The Rogen

Once upon a midday dreary, while I pondered Timothy Leary,
Over many a droll and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I smoked, nearly coughing, suddenly there came a scoffing
As of some one gently quaffing, quaffing at my very sores.
'Tis my mind,' I muttered, 'doffing the pain of my sores -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was the dead of Summer,
And each separate waking bummer came up through the creaking floor
Eagerly I wished tomorrow; - vainly I had sought to hollow
From my mind visions of sorrow - sorrow for the sightly bore -
For that often and duplicated fluff of a Hollywood bore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the raucous rambunctious echoing of each white wall
Thrilled me - filled me with tremendous terrors endured before;
But still now, to ease the beating of my brain, I stood repeating
'Tis my fragile mind entreating entrance at my psyche's door -
Some midday freak out entreating entrance at my psyche's door-
This it is and nothing more.'

Presently my head grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Tard,' said I, 'or Retard, truly you must try your best to explore;
The notion that I've been smoking, and thusly so gently toking,
When there upon came your joking, joking at my psyche's door,
That I scarce believed I heard you' - here I said hello behind the door; -
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there silent and leering,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But no joke was spoken, and there was no sign of Rogen,
The silence remained unbroken save for the whispered words, 'a bore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 'a bore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into my bedroom turning, all my guts within me churning,
Soon again I heard a scoffing somewhat louder than before
'Surely,' I said, 'surely that is something outside at my window;
Let me seen then, what the fuck it is, and this mystery explore -
Let my balls be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a shit and mutter,
In there stepped a fattened jew of the saintly days of bore.
Not the least obeisance made he; he not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with the right of a Crystal, perched above my chamber door
Perched upon a bust of Kesey, just above my chamber door,
Perched and sat, and nothing more.

Then this fattening man beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the silly and jocund state of countenance he so aptly wore
"Though thy chest be hairy and dense thou,"  I said "art no comedian,
Fattened, grim, and silly bargain, wandering the Hollywood shore.
Tell me what the shameless name is on Hollywood's Plutonian shore."
Quoth the Rogen, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this foolish clown to hear bullshit so plainly;
Though his answer gave little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no sane human being
Ever yet was plagued with seeing fool above his chamber door,
Jew or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the fool,sitting lonely on that ancient bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his guts in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further he uttered; not a man tit did he butter,
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other fools have come before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtfull," said I, "what it utters is its only hope not to be a bore,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his jokes one burden bore, --
Till the songs of his love that melancholy boredom bore
Of "Never--nevermore."

But the clown still beguilling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of jew and bust and door;
Then, upon the cold seat sinking, I took myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous fool of yore -
What this grim, overweight, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous fool of yore
Meant in laughing 'Nevermore.'

This I sat deeply in thinking, but no syllable came finking,
To this fool whose empty eyes now bored their way in my head's core;
This and more I sat bribing another drop from a drink I was imbibing
On the desk's wooden lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er
But whose cigarette burns lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
He shall burn, ah, forever more!

Then, methought, the air smelled vile, perfumed by Rogen's bile
Spat out upon the very carpeted fluffed floor.
'Bastard,' I cried, 'thy Producer hath lent thee--by such demons he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of that bore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind of nepenthe, and forget this lost bore!
Guffawed the Rogen, 'Nevermore.'

'Prophet!' said I, 'master of bores! - prophet still, if actor or devil! -
Whether anger sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this warm land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there laughs in Zack and Miri? - tell me, you fat bore!'
Quoth the Rogen, 'Nevermore.'

'Prophet!' said I, 'master of bores! - prophet still, if actor or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with idleness full if, I were to fashion here a bull,
It shall ram you through your very skull, from which come such bores -
And eliminate entirely, the very skull, from which come your bores?
Quoth the Rogen, 'Nevermore.'

'Be that joke or sign of parting, actor of fiend!'  I shrieked upstarting -
Get thee back into the emptiness and the Hollywood's endless bore!
Leave no small laugh as a token of that lie thy mouth hath spoken!
Leave my emptiness here unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy laugh from my ears, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the Rogen, 'Nevermore.'

And the Rogen, still staffing madness, still is chaffing, still is chaffing
From the pallid bust of Kesey above my chamber door;
And his belly has filled with demon's that still are dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his laughter on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies laughing on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Edgar Allan Poe really thought a Raven carrying the memory of a loved one would be quite terrifying.  But he was quite wrong.  The laugh of Seth Rogen is far more terrifying.  Weeks of it would make a person rip their own ears off and poke out their own eyes.  

