on Putin

To test my thesis that James Clausen is the most overrated celeb since pop revolutionary Che “motorcycle diaries” Guevara, I traveled to Palo Alto to take in the Stanford V Notre Dame game Saturday.

Pretty simple back story on this clash of the kittens; both teams are awful, un-athletic and unable to recruit consistently because smart kids don’t play football, or football players aren’t smart…

I slept for twenty percent of the game, watched five percent and perved the stadium for ass during the remaining seventy-five.

Despite my best efforts to ignore anything happening on the field I had to notice Clausen making his QB decisions like a power-drunk fourteen year old in a backyard two-hand-touch melee grudge match. It looked like his brain had been outsourced to India, his synapses weren’t firing. Probably he was doped up on valium, vodka-grapefruit, and taquitos in proper OC style.

Decision-making highlights included: running out of bounds for a nine-yard loss instead of throwing the ball away, and throwing an interception to a defensive lineman while being wrapped up by a blitzing linebacker.

James ended the game by taking a knee, pretending like he was going to throw the ball into the air, then sprinting away from his team to dance, arms akimbo, towards the NBC cameras and some hand-slappin' fun with the 3-8 opposition. Candy-Ass Clausen has begun his reign of dumbness so take heed all ye who dare declare your golden domer loyalty. The eyes of this weird dumbo are filled with bleak narcissism. Grief will surely rest on those who him show favor.

The Jimmy Clausen Story

Evin "The Locomotive" Murphy finds time to belt out taint-tingling prose for LBMS from his real estate office in Santa Cruz, CA. In this edition, The Loco chainsaws through the curtains of JC's future, and the results unveiled... sound about right.

College washout turned “Surreal Life” cast member, Jimmy “James” Clausen expounds on his oft-questioned, shifting moral philosophy and world view. Sporting heavy, black eye liner, a shaved head, a Scott Spezio-style goatee and some gothic arm tats, young James begins:

“I never wanted to play football anyway. Yeah *tear*. I did it because I thought it would make my dad love me.

I’ll never play again. James Clausen is a grown-ass man and he does as he pleases. So motherfuckers better start to recognize and respect that.

You know, everyone always told me how I was supposed to act. I was the All-American QB with the girls, the cars, the frosty tips. It wasn’t me, nah man. I’m hard. I’m hard as nails. Like Marilyn fucking Manson. That cat digs it. He gets the times man, modern times. Billy Corgan? Another of my idols. Melancholy man, that’s real. That’s feelings.

Yeah, you know, I just don’t care about the pigskin anymore. I’m more into transcendental meditation. I pray to the moon. Touchdown Jesus? Not for me dog, not for me. I don’t believe any man is holier than the next.

Now the moon, the moon controls the tides, the calendar, the nature cycles, all that shit. *shuffles in seat* And you know what? The moon doesn’t have a bitch. Nah, that’s why I gave up women. Does the moon have a lover? No, that’s because the moon loves itself. Self love, that’s what keeps it spinning man, like me. I just want to keep spinning, watching the world turn, dancing with the sun, sleeping with the stars. You know. I’m a star and, like, mad women want to sleep with me but I just say ‘nah, bounce that’ I got bigger things to connect with than a loosey goosey slouteger. Feel that! I’m telling you. Music… my shakra, that’s how I keep that shit regulated. Manson… outside, at night, under the moon, by myself… that’s when I really feel it, you know? The James Clausen vibe, life’s equilibrium.

No more frosted tips for me. Nah, that was Jimmy, this is James. Some people, they think I’ve lost it. They say 'James, what the fuck is wrong with you? You had it all: the arm, the girls, the scholarship, the frosty tips! Why did you throw it all away, man, to listen to some fag with titites? What the fuck is wrong with you?' But, they just don’t get it man. They don’t get young James Clausen.

I saw this Navajo sage… up at the Pikoni Casino. He told me he saw into my heart… saw my identity, the “young ghost dog.” You know and maybe one day I’ll be, like, an older ghost dog, or like the fucking Moon dog, you know? ‘Cause that’s what I really want to be. The Fucking Moon Dog! BOW WOW WOW mother fuckers! But you know, until then I’ll just be spreading my message. Spreading the truth. That’s right America, truth is about to be coming into your living room. Gear up soldiers. Gear up.”

The End

Locomotive Derailed En Route to Asian Paradise

Evin "The Locomotive" Murphy finds time to belt out taint-tingling prose for LBMS from his real estate office in Santa Cruz, CA. In this edition, he has lost his mind, along with every single chip in his stack. The Loco has such a sophisticated and labyrinthine mental capacity that upon first glance this entry appears to have no sporting relevance whatsoever! Well, that is dead-on correct wrong. Fret not simpletons, we'll help guide you through with some cliffs notes in italics as you read along.

What’s in the news? What’s in the news? What’s in the news? The Big Ten's "elite" are overrated and underhung once again. Notre Dame may finally have a nurturing home!

Peet’s coffee in Scotts Valley doesn’t have wireless internet. It’s like driving to a liquor store to discover they don’t sell cigarettes, of any kind. Or reading a sports blog that doesn't provide any sports commentary.

I discovered this farcical factoid last Thursday night. After I cast off the shackles of parental internet filtration (left the house) I began a voyage to ferret out new and exciting Asian fetish hardcore sites. Naturally I went to Peet’s, laptop in hand.

Instead of being met with fanfare, rapid upload speeds, and a cult of personality I was met by a smug, metrosexual, black-nailed barista who informed me: “no, sorrryyyy... we doonnnn’t have internet access.” Ludicrous. Murph was actually served by a finger-wagging Dikembe Mutumbo.

With no internet access, I had no contingency plans. No reading material, a laptop, and $2 cup of Major Dickason’s blend: “a very full bodied, complex, rich and smooth blend. A coffee born of friendship... a coffee that has gained a reputation among coffee lovers for its satisfying, rich and mellow (some say comforting) flavor... the coffee that many of our customers identify with Peet’s.” Not me. No, I shall forever identify Peet’s with the stagnated AZN section of my digital erotica library. No AZN, no fun. With the exception of this one.

So there you go sports fans. Ichiro’s dancing on YouTube will have to tide me over. You bet. Please mail all AZN smut and cash donations to PO Box 714, Santa Cruz, CA 95060. Care of Mr. Miyagi. Mahalo.

My Favorite Fortune 500 Company Is Procter & ... Uhh...

Evin "The Locomotive" Murphy finds time to belt out taint-tingling prose for LBMS from his real estate office in Santa Cruz, CA. In this edition, he supplies readers with performance enhancers in a manner slightly less gay than rubbing the "cream" on your inner thigh.

Something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

-Bob Dylan

I’ve been watching a lot of Rescue Me recently, a lot of West Wing, listening to a balanced diet of the Blood Hound Gang, Todd Snider and gospel praise music. As you can imagine Wednesday night's 13-1 drumming handed out by the Red Sox didn’t garner much attention from me. I don’t care who wins this Series (Ed. Note: We would like Boston to go up 3-0, then lose the next four in agonizing, extra-inning fashion).

Sports are down across the board…The NFL is plodding along towards the playoffs when the contenders (Pats, Indy, Dallas, Pitt, San Diego) will finally duke it out. There is no NBA and the NHL is just warming up. The only semi-interesting story line in sports is whether Tom Brady will set every single-season passing record in history and solidify himself as one of the top five passers of all time amongst (pick four): Montana, Marino, Favre, Young, Manning, Bradshaw, Starr, Unitas, Staubach, Elway, and Namath.

So how can we satisfy our sport-loving spirits? Look to heavy and erratic gambling.

As the human male ages, becoming more calloused, he requires heavier doses to achieve the same levels of joyriding ecstasy he has become accustomed to; boozing replaces candy, interracial threesomes replace naps, and hop scotch is supplanted by grape flavored blunts and action thrillers.

Simply watching the game will no longer suffice. From high school through college graduation man can find reasonable contentment through sports, drinking, recreational drugs and finger foods but that quickly wanes when he is shocked by the so called ‘real world.' Put in a box for 40 soul-sucking hours per week and cursed to the rank and file of ‘happily married’ suburban dwellers, the male psyche is revolted, imploding or rebelling against the modern obsession with even keel.

