Thursday, December 29, 2005

2005 Scrooge Awards

We're toward the end of the year now, and it's en vogue to do a little "Year in Review" type of thing. I should leave that to CNN and ESPN, however. They do a pretty good job in their own right, and I'm afraid my IU/Colts/Pacers/Notre Dame/Cincinnati Reds fandom would taint any such "Year in Sports" type of selection.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Also, I didn't do anything remotely resembling a Christmas column. I didn't so much as say, "Merry Christmas," "Happy Hanukkah," "Happy Kwanza," or "Merry Christma-kwanz-akah." So I'm doing that now. Happy Holidays to all, and remember, it's not a Christmas tree, but rather a Union tree. Just ask those crazy kids at Purdue (okay, they now admit it's a Christmas tree, too).

And so, I offer a belated Christmas column, mixed with a "Year in Review" type of deal. It's both too late and too early, in a sense. Here are my "Scrooges for the Year that Was 2005." Of course, I'm sure most of these are fairly recent, since, well, a lot has happened in the second half of the year!

The Cincinnati Reds. The Reds went all "bah-humbug!" on their fans by trading my favorite player, #21, the Great Mayor of the Queen City, Sean Casey. They exiled him to Pittsburgh, where players go to die. Of course, people say the same thing about Cincinnati, but at least I can get them on the radio! I will have a ceremonial burning of my Sean Casey jersey this weekend; the ashes will be mailed to Buckeye McGuinness, and spread over the Ohio River.

Stupid, Overgrown Star Wars "fans." You know who you are. You say things like, "George Lucas raped my childhood," and "I can write a better movie than George Lucas," and "How dare he do that with my favorite character!" I would just like to point out that Mr. Lucas, though a money-making whore, created the entire Star Wars universe, and has every right to do whatever he wants with it. Get over it. I enjoyed Revenge of the Sith, and if you could put aside the cardboard Stormtrooper armor you made in Grandma's garage last week, you would have, too. I will admit, however, that lines like, "One day, I will be the most powerful Jedi EVER," (AOTC) and "It's only because I'm so in love with you," (ROTS) should never have made it from page to screen.

Crazy DJ Ron the "Mixmaster/Fightin' Man/Reformed One/Trade Me/Don't Trade Me Conundrum" Artest. Who would have thought it (besides Bob Kravitz): in one calendar year, Artest managed to ruin not one, but two seasons for the Pacers. Now, the fight was in November of 2004, but its repercussions spread into 2005, and then there's this whole new thing he's doing this year. I mean, really, just call a news conference, stand at the podium, pause dramatically, and then give the ol' one-finger salute to the fans, teammates, and front office people who stuck by you when you went nuts. Or because you are nuts. Whatever.

San Diego Chargers. You thwarted the Colts' bid at perfection, and then went out of your way to play yourself right out of the postseason. I think Krildog would agree...that's Martyball at its finest.

Steve Smith. Only one man stood between my Money League fantasy team, and a $400 payout. His name is Steve Smith, and anyone who wants to pull a Gillooly has my permission to do so.

The New England Patriots and Anything Related to Them Such as Tedy Bruschi, Tom Brady, Bill Belichick, and Corey Dillon, but Excluding Charlie Weis Because His Soul was Saved (and also ended up saving) Notre Dame. I think this rambling, nearly incoherent line says it all. But you have to admit, the cleansing powers of Christ and the Fighting Irish can overwhelm any demonical evil, even when it springs forth from the dark cavern of Foxborough.

Rafael Palmeiro. It was the B12 shot Migs gave you, right Raffy?

USC. I nearly spared the Trojans the "honor" of making my list. Just imagine what woulda, coulda, shoulda been if the Irish had held on to win. We'd be talking a January 4th rematch, my friends. Okay...I'm just bitter. This is a dubious addition.

Happy Holidays and Season's Greetings. Can I get a Merry Christmas? Would someone explain to me why people who celebrate the honorary day of Jesus' birth have to hide their utter joy (and commercialization) with bland, innocuous phrases, while it's okay to wish someone a "Happy Hanukkah" or "Happy Kwanza" without consequence. I'm not Bible-thumping here, just curious.

Hurricanes. And we're not talking about the ones who play at "The U."

The United States Postal Service. I don't give a rat's ass if they get stuff to you on time. I just bought a 100-stamp roll of 37 cent stamps. But what have those ass doinks done? They've raised the price for a first-class stamp to 39 cents. That means I have to get rid of all my stamps before Dec. 31st, or I'll have to buy a ton of 2 cent stamps. And, even though I'm trying to get rid of them, it's just not working. Damn the eagle! Damn the USPS!

Lake Piedmont Apartments. Oh, sure, they sent a nice letter telling me how nice of a tenant I was, and how they really wanted me to re-up my lease. But then they decided they wanted to raise my monthly rent by $25/month. Now if that doesn't show how much they value me, I don't know what does. It hits not only me, but also Krilich in the pocketbook. Those sons of bitches.

Andrews Jewelers. Hey, I just got engaged, and I have a ring to pay off. But you see, the good people at Andrew Jewelers apparently think I'm in no hurry to start making payments. Thanks for waiting nearly an entire month before sending me a bill, you Punch n' Judy dickwads.

Car radiators, water pumps, and lower gasket intakes. I can already hear an "Amen" from Krildog on this one. Cars, while we love them, and depend on them, can also let us down, even when we take good care of them. Cases in point: my 1997 Grand Am, and Krildog's 1988 Monte Carlo. And when they break down...it costs money. Money that we don't have!

Rusty Bladen. If ever there were a black mark on the entertainment industry that couldn't be drawn out even with copious amounts of Meijer alcohol, it's Rusty Bladen. The self-proclaimed Karaoke King of Crawfish County looks like Jeremy Shockey, smells like ass, can't carry a tune in a spitoon, smells like ass, and doesn't seem to know Neil Diamond exists. Sure, ask him to sing "Sweet Caroline," and he'll pour honey potion in your ear, and then sing for six hours without nary a Neil Diamond song being sung. There are special places in Hell reserved for supercilious bastards like this. Be sure to heckle him accordingly with loud shouts of "You suck," "You blow," and other such mature taunts.

Next Question. Screw Terrell Owens and Drew Rosenhaus. They made a circus out of everything.

No comments: