Mike Bridenstine's Tumblr Thing

Sicko

Mon, 13 May 2013 18:26:00 -0700

On international pop superstar, Justin Bieber’s, 17th birthday, he took his internationally-famous actress/singer girlfriend, Selena Gomez, to the Presidential Suite at the St. Regis Monarch Beach hotel in Dana Point, California. It made the tabloids because the room was 3,000 square feet, had a butler, a dining room to seat ten and a balcony overlooking the ocean. Oh, and it cost $6,000 per night. The tabloids loved mentioning that Biebs really “spared no expense.” Hotshot teen heartthrob millionaire shit.

Anyway, a friend of mine just spent a week at a hospital in Glendale because he had some blood clots in his leg. A night in his dumpy hospital room cost him the exact same as Bieber’s rich kid romantic rendezvous. $6,000 a night. That doesn’t count his other expenses. That’s just to stay there in the room. Amenities include: no dining room, some awful hospital food and and a view of the distant, who-gives-a-shit Verdugo Mountains and a hole in the ground where Armenian construction workers were building a new car dealership, or whatever. Oh, and I think he had cable and wifi. It could be all yours for $6,000 a night.

If you stay at the Chairman Suite at the Bellagio in Las Vegas (that’s the place with the crazy fountain), you get a personal staff, a home theater system and a full-service bar, plus VIP seating at Cirque du Soleil. Same price. The Skylofts at MGM Grand are 6,000 square feet with a full bar, a library, a gym, a full-service kitchen and a pool. Same price. To stay at the Duplex Apartments at Encore, you have to have a $300,000 credit line to gamble. They have a billiards room and a massage room. Same price. $6,000 a night.

You can get all that awesome shit that I’m assuming only teen heartthrobs or Saudi Princes or the head of the fucking Yakuza actually buy. Or you could go to a hospital in Glendale with 3/5 stars on Yelp.

U-S-A! U-S-A!

Chicago! Get your tickets here! May 23-25 at the Lincoln...

Wed, 08 May 2013 12:31:44 -0700

Chicago! Get your tickets here! May 23-25 at the Lincoln Lodge. Me, Sean Patton and Mike Holmes. Probably an appearance of Every Song Ever. Hosted by Liza Treyger. And on Saturday, we’ll also be in Sean Flannery’s Blackout Diaries show. We’ll be bringing along Adam Cayton-Holland (Grawlix, “Those Who Can’t”) and our pal, AIDS Clown. $10. That shit’s a steal!

Since I’m having fun with podcast audio, here’s a...

Tue, 07 May 2013 17:08:18 -0700

Since I’m having fun with podcast audio, here’s a clip of Bert Kreischer prank calling me on Pete Holmes’ podcast, You Made it Weird (also available for free on iTunes). If you want to listen to my episode, it’s there somewhere too. Enjoy.

A few weeks ago, my dad got his hip replaced. And while he was...

Tue, 07 May 2013 17:06:19 -0700

A few weeks ago, my dad got his hip replaced. And while he was in the hospital, high on morphine, in a hospital gown, he left me a voicemail. It was hilarious to me. But somehow, while I was over-served at the Bridgetown Comedy Festival in Portland, I accidentally deleted it. Thankfully, there’s a recording of it from Cameron Esposito’s Put Your Hands Together show at UCB (from the podcast you can download for free on iTunes). And I this is a clip of me playing what is now lost in a voicemail graveyard in outer space, or wherever deleted voicemails go. Enjoy.

My Bridgetown schedule is up and can be found here. Come see me...

Wed, 10 Apr 2013 14:35:20 -0700

My Bridgetown schedule is up and can be found here. Come see me say things and also draw things during @jaredlogan ‘s set.

http://www.serialoptimist.com/interviews/currents-with-mike-burns-mike-bridenstine-14933.html

Mon, 08 Apr 2013 12:47:46 -0700

http://www.serialoptimist.com/interviews/currents-with-mike-burns-mike-bridenstine-14933.html:

Mike Burns and I just got interviewed in Serial Optimist. @pizzanachos69 @dadboner

This is the best thing ever. @dadboner @pizzanachos69

Mon, 08 Apr 2013 12:43:42 -0700

This is the best thing ever. @dadboner @pizzanachos69

Who's Bad?