Testosterone demands exalting peaks and crushing valleys, so step aside Dr. Phil, the dark underbelly of America, sports gambling, is here to facilitate. Grab your MasterCard, click over to your favorite internet sports bookie, lay a week’s wages on some football, load up your armrest fridge with MGD, Bombay Sapphire and a fifth of Jameson, fire up the grill, download some digital adult entertainment for half time enjoyment and settle in for a long day of America’s purest form of hedonism. Guns, strippers, and felonious drugs optional. Bow wow wow sports fans. Now that’s entertainment. Let the good times roll and let your winnings ride. Good luck and mahalo.

A Small, White, Hydrocodonian Sporting Delight

Evin "The Locomotive" Murphy finds time to belt out taint-tingling prose for LBMS from bathroom stall A at his real estate office in Santa Cruz, CA. In this edition, he answers some fan mail and warns the children: definitely do stay away from drugs!

Hey, hey, hey. Sportsnation, loyal readers, last week I gave you some insights into why the NFL no longer greases my flanks like she used to. Maybe you thought it was funny. Maybe you thought it was offensive. Probably you didn’t read it.

I understand. Reading someone’s hate speech about the NFL most likely makes you feel uncomfortable, awkward, shattered, alone…I felt that way once. Junior year of high school, during an otherwise innocent lunch, Arvitas glanced up from his popcorn and lemonade to confide in me: he had used the previous night’s family reunion to overrun second base with his liquored-up cousin. He was sober at the time. I felt ill.

No one wants to hear about that stuff, even if it is true. Keep it to yourself. And so it is with my thoughts on the NFL.

However, there was one reader who giddily received my NFL tirade. John in SLO who writes: “Dear locomotive, I have been feeling a bit 'down' recently. I feel misunderstood, alone, like the world is against me. You're right, the NFL is boring…and now with my brother changing all his porno website subscription passwords, I don’t know what to do. I’ve been drinking peppermint schnapps and listening to Radiohead for the last two weeks but nothing seems to work. Is there anything in the sports world to cheer me?”

Dear John in SLO,

There’s only one thing in the sports world currently guaranteed to give you wood with the consistency we young males have learned to expect from new dawns…the Rugby World Cup. If you need something to break the modern melancholy, rugby is just what the shrink ordered. Cheaper than Prozac and much easier to slip into cocktail conversation, rugby-watching could be just the healthy outlet you’ve been longing for.

For our readers who have yet to witness an international rugby game, you’re probably thinking to yourself: “…hmm, was Tom Hanks more brilliant in Sleepless in Seattle or You’ve Got Mail? Golly, it’s gotta be a tie. He’s brilliant in all his work, dynamic even. Tehehehehehe.”

Or: “Rugby, isn’t that like football with no pads…?” Sort of. Think of football as a bottle of Flintstone vitamins: they taste ok, remind you of your childhood, and in some way resemble candy. Now, is rugby like a big bottle of Flintstone vitamins? Not really. It’s more like a bottle of Vicodin, which could still be considered a vitamin but the definition would leave much to be desired.

Think of football like a ho-hum Wednesday afternoon prophylactic session with your girlfriend. And rugby like waking up with a leather high heel on your throat that leads up the taut legs of a silicon-enhanced exotic dancer named Destiny, followed by a wildly violent and primal eighty minutes of skin slapping fun and hazard. No rubbers allowed. So keep the faith sports fans, entertainment doesn’t always require a digital subscription.

Of Gods and the Gridiron

Evin "The Locomotive" Murphy finds time to belt out taint-tingling prose for LBMS from his real estate office in Santa Cruz, CA. Lock up your women and children in a dungeon for this one, as we present to you the 'Motives NFL history lesson. It's as optimistic as it is docile:

Ho, ho, ho and what is there to say about the NFL? I can’t say that I can stand it any more. Too much parity. Everyone’s the same and what’s the point? Ed. Note: Don't worry Murph, the WNBA will be back in full swing before you know it!

Sunday used to mean a day of rest, pigskin and fan hatred. I watched to see the Cowboys lose but they rarely did. Behind their water buffalo offensive line they showcased the skills of Smith, Aikman, Irvin and the Moose, snatching the trophy in ’92, ’93 and ’95. Times were different then, they were better…for entertainment and for America.