I say it is so.

I remember when I first saw him.  It was in Knocked Up.  No wait, it was in 40 Year Old Virgin.  I never watched Freaks and Geeks, I don't care much for either of them, less of course they are in cages, or in a Freak Show at some circus ground filled with the scents of cotton candy, stale peanuts, and elephant shit.  That way, you can see their sadness in its purest of forms.

Oh Rogen, that laugh of yours, reminiscent of a retard and that hick dude in Waterboy, oh how it fills me with such terror.  I thought you should know, so I wrote you that little spoof poem there.  The Rogen. . . I mean really, how terrifying would it be to see a raven fly into your room with the head of Seth Rogen?  And the only thing from his lips would be that laugh?  The answer is, quite terrifying.

I say it is so.

It is for this reason, that I, iR, declare Seth Rogen and his laugh to be a bit of cursed retardation.

Love,

Joshua.

Diry Jobs: Rosanne Barr's Vagina

If you've ever seen Dirty Jobs then you know the host has gone and done some real disgusting work - things some people willingly do daily, for a living (no, there are no episodes about making a name for yourself in Hollywood, though surely some of the most vile things have been carried out in the name of such a pursuit.) And while for Mike Rowe, the show's host, all the dirtiness ends when the cameras go off, for these other people it never ends - they'll continue going elbow deep in the backsides of cows, continue trudging through human shit troughs, others will be still uplifting roots in murky pond water, still collecting and sorting at the trash dump, for the mighty dollar, bust mostly because they actually like doing it. Now surely it takes a certain special breed to want to take up these strange but somehow necessary? jobs in society. . . Yet one such episode showcased a job that was so disgusting and vile that the network refused to even show it.

It showcased a recent migration of whole groups of people to a new found source of gold: Rosanne Barr's vagina. Apparently the vastness of the region was so grand it could house a small city, one of stragglers and sinewy people, all chasing a gold rush like that of 19th century.

A brave group of miners explores the inner workings of Rosanne Barr's Vagina

Discovery Channel doesn't like to talk about it much, but the episode went like this:

"Its early morning here at the Crusted Jewel Mining facility located in the damp gloomy cave that is Rosanne Barr's vagina. Now, we had heard the original rumors regarding Rosanne Barr and her massive lady parts, but when we recently heard of gold being discovered, we knew we had to get in on the action." He stood in front of a productive shack - judging by the sounds coming from it - with a sign tacked out front that said CRUSTED JEWEL MINING CO. 2007. "First word of the Barr cave's vastness was reported by Tom Arnold himself, but this came after the divorce and many people believed it to be slander for a scorned ex-lover, rather than the God-awful truth. It was later affirmed in an online article that totally kicked ass. . . Tom Arnold had been trapped inside of her for many days, like Jonah in the whale, before he eventually escaped, and once again felt the fresh air of freedom. . . But this is Dirty Jobs, today, we're here for the mining operation which apparently started up as recent as three years ago, when trapped ex-boyfriends found gold so far back in her cooch that not even Rosanne Barr knew about it. Come on! Lets go!"

Cut to:

"This is what we use to mine the gold." The miner said. He held up a pick axe, blunted at the end from years of use. "Yeah just your standard pick axe, nothing special there. You basically just hack at it like so." He illustrated his swing, a fierce tug of the axe with pure brute strength.

"Wow." Mike said. "She don't feel it?"

"She don't feel a thing - aint felt a thing for decades mah friend, let alone now."

Then Mike's voiceover went like this:

"This is Otto P. Lotto (lawl), owner of the Crusted Jewel, and was Rosanne's boyfriend in 2004, but after he called her fat she sucked him up and he's been here ever since. He's 45 years of age and is one of the oldest people trapped in Rosanne Barr's vagina. He's covered nearly an inch thick in black soot, but doesn't seem to mind, not that there's anyway to bathe in here anyway."

Otto P. Lotto, he don't fuck around - he'll pierce you with his beady-soul-crushed eyes while he defiantly smokes a cigarette with a bony hand of tangled tree roots: "I don't care if there's no smoking indoors, this whole place is indoors, and I need a smoke - besides I've seen some shit, I'll tell yah - some real horrible shit."

"Yeah." Lotto said. "I don't notice the smell anymore. I'm use to it, but rookies tend to say its one of the worst parts of the job - just the smell alone." He sniffed the air to see if maybe he could smell it again, if only faintly.