Tue, 19 Mar 2013 17:15:00 -0700

I’ve been known to complain about my auditions from time to time. Because I really have had some bad ones. I’ve gone in for roles where the description actually said things like, “sausage-like fingers” or “sloppy, slovenly boy” or whatever. I’ve taken off my shirt in the audition room and had a director (who didn’t book me) say, “Now THAT’S comedy.” But I got sick of it. Being called fat on a daily basis lost its luster after a while and I decided to start going to the gym. And I’ve been surprisingly good about it for the past six months. I even have some muscles and stuff now. I’m no Greek god, but for me I have to admit I look okay for once. Despite all of that, last week I still managed to have the worst audition of my entire life.

The audition was a callback for a vodka brand I don’t know if I’m allowed to mention. And the spot had two regular-looking dudes and two gorgeous model babes. The model babes were supposed to turn to the dudes next to them and start making out with them. I guess the point of the ad is that fake vodka malt liquor drinks make women super horny for whoever is around. And I didn’t go to the first audition, but apparently people actually had to kiss each other that day. So, when we got put into groups of four, everyone but me had the expectation of having another makeout session. The two girls in my group looked absolutely disgusted that they were potentially going to have to touch me with their hot model lips. They actually boxed me out of their small talk actor conversation as we waited to go into the room. Like, we were sitting on a bench in a group of four and one of the girls completely had her back to me as if I wasn’t there. I didn’t get it at first, until I found out what we’d be doing. Then I realized they weren’t being rude. They thought I was the rude one for showing up looking so unkissable.

When it was our turn to audition, the situation got even worse. I walked into the room first and stood off to the left. The other guy stood to the right, leaving space in the middle for the two women. Instead of going to the middle (and next to sloppy, slovenly me), both of the chicks stood to the right of the other dude. Like, they couldn’t get farther away from me if they tried. And it’s not like the other guy was some heartthrob. He was just a regular dude too. But apparently I am so bad, that now these ladies were falling all over themselves to be in the kissing audition with him and not me. I wanted to just say, “I fucking get it, ladies. I’m super gross. I’m not going to try to rub my boner on you. We’re just going to be acting.” And another part of me wanted to say, “Playing hard to get, I see. Come here and let me touch you with my sausage-like fingers.”

The good news (for the models) is that the director said they changed the spot and that none of us had to kiss. The palpable relief on the girls’ faces would have been hilarious if it didn’t make me feel like such a creep. I felt like I was in middle school again and everyone had coupled off to french in some kid’s basement and I was calling my mom for a ride home. Except with two models and a camera.

When I got home I was half laughing about it to myself and half pissed. And I knew I’d heard one of the model girls’ names before, and it was bothering me, so I decided to Google her. And I’m glad I did. As it turns out, she is - get this - the girlfriend of Dr. Conrad Murray. If that name doesn’t ring a bell, Dr. Conrad Murray is the guy who murdered Michael Jackson. Ohmygod. Were Mark David Chapman or Mavin Gaye’s dad not available? You remember Thriller, right? It had “Billy Jean” and “Beat It” and all of the other awesome songs on Thriller. Yeah, anyway, her boyfriend murdered him. That’s how unattractive I am to her. If her boyfriend was a doctor, it would make a little more sense. But since I’m pretty sure Conrad Murray’s medical license was revoked, he’s kinda just a 60-year-old dude… who killed Michael Jackson. And she sleeps with him! Or slept with him, since I think he’s in jail. But whatever. She slept with the dude who murdered Thriller, but she can’t kiss me for four seconds of pretend time.

I guess what I’m saying is, I’m not the best looking guy in the world. I might have a few extra pounds on me, but I’ve never used prescription drugs to murder Michael Jackson.

I’m going to the gym tomorrow.

You Guys Are Reading Gentlemen Scumbags' Sex Advice Column, Right?

Wed, 27 Feb 2013 21:47:34 -0800

You Guys Are Reading Gentlemen Scumbags' Sex Advice Column, Right?

Mike & Andrew Try to Lose Some Weight episode 3: Ice Baths! ...

Tue, 26 Feb 2013 12:06:35 -0800

Mike & Andrew Try to Lose Some Weight episode 3: Ice Baths!

This Sunday, LA. Best lineup that won’t be at the Kodak...

Thu, 21 Feb 2013 17:42:18 -0800

This Sunday, LA. Best lineup that won’t be at the Kodak Theater.

Here’s Mike & Andrew Episode 2: Pole Dancing. And...

Tue, 19 Feb 2013 15:28:57 -0800

Here’s Mike & Andrew Episode 2: Pole Dancing.

And here’s a thing about it in the Comics Comic, where we talk about the series.