But who cares about the bygones? Not you, no not you. You grew up “postmodern.” They taught you to be the judge, it’s all relative man. History? That’s just about dead white guys, oppressors, greed mongers…history won’t enlighten you onto the ways of personal happiness…the past is behind us man you have to move on, expand your mind, take a hit man…isn’t “Space Jam” an awe some movie? You know who hates “Space Jam”?...The government…the government totally sucks…man, they don’t want you to get high. Fuck the gov-ERN-ment.

Indeed, even Clinton hates the government but let’s get back to football. To fully understand NFL 2007 we need a pop-culture refresher:

America, 1980’s: The Soviet Union was irreversibly crumbling, the 49er dynasty was in full swing, the “Cosby Show” finally replaced “Dynasty” as the most watched television program in America and Mike Tyson was allowed to mingle freely with the citizenry. Politics and entertainment were entering a new age. Americans were looking for a way to forget the Vietnam War, JFK and Watergate and switching on their TVs, cracking a Budweiser and beholding the American machine proved a superb elixir. A steady diet of Cosby comedy, the violently competitive NFL, federal tax cuts, and might-makes-right foreign policy helped every working American with their evening relaxation routine. Things were simpler, more American.

Good ole USA and the NFC (SB champs ’85-’97) savagely and thoroughly crushed anything in their path in a made-for-TV showcase of free market capitalism and brute force. Yes sir, Uncle Sam was waving his flesh pistol in the face of anyone who cared to look up, and times were good. Football and world domination were complemented nicely by a steady diet of His Airness and Iron Mike, which brought the world of legal entertainment to a face-melting zenith.

But everyone knows Americans won’t settle for the good when they can have the weird…and in 1998, thanks to the lusty lips of horse-faced Lewinsky, it got weird in a hurry. The Razorback was out of its bag and the fat was in the fire. A practice, which as late as the 1970s had been considered unseemly and even immoral, had the official seal of approval. The supermarket check-out line was suddenly the entertainment hot spot of America. Trash magazine, chewing gum, razor blade and tampon sales went through the roof and Americans were finally free to express their postmodern entertainment desires. The innocent and young were trampled. America cared only for Clinton’s snapper stabber and the fun was over. Iron Mike tried to eat Evander Holyfield, Clinton became a lame duck president, the NFC lost its Super Bowl reign, Seinfeld was supplanted by ER as the highest rated show in America, Air Jordan retired (again) and the NFL “reworked” its collective bargaining agreement…cursing our generation to a joyless tyrannical oppression of league parity.

The NFL now churns out Super Bowl contenders with the predictability of bouncing lotto balls and brutalizes its quarterbacks faster than colleges, NFL Europe, and the supermarket chains can produce them. The QB slaughter has become the spectacle, the score no longer matters. Sundays are a time to drink heavily and witness race-horse fast 320 lb defensive linemen crashing through front fives across the country like apes in heat. They’re fueled on the blood of young boys and only satisfied by the crunch of a promising young quarterback’s bones, or the snap of a running back’s femur. Ratings are dropping almost as fast as starting QBs and the NFL feels more like a skeet shooting match than a football contest. So get out your favorite pair of sweatpants, put your slippers on, grab a silver bullet and settle in for this week’s orgy of violence brought to you by General Motors, Anheuser Busch (reminding you to drink responsibly), Propecia and the American Heart Association. Because you’re supposed to be a fat, bald, drunk, destined for cardiac arrest. Your country is run by a goofy child President and soon it will be taken over by the mother of Bill Clinton’s baby.

Think on that as you lay scratching yourself on the couch, texting in front of your TV, getting up only occasionally for work, to eat, urinate and watch horny young blondes whip each other on the screen of your parents’ basement computer. Welcome to the digital age and remember: when everyone’s the same there’s no one to hate except yourself. Sayonara and bai-bai.

Locomotive's Recommended Listening: the German national anthem.

