Monday, February 23

Nostradamus was a fag

Most visionary savants are unappreciated in their time, languishing in obscurity until their genius is re-discovered by later generations. Thankfully I have two things going for me that those retrograde primates didn't: a blog with hyperlinks, and absolutely no sense of modesty where vigorous public self-fellation is concerned.

As a case in point, the Mariners recently signed Ken Griffey Jr., causing a lot of crusty old journalists, as well as sentimental yeasty-vag fair weather fans, to wax nostalgic about The Kid's return to Seattle. I stand by what I wrote in June '07: fuck Ken Griffey Jr. This signing is a horrible idea, and will undoubtedly end in tears. As I said back then:

... fuck this mass amnesia and post-facto hero worship. Does nobody else remember his constant whining about everything when he was a Mariner?? How big a baby he was, how constant a pain in the fucking ass? Remember how badly he trashed the gorgeous new stadium, a fan improvement in every single way, because he thought it might be slightly less favorable for him to hit in (among other things)? His sniveling like a spoiled 12yo girl when he became consumed with jealousy because of the quantity of fan-made banners rooting for him vs A-Rod? And most importantly, remember how mightily he fucked us raw, on his way out of town, by destroying all our negotiating leverage during the trade talks? Does nobody else remember??? I REMEMBER!!
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that comprise Mariner fandom sometimes lead me to seek solace in fantasy adventure novels. One epic fantasy that I can not presently turn to for escape is A Song of Ice and Fire by George R.R. Martin, because the latest entry in the series has been AWOL for many many years now. After the death of Robert Jordan--whose wall of bricks is in the same genre as Martin's in the same way that Andy Borowitz and The Onion both write satirical news stories--I wrote:
Unfortunately, my schadenfreude toward every suckerhead who kept up with Jordan is marred by the fact that I am playing the same sucker's game with George R.R. Martin... While it is an objective scientific fact that Martin's writing is infinitely superior to Jordan's, we can only hope that God's thirst for authorial killing has been sated for long enough to let my fatty actually finish his fucking story.

According to the Geneva Conventions,
fat men must wear silly little hats
In typically classy fashion, I went on to call him fat a few more times and then implied that he's on death's doorstep as a result of his age and gross (seriously: gross) obesity.

Would my rant be in vain, amounting to naught but digital sound and fury, signifying nothing? Or would Martin actually take heed? Apparently yes he fucking would, for as he recently noted on his oh-so-preciously-named Not A Blog:
After all, as some of you like to point out in your emails, I am sixty years old and fat, and you don't want me to "pull a Robert Jordan" on you and deny you your book.
* spanky raises both hands to the sky in victory

For my next trick, I'm going to get Evangeline Lilly to pose for naked photos. Stay tuned.

2 comments [add yours!]:

Crispin said...

1. Like I wrote back then, good luck getting him off the DL for more than a few games a season. We here in Cincinnati got tired of his shit a long time ago (and contrary to some of your yeasty-vag fans) *this* is his home and we still say good riddance.

2. It's Andy Borowitz, not David. I know this because he haunts my slumber with the darkness of a thousand black holes of funny, sucking any comedy out and leaving nothing but exasperated news item A + news item B = cringeworthy mashup bits.

Ken Griffey Jr. to host next year's Oscars. Will sit in a chair stage side and toss statues to stars as they walk by.

See? It's not hard.

spanky said...

That example is so painful but accurate it makes me want to punch something. Thanks for the Andy/David correction, which I changed in the post.

As for Griffey, if you end up visiting Seattle this summer we'll go to a ballgame together and heckle that self-entitled fatass.