I'm the Voice of this Puppet

Thu, 14 Feb 2013 18:16:53 -0800

Check out my new Burger King ad. His name is Patrick the Puppet.

Here’s the first episode of Mike & Andrew Try to Lose...

Tue, 12 Feb 2013 12:29:39 -0800

Here’s the first episode of Mike & Andrew Try to Lose Some Weight. MMA fighting. Enjoy.

I have a new web show coming out with Andrew DeWitt called,...

Mon, 11 Feb 2013 19:28:00 -0800

I have a new web show coming out with Andrew DeWitt called, “Mike & Andrew Try to Lose Some Weight.” It’s going to be on Fremantle’s AWTV YouTube page, but you can also go to our Facebook page and see whatever updates we have.

Above is a promo interview we did with Sara Fletcher for The Meaty Grind. If you watch the videos when they come out, you’ll see us MMA fighting, pole dancing and taking ice baths. Because we’ve already shot those episodes. And they were really fun. So check it out if you feel like it.

A lot of people think traveling overseas is a glamorous thing. ...

Wed, 02 Jan 2013 20:26:00 -0800

A lot of people think traveling overseas is a glamorous thing. Those people are idiots. Either that, or they forget about having to cram onto a plane with dipshit strangers whose babies scream in foreign tongues. God, foreign people are the worst on airplanes. I think if they had it their way, the plane aisles would have dead cats, mule carts and a warlord - just like whatever villages they crawled onto the plane from. I don’t know what it’s like in first class. I’ve never even been seated any sooner than Group 3 - that’s my record - but I assume it’s filled with fancy prostitutes and Japanese businessmen doing blow off of Italian male models in scarves. By comparison, flying coach on an international flight is like a lawless shanty town in the worst part of the Andes Mountains. Sometimes there aren’t even flight attendants. Sometimes it’s just dirty, feral kids selling chicle. Sometimes you have to catch and kill your own chicken for sustenance. Sometimes gypsies will creep by and put spells on you. It’s fucking rough. Well, here is a story about the worst plane experience of my entire life.

In the fall of 2009, I had a 12 hour flight from Charles De Gaulle Airport in Paris to LAX. Sitting next to me was an old Frenchman, who I hated more than anyone in the world for the duration of that flight. The reason I hated him is because, when I fly, I like to sit with my arms and legs in the allotted space the airline gives you for your seat. You know, like a person. And Old Frenchman wanted to sit with his hands on his hips so that his bony old French elbow was lodged in to my ribs and kidney like my body wasn’t there in the fucking seat next to him. It wasn’t okay. However you’re picturing it, I assure you it was much worse. I knew right away it was going to be a problem. And I didn’t want to keep taking kidney shots for the next 12 hours.

The first thing I tried to do was to lift up my left arm, reach over with my right and wedge my hand between his elbow and my ribs. I thought he’d take the hint. Like, “Hey, see what I’m doing over here? You’re pretty inconvenient for me. So you gonna be done with that shit now or what?” All he would do was readjust and proceed to ram his goddamn elbow into a higher or lower part of the side of my body. I gave him a look like, “You’re joking, right?” And he just stared straight ahead and thought about snails or berets or whatever.

The worst parts were when he would fall asleep.

I can proudly say I’d never slept next to a French man before (or after!) this happened, so I can only assume that all French people snore like cartoon prison guards who have a ring of keys on their hips. This man was the loudest snorer I’ve ever heard in my life. And I know a lot of drunks. He sounded like a broken garbage disposal. It would be a hour or so of CCCCCCCCLLLLLLLLLLOOOOOUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!! while his elbow was digging a dent into me. And I couldn’t wake him up because he was in some deep dream about the Vichy Regime or his lifelong quest to catch Jean Valjean or something else lame and French.

Whenever he would wake up from me tapping his elbow, he’d look at me like it was me who was the old French asshole and not him. I’ll never forget the indignant look he gave me. I don’t know if he was some famous French guy who invented blowjobs or something, but old French guys are amazing at the ‘how dare you’ face. “How dehh you wake meh! Je me’appelle Monsieur Le Coude! I invented le blow jobba!” That’s how he sounds in my head. I don’t speak French, I’m not some fruit.