"It is quite the odor." Mike said. "Like a fishing dock strewn with the bodies of dead babies."

"But they're wrong you know." Lotto said.

"Pardon?"

"Its not the worst part of the job - the smell I mean. Its this damn moisture. Its everywhere, and hangs over your head like your own personal rain cloud. My word, a man can go through 10 pairs of socks a day, in a hope to keep out the moisture, and it will all be for not, because there's just no way around it." He scratched his head, as if even now he was trying to figure out a way to fight the damn moisture. He kicked his feet and wandered off. . . "Just no way around it."

Mike's voiceover:

"I worked with a few of the more experienced miners, who made the process seem easy. I on the other hand had my difficulties. The floor and walls themselves were slippery, making it difficult to get a good footing. It would get everywhere, all over the axe and my clothing, and the stench made it impossible to think straight. But my efforts were not in vain, after hours working in what seemed like 100 percent humidity, I discovered it. Gold. Cooch gold. Cooch gold is far more rare than regular gold, and although the piece I mined was no bigger than a pebble, its market estimated value was two hundred and fifty dollars. The best part was that it seemed to be everywhere, sprung up like weeds bearing riches - for those willing to sweat it out for it.

We met up again with Otto P. Lotto who still had the same bitterness about him. (Of course Mike, for you this is but an hour special, for me this is but another knot in the noose. This damn moisture, Mike, my skin is peeling like dry paint. I'm rotting.) We came with our newly mined cooch rock. He refined it for us, and did it with an ease that can only come from years of practice. (Clean there in the light. Fine. What infinite pleasures may come of this. What toil went into finding it. And that damned moisture. . .) After studying it he told us of its particular purity, and let us keep it as a parting memento."

"So you think this is the dirtiest job?" Mike said, putting his newly acquired precious metal in his pocket.

"Mmm." Otto pondered a moment, and then spat. "I suppose so. If not it certainly is one of the most dangerous ones." Mike asked, "Dangerous?" "Yes'm. Why just the other day a man took a dip in the drink, drowned hisself in minutes flat. Drowned right there in that river, that penile canal or birth canal or whats-it. Yeah, and another boy took to the vaginal walls over yonder, slipped and busted his head on the rock there - killed hisself in minutes flat. Yes'm."

He took another tug of his cigarette. "Just no way around it." The words came with billows of blue smoke. "Just no way around it."

Mike's voiceover:

"When we left all the workers came to see us off (Came to shun you bastards. To send you off with a dirty glare, and me at the forefront of it all. Like vultures you swept through this graveyard, picked the bones of any meat you found desirable and held it up to your lens for all to see. . . Could you see the emptiness in our eyes - the years of wrought that woman put upon us? I can feel it in my face - the creases - the age - the torment. . .) And we were glad to be off, out into the fresh air which never seemed so crisp before (I'd give anything to smell fresh air again.) We left with a precious cooch rock, a memento of a dangerous smelly. . . Dirty Job. . ."

Mike would then go home and sleep peacefully, a smile painted across his face.

Otto would tie up his noose.

Rosanne Barr would turn in bed - didn't feel a thing.

By midnight Otto would be dead. Just no way around it.

iR

Jeff Goldblum:The Seventh Sense

Who is Jeff Goldblum?

What. . . is Jeff Goldblum?

This past week I set out to answer these questions, but there's very little to be found about him on the internet. Jeff Goldblum is very much like a ghost; whenever celebrities start dying off, Jeff Goldblum gets thrown into the mix, like some hopeful journalist out there thinks that if he writes of Jeff's death, it'll come true. For a while there, before its confirmed that he's still alive, Jeff walks around just like a ghost, he walks around and nobody cares, he saunters this away and that, unnoticed and given not even the slightest bit of eye contact. But then the news report comes in he's still alive, and then they say oh, he survived, he's alright he's alright, so Jeff goes on walking and he's not a ghost anymore but still nobody cares, still nobody notices him; not even a look.

Those who do notice him are almost like the kid in The Sixth Sense, they can see dead people, but to see Jeff requires a greater and more finite instrument - The Seventh Sense.

Lack of information left me with only one choice, one which I dreaded. I would have to fly out to Pennsylvania.Even now I glance back on the notes of that wretched flight... This was hardly a vacation.

