Putting aside the fact that Palin kind of looks like Stacy Peterson, if she had been allowed to exist for another 20 or so years ...

... McCain's choice for sidekick certainly gets beaucoup Novelty Points. Not that "things" were boring, veez ah veeeee this election campaign (emphasis on the "pain"), but they could get much more interesting soon. And by "interesting," I mean "slapstickutacular."

I predict that at the veep debate, Joe Biden bites his palm like Lenny and Squiggy when Sarah Palin takes the podium. OK, maybe that won't happen, but it's a sure bet that some dude, on either or both sides of the contest, is going to say something inappropriate about her purported hotness. If it's a Republican, he'll recover with the Nigel Tufnel retort, "What's wrong with being sexy?" If it's a Democrat, he'll throw himself under a bus -- literally.

I bet some GOP attack ads get aired with Obama saying "Sweetie" a thousand times in some kind of Negativland-esque tape-loop ("Sweetie. SweetieSweetSweetie. SwSwSwSwSweetie. SweeSweetSweetie. SweetieSweetieSweetieSweeSweeSweeSwee- SweeSweeSweeSweeSweeSwee. Christianity is stupid! Communism is Sweetie!"). If that hasn't happened already.

There's about a 20% chance that McCain will call Palin "a fine piece of tail," which will be good for a laugh -- but I bet he'd get away with it, and Palin will get credit from the press for being a "good sport," unlike those sourpussed feminazis in the Donkey Party. I also predict that by Nov. 4, the term "hockey mom" is going to induce projectile vomiting in me. Actually, we can revise that date to Sept. 4.

Regardless of what happens, it's sure going to be strange to have an election without any Southerner on either ticket. When's the last time that happened? And Alaska is about as far from Dixie as you can get without actually leaving the atmosphere.

Which raises the question -- if Cokie Roberts so insistently and persistently believes that Hawaii is an "exotic" locale, what about Alaska? Sure, it's technically on the same continent as America, but it's closer to Russia (i.e., zero miles, if you count the maritime border) than the contiguous United States. RUSSIA!!! They even have Orthodox churches in Alaska, with onion domes and everything. Hell, Alaska used to be Russia. There are still Russian-language documents in state legal archives. So, I wonder, what's Comrade Palin's viewpoint on South Ossetia?

ILL-ADVISED POSTSCRIPT: I've been tempted to make a "Dead Parrot Sketch" joke, by the way, but I'm not sure I'd want to do that in a public forum. I don't need to dork myself up even further, and Monty Python is way, way up there in terms of sheer dork quotient. (Although I guess I just did. Actually, the truth is, I couldn't think of a good one.)

So, in lieu of that, how about this?

Ohhh, she's a lumberjack, and she's OK!
She sleeps all night and gives birth all day!

Cuz ... see ... she's got so many kids. So ... many ... kids. OK ... maybe not.

POST-POSTSCRIPT: Allegedly, Palin returned to work the day after giving birth to her daughter, Piper. Well, there's some traditional Waltons family values for you. But I don't mention it because of that. I mention it to dispel any notions that I am biased in favor of Palin because I have a kittie cat named Piper. Any and all resemblances between Piper Palin and Piper Moss are purely coincidental. Although I didn't take any time off work when I acquired her, either. But then I didn't extrude her from the base of my torso ... so ... again, not comparable, I guess.

Mariotti Quits, Swisher Searches in Vain for Unaltered Hair to Wacky-Up in Celebration

I know it's been a while since I've written anything about the White Sox (or anything about anything, but in my defense, summer has never been a productive season for me, creatively), but I'm trying to be teh funnay hyah, and it's hard for me to write jokes smartass remarks when things are going well. I mean, Nick "Swishy Knickers" Swisher has suddenly become some kind of home-run hitting guy, Paulie seems to be shaping up, Crede is back (his back got better about a week back, thanks very much, try the veal), and Carlos Quentin and Alexei Ramirez continue to be ... awesomely awesome. The hosers are a game and a half up in first place, as of this writing, and ... until a few seconds ago, the Mariners had a two-run lead over the Twins. Damn, you, Twins! Identical upper-Midwest flies in my baseball ointment! But still, it's kind of hard to mock the White Sox right now. Even Juan Uribe.