MLB Playoff (Pants) Forecast: Wet with excitement

Evin "The Locomotive" Murphy finds time to belt out taint-tingling prose for LBMS from his real estate office in Santa Cruz, CA. Here, we present his MLB Division Series predictions (plus a bonus of 2 other guest jokenosticators):

ALDS
Anaheim Mighty Angels of Los Angeles vs. Boston Red Sox
Of the eight playoff teams, Boston scored the second most runs in the regular season (trailing the Yanks) and sported the best regular season ERA (3.87), significantly less than the second lowest (Cubs) at 4.04. I not only predict a first-round beat down for the rally monkeys, I believe that an Angels loss is the key to the entire offseason.

After the Angels have been vanquished, the calls for A-Rod can officially begin. Who would rather have a $30 million/year (Latin) MVP shortstop than marketing guru Arturo Moreno? Selling A-Rod jerseys, posters, pins, pennants, prophylactics, lamp shades, high thread count cotton sheets and antenna balls to the AMALA faithful will be too much for Moreno to resist. A-Rod will sign for $300 million over ten years and marketing-induced priapism will strike the Anaheim owner for the duration.
Locomotive Lock: Boston in 4.
Bones Foley, CP Radio: Boston in 5.
Editor's Pick: Boston in 5.


NY Yankees vs. Cleveland Indians
ESPN's expert panel, which should be limited to: Gullet Gammons, Harold Reynolds and studio host Karl Ravech (Ed. Note: Ravi's rug does get more exciting come October!) unfortunately consists of Gullet, Kurkjian, Stark, Steve Phillips, Steve Phillips, Neyer, Olney etc etc. Their vote of 7-3 goes in favor of the Indians. Lay off the hard stuff, "experts." I can guide you away from the fog of your rapidly emptying martini glass to the stats that matter...

In head-to-head competition this season the Yankees got our their XL brooms, cleaning up the Reservation with a tidy six-victory sweep. Not a single game was decided by one run or less. Four out of their six victories, the Yankees feasted on the fresh buffalo kill that was the so-called "dominant" Indians pitching staff: winning by five (twice), seven, and nine. The experts counter, 'but Big Flanks Sabathia didn't throw a single one of those games!' True, CC (D-Train Willis on a seven-year ho ho diet) did fail to make it away from the buffet to the hill in any of those six starts against the pinstripes but don't despair: the Yankees hit a crisp .284 against lefties this year.
Locomotive Lock: New York in 4.
Bones Foley: Cleveland in 4.
Editor's Pick: Cleveland in 4.

NLDS
Chicago Cubs vs. Arizona Diamondbacks
The only enjoyment to conceivably come out of this series would be a candid camera expose of Carlos Zambrano's purported voodoo rituals. Since I have to make a pick...Arizona in 5. Why would I pick an Arizona team which was outscored and hit a syphilitic .250 in the regular season? Because Alfonso Soriano and Derek Lee have batted .233 and .208 in their respective postseason careers. Plus, Soriano's recent home run tear is just as likely to hinder his playoff production (swinging for October dinger glory has been his bane) as it is to ensure it. Regardless of who wins this series they will advance to the next round as the worst team remaining in the playoffs.
Bones Foley: Arizona in 4.
Editor's Pick: Chicago in 5.


Colorado Purple Triceratops' vs. Philadelphia Phillies
Nothing fancy about this series (Ed. Note: actually we fancy Troy Tulowitzki vigorously. Plus, the Rox have a truly fearless leader.) Ryan "Rhames" Howard and his Phils should triumph over the silver bullets in a five game offensive bonanza which promises to be the most entertaining series of the round. (Ed. Note: 32 words?! Looks like the 'Motive's arthritic middle fingers began acting up so he postage-stamped this last one in.)
Locomotive Lock: Philadelphia in 5.
Bones Foley: Philadelphia in 4.
Editor's Pick: Colorado in 4.

The Death of Death Row

Ed. Note: Evin "The Locomotive" Murphy finds time to belt out taint-tingling prose for LBMS from bathroom stall A at his real estate office in Santa Cruz, CA. Here, we present his initial offering:

Watching Bonds' final game in a Giants uni was the first televised funeral I've seen since they buried 2Pac. Unfortunately, Barry's funeral didn't offer any real chance for televised reprisal killings or represent the end of something anyone still valued. More on par with Suge Knight's incarceration sentencing than Pac's memorial, Bonds' last game signaled the removal of an overweight, over-entitled, washed-up thug tactician whose domination of the industry had clearly (pun intended) washed up long ago.