Fuck I hate airplanes. Sitting next to an aging old woman who won't stop expelling mustard gas. She expels it and doesn't say a god damn thing, like she doesn't even notice the smell that burns nose hairs, they're probably gone from years of expelling. Wonder what she ate. Maybe this plane food. Little kid won't stop kicking my seat. Fuck I hate airplanes. Sisterhood of The Traveling Pants is the only on-flight movie. Fuck I hate airplanes. Some baby is screaming. Fuck I hate airplanes. Fuck I hate airplanes - can't even get shitfaced. 2 drink limit. . . 2 drink limit. . . Looking at Pennsylvania below, from 20,000 feet it aint bad, but soon I'll be ground level in that shit. . . "in the shit." 20,000 feet - maybe a gremlin will come and kill us all, or maybe just me - I deserve it for coming here. . . but gambling is legalized - they say so, they say a lot of things, lots of rambling, lots of pointless conversations, I'm surrounded by em - people who love to talk but have nothing to say. . . Fuck I hate airplanes. Its just unfair. Ear pops and crying babies as we begin a gradual decent to land - should get use to the sound, Goldblum's voice is just as annoying. Flight attendant - blond - gone - ready to spawn -

When I got off the flight there he was, Jeff Goldblum, standing as inconspicuous as ever, even though he was standing amongst a crowd of limo drivers and teary eyed relatives waiting for the sight of their kin so they could start all the crying and hugs and kisses. Even though he's an actor and Broadway star - no, no attention given to Jeff Goldblum.

I was beginning to think he really was a ghost.

"Jeff?"

"In the flesh!" He laughed. "Isn't it great! Yes, uh... umm.. yes... Wait, I'm going to uh... disappear... and uh materialize. . . and uhh. reappear over there. . . Well uh yes. . .uhhh. . . umm" He started to ramble, a thing he did to make it appear like he had a great deal of wonderful intellectual things he was trying to say, but first he had to formulate it in his mind and make it simple enough for you, the dumb simple minded listener to understand. . . The truth was his mind was a jig saw puzzle of odds and ends of different shapes and sizes so strange it took him awhile to put all the pieces together and form them into thoughts and in turn sentences. He'd have these odd moments where he'd ramble and you could see him thinking, you could see the words trying to come to him, and they'd come out like he literally had to cough them up. When he did, it was always some strange idea, or plan, or random thought that managed to work its way out of him. I stop him before he starts, and we leave and drive sixty miles to his home, I took notes the whole time.

He seems to drive the quickest through the warehouse districts and construction zones - a certain disdain for the working man peeks its way through sometimes when he talks. He talks he talks he talks he talks. He does a lot of talking. His house is the biggest most ostentatious one on the block. He's eying me as I write this. Through the gate and up his drive way. Sloping lawns on both sides. Gardeners tend to them, they ignore Goldblum - they must not have the seventh sense. He's yammering again - something about aliens and independence day - Will Smith and the like. Up to the doors of his rotten house, I step through and my face goes blank. Its cold... suffocating. Who is this ugly bat staring at me?

"Ahh honey hello!" He went to kiss her but she moved forward and never looked at him. "Josh. . . this is my wife."

"Who are you?" She asked, like she didn't even hear him.

"A guest of Goldblum's. . . surely you heard. . ."

"Oh another one of you loonies. . ." She sighed. "I never know what to do with your kind. Well do what you must, look around, just leave me alone." She said, and then walked off, disappearing somewhere into the bowels of the house.

I looked to him for an answer, he started stumbling his words and laughing nervously.

"Well uhh. . . umm. . . you see I'm not home much. We uhhh don't get. . . along." And that was that, he showed me around his house, pointing at this and that, with particular devotion spent to an old ugly oil painting of his father he kept over the mantel piece. He suggested I write it down, describe it in detail, and then he went on a long story about the man, long and slow, and frustrating. At times I thought to slap him, to just tell him to "Get on with it already!" but I let him talk. I let him talk because I'm use to having to listen to people go on about stupid boring things - sometimes there's nothing you can do to stop them, you've just got to wait it out, like a rain shower of quarter sized rain droplets that shows up uninvited on a clear day and you've got no cover. Their words are the rain droplets and they just shower over you, they baptize you in everything that is them, in everything that bothers you about them, and there's nothing you can do to get a way - you could walk away but the cloud would just follow you - no sir, you just got to wait it out.