Anyway, he still didn’t get my hints. So it became time to switch from passive aggression to aggressive aggression. It was time to go to war. Because, you know who wins wars? Not the fucking French. *Sorry. Had to.*

At hour 6, he removed his sweater and was wearing a light blue button down shirt. The wheels in my head started turning. I pictured every dress shirt I’ve ever owned and how they all have pen marks all over them because I’m lousy. That’s when I had a brilliant idea. I grabbed a pen out of my backpack. Then I held it up to show it to him. While still making eye contact with Old Frenchman I clicked the cap, so the pen was ready to write. Then I folded my arms with the pen against my body and the tip facing him. It was my international way of saying, “There are consequences to your actions, Froggy. Try that elbow shit again and this shall be your Waterloo.”

Did it work? No. Of course not. Why would it? But the good news is that when we landed in Los Angeles, his elbow and tricep were covered in my scribbles. You know how a piece of paper looks when you try to restart a dry pen by scribbling? Yeah. Most of his arm looked like a fuckload of that. It looked like his shirt got a tat sleeve from a 3-year-old. Even for a Frenchman, he looked ridiculous.

I took the photo above a few hours into that flight while Monsieur Snore Elbow was in sleepy town. And I kept it in my phone for a few years, just to remind myself that no matter how bad it got, it’s never as bad as sitting next to that horrible man on an airplane.

Sometimes life kicks you in the balls. Sometimes life jabs its elbow into your ribs. Sometimes, you have to grab a bull by its horns. And sometimes you gotta take a fucking pen and write all over an old French guy on an airplane to tell them who’s boss. C’est la vie.

I spent the summer of 1996 sitting on a dugout bench next to a...

Fri, 30 Nov 2012 16:35:00 -0800

I spent the summer of 1996 sitting on a dugout bench next to a mentally challenged kid named Derek. And this is a story about how, that summer, Derek became my hero.

I was sixteen-years-old and I was the designated hitter on my sophomore baseball team. Derek was eleven. And he was our bat boy. Derek and I both had pretty easy jobs to do. And we were equally terrible at doing them… for completely opposite reasons.

As the DH, I didn’t play in the field. I just specialized in hitting for the pitcher. But, over the course of my sophomore year, I probably hit .195. If you don’t know anything about baseball, that’s like, not a good batting average. It’s actually a super horrible batting average - especially when it’s the only thing you’re supposed to do. So I basically spent an entire summer making outs so the pitchers didn’t have to. I wasn’t so much a designated hitter as I was a designated ground-out-weakly-to-the-second-baseman-er.

On the other hand, Derek was bad at being a bat boy because he flat-out refused to go get the bats. He’d just sit there all grouchy with his arms folded over his eleven-year-old belly and say, “No. I’m not going.” Every now and then, I could hear his dad yell, “DEREK!!!” from the stands and Derek would sprint as fast as he could to the plate with his teeth gritted and his eyes filled with maniacal hatred for his dad and the bat he was about to retrieve. And, trust me, you did not want to be up to bat when Derek would tear out of the dugout in a full-on murder-sprint in your direction. I was having a hard enough time at the plate as it was. I really didn’t need to see chunky tween rage rushing at me in my peripheral.

I’m not really sure why Derek even wanted to be the bat boy in the first place, but I think it’s because he just wanted to sit in the dugout and tell us tall tales about his life. One time he turned to me in the dugout and announced, “You know that song, ‘Gangster’s Paradise’? I wrote that song.” He actually said, “You know dat song Gang-stow’s Pay-wo-dice. I wote dat song.” Because, like most popular hip-hop lyricists, he had a crazy speech impediment. If you’re offended by any of this or what I’m about to tell you, I’m sorry. But in my defense, I didn’t know Derek was ‘special.’ I just thought Derek was ‘eleven.’ I probably couldn’t tell you the difference between the two of those things now. And he happened to catch me on a bad day. Well, being awful at baseball made most days at the ballpark pretty bad, but my response to his “Gangster’s Paradise” story was, “Really? You wrote that shitty song that Coolio wrote? Did you also happen to write the Stevie Wonder song from the Seventies that Coolio ripped it off from?” And Derek just stared at me, unflinching, with steely eyes, nodding - as if to say, “Yes, in fact I did write both of those songs.” I was about to lose my mind.

That’s about the time a teammate of mine took me aside and told me, “Go easy on him, man. Derek’s retarded.” Fuck. I just felt awful. Not that knocking an eleven-year-old with a normal IQ down a peg is really any better. I know that. But Derek talked the whole goddamn game and I had acne and angsty post-Cobain teen hormones. Nonetheless, I felt like Derek being on the slow side was a vital piece of information someone should have told me. Again, I was sixteen. How was I supposed to know? Here I was, about to go for the jugular on this poor kid, when he might have actually thought he did write Coolio’s song and that he did walk through the valley of the shadow of death, take a look at his life and realize there’s nuttin’ left.