So I waited it out and it rained retardation till dinner rolled around. We sat at the dining room table, one which could seat 30 people easily, and Goldblum took to immediately bragging about the suaires he would hold in this room. "Uhh. . . girls. . . uhh. . . whiskey, balloons, balloons, uhhh elephant rides. . . I'm going to uh. . . disappear, right, and then uhh materialize, right, by reapearring over there." He always had a way of repeating himself - it was almost like he wished it were true, its almost like he wanted to be transparent, to be able to disappear, and although he never vanished right before my eyes, he may as well have been invisible, judging by the way people ignored him so. "Uhh. . . uhh. . ." I took to waiting it out again, Goldblum took to raining again, with more stories and "hilarious anecdotes" not even he found all that funny. An hour went by and no food came, there was no smell of it, no sounds in the kitchen, no trace of a meal anywhere.

"Uhhh. . . . Hello?" He called out. No answer. "Hello?" No answer. "Uhhh Hello?" No answer. "Hmm well uhhh it seems I've been away so long, uhhh everyone seems to have forgotten that dinner. . . uh, uh, is at eight." He went to investigate dinner, but there was no one around, no chef on duty, he couldn't even find his wife. "Uhhh. . . it seems we've. . . been forgotten." He apologized, he seemed downright embarrassed. He tried to cheer me up with some of his music, something which he claimed was expression at its finest:

I was cheered up, but I'm sure for none of the reasons he intended.


The next day, breakfast was much the same - there was none. It was quite clear that he was even a ghost in his own home. The maid ignored him, but eyed me like she thought at any moment I would snatch up some retarded Goldblum artifact and make a run for it, which is quite ludicrous - I hate running. His wife was nowhere to be found. His home was an empty shell that echoed when you would talk - it didn't seem lived in.

"So uhh. . . maybe you should interview me. . . thats the whole point of all of, uh, this. . . right?"

"Don't you think its strange all these people not acknowledging you? Fame and fortune aside, your a human being, aren't yah? Don't all people deserve at least that - a little acknowledgment, every once in awhile?" I asked. The question made him laugh.

"Uhh. . . no . . . no. . . uh you see its like crystals. . . crystals, they're uh, amazing uh examples of. . . of. . . of the wonder of nature. . . and-"

"No." I cut him off. I was hardly in the mood for another stream of retardation disguised as something intellectual. "I mean, they don't even look at you, they don't say a thing. . . They don't say a thing and you just go on, unphased, like its the normalest thing. . . Even your wife didn't say anything when we came in, she looked at me like I wasn't welcomed, like I wasn't suppose to be here, man. Your maid gave me the same look - and the food - its been twice now that we've sat at this table and nothing came out - the kitchen didn't even have all the sounds of food being made. They didn't forget us. Its like you're a ghost, and walking around with you is making me feel like a ghost too, and I just don't like it. . . not one bit."

"A. . . ghost? A uh uh, uh disembodied spiritial being? An, uh, apparition?" His eyes darted back and forth, he was trying to process the word, to define it. "A Ghost. . . uh."

"You know all them months ago, when everybody was devastated with news of MJ passing, and then Faccet, well, you were grouped in with em too. You were reported dead for 4 whole hours, Jeff. . . But it was retracted, it was said you were ok, that you survived, just like you had all those other times, when the news came out false. . ."

"Survived. . ." He was reliving the event.

"But they were wrong this time Jeff. This time you didn't survive." He had turned milk-white, a wilting daisy. "Sometimes, ghost are just people who don't know they're dead, ones who just go on living. . ." I paused and eased the words out of my mouth. ". . . just like you."

"Just like. . . me. . ." He looked down and saw what I had already seen - his white shirt stained crimson. Blood poured out of his abdomen like the wound was fresh, made new. "So. . . that. . . that uh, prostitute, she really did. . . kill me." His eyes had glossed over, he looked more like a ghost than ever. "I remember her shooting. . . uh, the bullet. . . the white flame. . . dead. . . dead. . ." His eyes dropped. "But, uh, how?"

"You died, Jeff. But it all got mixed up. You didn't believe it, no one did. . . The newspapers have claimed you to be dead so many times before, and they were always wrong, you always just went on living - you survived the accident or weren't really in harms way at all. This time you really did die, but no one believed it, not even you, so you kept on living - a ghost. So people thought you survived but you didn't Jeff." He looked so cold. "You know what you must do. . . you must cross over Jeff. . ." (corny)

"I don't know. . . uh, if I believe you."

"I didn't believe it at first either Jeff. . . I thought everyone was ignoring you because you're lacking of talent and always seem to act like an ass. I figured it was because you're a Broadway star, and nobody really cares about Broadway, and that you haven't done anything prominent since those iMac commercials, which you did so long ago and are so forgettable. But it wasn't all that Jeff, you really are a ghost. . . I started to see it last night. . . "

"How can you see me?" He asked.

I paused, and looked up at him very intendly.

"The seventh sense." Pause. "They can't see you because they don't have it. . . I do. And that is why you must go. . . I'm sick of seeing you."

"I know. . ." He solemnly said. The room erupted with light, a blinding light from the "Heavens." "Pop?" Jeff looked into the light, and saw that old man he showed me the painting of. "I'm coming." He turned to me.

"Thanks." He said.

"No Jeff, thank you."



IN MEMORY OF JEFF GOLDBLUM. . . 10/22/52 - 6/22/09

iR

Opening Day: Randy Johnson and The Giants: Cursed Retardation?

Randy Johnson took the mound for the Giants on Opening day against Los Doyers. . . Mr. Mean himself, standing at 6'10" nothing but legs and arms, a stretched out Gumby, staring down at you with two beady eyes and a face full of hate. In his hay-day, Randy could throw a fastball up to 100 mph with deadly accuracy: in March 2001 he managed to kill a dove one game, during Spring Training. Apparently a "freak accident," the dove swooped in just as Randy released the ball, and just like that, the dove was obliterated and turned to feathers, but one could also just as easily believe that Randy intentionally did it; destroying a symbol of peace sounds right up his alley. . .

Randy is the only player to have ever killed a living creature during a game.

But that was in his hay-day, and now his fastball aint as fast, his slider doesn't move as much, and he isn't rocking the greasy shoulder length mullet. Regardless, he still looks like the kind of guy that would go after you with a rifle if you pissed him off in a bar, or cut him off on the highway: a complete loose cannon with the ability to rifle in one right between your eyes, whether on the field with a fastball, or on the street with a bullet from his bolt action Winchester Model 70. Randy was coming in, undefeated previously in Dodger Stadium, 6-0, but today however was quite different. First in the bottom of the third he gave up a homer to Hudson, then in the fourth he gave up 4 hits and 2 walks, including a homerun and a double for 6 runs. The rest was all quite ugly, the Doyers ended the night winning 11-1. The Giants on the other hand, are doing dreadful, they've lost more than they've won, and today looked like they could not hit the broad side of a barn, striking out 11 times as a team, all at the hands of one, Chad Billingsly.

The game of baseball has always had its superstitions, some more bizarre than others, but none is more prominent than "The curse." The Giants seem to adhere two to of their own curses, when explaining the short comings of their mediocre teams, year after year. One is dubbed "The Curse of Coogan's Bluff," which dates back to right before the team left from New York to San Francisco. Coogan's Bluff was the name of the site where the Giants played. Apparently the towns people there, were crazy irrational people, who still believed in vampires and werewolfs, and always crossed the street when seeing black cats, and decreed that upon the team leaving, they would never again win a world series. So far this has held up to be true, and thusly for the past 50 years, The Giants have suffered from cursed retardation. Their second curse, which happens to be more recent, is an even more pathetic attempt of trying to explain their teams inaffectiveness. The scapegoat this time happens to be their own commentator, Mike Krukow.

Unlike Vin Sculley and Harray Caray, who are loved by fans and spoken fondly of, Mike Krukow bears the cross of failure The Giants have embodied, even though he doesn't even play the game. The curse states that every preason he claims they have a shot to win it all, and as a result they don't, and the only way this will, is if he refrains from making such a prediction.
.
These two curses, bring The San Francisco Giants, and all its fans, staff, owners, and players, in a special distinction of retardation that few teams in the Major Leagues have: Cursed Retardation.
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cursed retardation: said victim, suffers from retardation resulting from a local curse or superstition. Said curse can result from a person, living or dead, a change in team location/name, a bad trade, an inanimate object, or a certain event in the teams history. Or simply Alex Rodriguez, who is a well know cursed retard.
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TEAMS SUFFERING FROM CURSED RETARDATION:
Chicago Cubs
Boston Red Sox (Curse Broken)
Chicago White Sox (Curse Broken)
Los Angeles Angels (Curse Broken)
New York Yankees
Cleveland Idians
San Francisco Giants

Certainly the Giants can't be looking forward to facing the Dodgers again today, and I can't say that I blame em. Things seem to be looking up, the team is finally producing the offense many were quick to question in the first 4 games. Manny isn't hitting for power yet, but he'll come along soon.