A short time after that is when Derek became my hero.

Late in the season, the varsity coach came to one of our games to scout our team. He wanted to call players up to the varsity team for the district tournament. So we all wanted to play well and impress the shit out of him to get called up. Even me. I figured, “Maybe he doesn’t know the most basic of baseball stats. Who knows?” I thought I had a chance too. Let’s just say it did not go well. Long story short, we blew our lead and lost the game. We made ridiculous errors. We stunk. We lacked things like ‘hustle’ that coaches crave so hard. And we were in big, BIG trouble for it. After the game, our sophomore coach sat in the dugout with a wad of dip in his mouth and an expression on his face that meant, Everyone Is About To Get Screamed At. But all he said in a calm-before-the-storm voice was, “Go to the outfield. *spit* Sit down. *spit* And don’t say a fucking word.” Gulp. He was like the chubby Latino version of Jack Palance from Shane.

We sat in the outfield, silently under the stadium lights and waited, with our heads down, for the varsity coach to unleash his mid-life-crisis fury on us. And that’s exactly what the fuck he did. “You want to play for MY fucking team? You don’t even deserve to wear those fucking uniforms! Goddamnit! I’m embarrassed that this is the shit I have coming up the pipe the next few years! I might as well go down to the fucking Little League diamonds and bring up one of those sonsofbitches, who actually might give a shit!!!”

It went on like that for a while. Coaches always impressed me for their swearing abilities. My sophomore football coach once lost it on me and told me to “grow a fucking brain” over and over again at a practice the same school year. And that man was a Born Again Christian. But that’s a whole other story. Anyway, back to the baseball game. After the fat fuck varsity coach had screamed his face red (at teenagers), the assistant varsity coach got tagged in. The assistant varsity coach proceeded to tell us whatever version of emasculation that adult men love giving to high schoolers so very much. Then our even-fatter sophomore coach, who was probably fighting for his job at this point, decided to also weigh in.

And then came the worst part… the thing I dreaded more than anything in the world. “You know what I think, coach?” “What’s that coach?” “I think I’ll see these boys bright and fucking early tomorrow morning. And we’re they’re gonna run. Poles, Indian runs, situations… we’re running all goddamn day.”

Noooooo!

Running??? Are you fucking kidding me? We have to get up early? To run??? Oh God, please, NO!

If you’ve seen me, all you have to do is look at me and know I hate running. But gurl, I been hatin’ on running since the mid 90’s. So that’s when all the yelling began to sink in. Now I did feel bad we lost. Now it was life-or-death and war (and all the stupid shit coaches love to say) and not just a who-gives-a-shit sophomore high school game in Iowa. Not having to run is a much bigger motivator for me than being called a pussy by a 50-year-old fat fuck in P.E. teacher shorts. I would have been an All-American that year if the motivation was to not have to run wind sprints in Midwest summer humidity.

Enter Derek.

Derek had been listening the whole time, standing behind the coaches with his arms crossed glaring at us as if he was just as disappointed as they were. When the fat pig varsity coach’s blood pressure and lowered enough for him to talk again, he said, “I want you boys to sit here and think about this for a while.” No one talked for two beats. Then Derek screamed, “AND ANUTHA THING!!! WHEN YOU DO SOMETHING THE WONG WAY… *deep breath*… YOU GOTTA DO IT THE WITE WAY!!!”

Oh my god.

Please. Please, God, please give me the strength to hold in hold in this laugh. Please let it go away and have nobody hear it. For, I do not wish to pass out and die from heat exhaustion during extra running for me in the morn.

Luckily, the coaches broke into laughter first. Then the good players on our team. Then scrubs like me who sat on the bench and knew Derek the best. It became a goddamn giggle fest. The varsity coach had tears in his eyes from laughing. He squealed, “Fuck! Derek’s right!” And we all laughed even harder.

“Go home guys. Regular time tomorrow.”

It was 1996, so Wikipedia didn’t exist yet. But if it did, I would have logged on that night and changed Coolio’s page to say “Gangster’s Paradise” was, in fact, written by Derek. His selfless act of kindness made my night. And I wished I could have returned the favor.

It’s been sixteen years since that hot Iowa night. Coolio has long faded into obscurity. But that’s only because Derek got sick of writing his shit.

Tell me why are we so blind to see
That the ones we hurt are you and me…

Here’s the clip from last night’s Mash Up with...

Wed, 28 Nov 2012 10:27:21 -0800

Here’s the clip from last night’s Mash Up with @tomsegura. He’s funny.

The AL MVP For Dummies

Wed, 03 Oct 2012 00:09:28 -0700

This AL MVP race hurts my head. Like, I almost don’t know what to do. And I don’t want to read what any baseball columnists write about it because I’ve watched too many episodes of Homeland lately and I feel like I can’t trust anybody. It just boils down to the (potentially) first Triple Crown winner in 45 years vs. the 20th best WAR of all time. If you’re new to fancy baseball math nerd stats like WAR, you’re probably thinking that nobody has ever given a shit about them before now. You’d kinda be right. Ben “Who Gives a Shit” Zobrist of the Rays had the best WAR in the American League last season and that guy was 16th in MVP voting. The problem is that Mike Trout’s (baseballreference) WAR is 10.7. If that stat means what people are trying to say it means, then Mike Trout isn’t only the 2012 AL MVP - he just had the 20th best season in baseball history. Only Babe Ruth, Rogers Hornsby, Carl Yastrzemski, Barry Bonds, Lou Gehrig, Cal Ripken, Honus Wagner, Ty Cobb, Mickey Mantle, Joe Morgan and Stan Musial - basically a short list of the best baseball players of all time - have done better. Oh, and Trout, who is a rookie, just turned 21 fucking years old on August 7th. That’s insanity. By that same token, Justin Verlander (who has a WAR 0.7 points higher than Cabrera) would make the guy who’s about to win the Triple Crown the SECOND best player on his own team. See why my head hurts?

WAR is an acronym for Wins Above Replacement. It shows how many more wins a player would give his team than a scrub. For position players, it takes hitting AND fielding into account. Because, like, fielding is 50% of the game. Trout is really good at hitting AND fielding. He’s also a good baserunner. Cabrera isn’t as good in the field and on the bases. But he has more power. So this conversation is about the best hitter in baseball vs. the best all-around player (according to a stat which has a calculation that isn’t really agreed upon by any of the nerdiest of the baseball math nerds).

Here’s where this shit gets stickier: the Tigers just won the AL Central and the Angels will be going home after their last game against the Mariners. So Cabrera’s accomplishments ended up meaning something for his team and Trout’s didn’t. Sure, the Tigers have Verlander (one of the best pitchers in baseball). And they have Prince Fielder and Austin Jackson (two of the best hitters in baseball). And they’re hitting in front of Cabrera. But in 1987, Andre Dawson won the NL MVP for the last place Cubs. People complained that his season meant nothing, since it didn’t help the Cubs NOT finish in last place. So there’s also the age-old argument of what ‘Valuable’ means in the first place. Gross!

So here’s my pitch… what if (for this year only), Major League Baseball gives out two American League MVP awards. And not in a 1979 National League Keith Hernandez/Willie Stargell kind of way. You just have an Old School MVP award and give it to Cabrera. He (maybe) won the Triple Crown. The Tigers won the division. You also have a New School MVP award and you give it to Trout. It’ll be shaped like a calculator resting on top of a dog-eared copy of Bill James’ diary. Or something.

Either that or Josh Hamilton will hit two home runs in game 162 against the A’s (ruining Cabrera’s Triple Crown) and everybody can finally shut the fuck up.

Personally, I’m rooting for Cabrera. Because I’ve been a baseball fan for 25 years. And as a baseball fan you learn certain facts. Joe DiMaggio had a 56 game hitting streak in 1941. Babe Ruth had 714 career home runs. Hank Aaron had 755. Roger Maris hit 61 home runs in 1961. The last time the Cubs won the World Series was 1908. Stuff like that. Oh, and Carl Yastrzemski was the last Triple Crown winner in 1967. I’ve wanted to see another one the entirety of my time as a fan. I doubt in 2057 sports fans will be on the edge of their seats for the next 10.7 WAR. Give the kid the AL Rookie of the Year. Let’s see if he can do this shit again.

Here’s my roast show from Portland. Featuring Pete...

Thu, 27 Sep 2012 13:53:00 -0700

Here’s my roast show from Portland. Featuring Pete Holmes, Matt Braunger, Myq Kaplan, John Roy, Mike Burns, Michelle Biloon, Jay Larson and Emily Maya Mills.