And now Ozzie Guillen gets a nice Chreestmoose present in August: Jay Mariotti is leaving the Sun-Times "to pursue other opportunities." Yeah, I'll leave it unspeculated at this time what those "opportunities" could be.

Obama '08: Making the Politics of Failure Work Again (in a Changed Yet Believable Manner)

I don't think the Democrats know how to fight anymore. Apparently that twisted mutant Carville was the only guy who could. Anyway, today they're hammering McCain on the "I don't remember how many houses I own" thing, and I'm not sure what they're going to get out of that. What's the message, that McCain is filthy rich? That's not a negative -- people in this country fucking LOVE rich people and identify the hell with them. If they didn't, they'd never watch football or baseball.

If they're trying to play the "elitist" card, they're failing. Being rich doesn't make you "elitist," in the parlance of the conventional punditry -- eating arugula does. Being able to read and spell at a 9th grade level does. Knowing that Pakistan does not share a border with Iraq does.

I think that when Biff Nascar and Britney Hatesgays hear that McCain has so many houses that he's lost track of them, they're just going to react by saying, "Hot damn, that guy's good! I wish I could get me some a them there houses! And a new couch for every front porch! And I will, too -- soon as I win the lot'ry! Pick Four! Easy Money! Superball! Yee hah! I love Nascar! I hate gays! McCain's got more houses than a Monopoly game! I love being a Republican!"

Staycation, all I ever wanted ... staycation, had to not get away ...

Long time no post, but I've been on staycation this past week, and staycationing just did not include blogging, until now.

Some people seem to enjoy taking on extra jobs during their time off regular work, whether for the money or the fun of it. I used to work with a guy who likes to go pretend he's a trolley conductor during his time off work. But I won't comment further on that.

I'm not interested in taking on a temp job for money, but sometimes I think it'd be fun to find a little fantasy gig to get away to from time to time -- and then to get away from after a very finite span.

In fact, every summer I find myself wishing, every so often, I could spend a day at the old golf course again, cutting grass, changing holes, chasing gophers -- you know, greenskeeping. I know if I tried to do that job again I'd probably croak -- I'm old, I'm way out of shape, I have bad feet, I'm lazy as fuck, and nowadays I'm fat and can't handle the hot weather very well -- but it's fun to pretend.

So here's my idea (patent pending): Fantasy greenskeeper camp. You show up, some sunburned jerk wearing Frye boots and camo pants yells at you for being late, throws a rake at you, and then you go have a bloody mary at the 19th Hole. If you feel like it, you can rake some sand, too. Or drive some gnarly equipment around for a while, maybe a front-end loader or one of those smooth greens mowers with the zero turning radius and hydraulic everythings. Or you can just hide behind the bushes along the Number Five fairway and smoke a jay, no big deal.

Now, I know there are a few problems with the idea. Commercial viability of the enterprise, business-wise, might be one of them. And most of your demand may well come from "Caddyshack" fans who have a real skewed idea of the greenskeeping discipline. Bill Murray's character, Carl Spackler, is probably the image most people have of greenskeepers. Which is a shame. I mean, we all love to laugh about "killing the golfers" and "total consciousness," but greenskeeping is not all featherbed bent and Cinderella story.

Which is why I'd like to introduce my candidate for Head Greenskeeper of the Stronger Than Dirt Pete Moss Fantasy Greenskeeper Camp (tentatively opening 2009) -- Greenskeeper Don. If you will indulge me by watching this short clip, I think you'll see why fantasy greenskeeping is going to be the craze of the Late Zeroes, and I think you'll all be lining up with your checkbooks to invest.



OK, that one is not entirely fair. Here's Greenskeeper Don in a more triumphant moment.



Kick ass, GD, that's some fine turfgrass!

And to really seal the deal, here's just one more, in case you thought the life of a greenskeeper lacked drama. Lemme tell you, when those cute little buggers grow up, they could bite your leg clean off. (Bonus greenskeeper porn: Check out the tantalizing glimpse of that greens mower ... looks like an old Toro. Anyway, charp chariot, ese.)

White Sox Fail to Acquire Kathy Griffin ...

[insert Photoshopped image of Kathy Griffin wearing Sox uniform and blaming string of GIDPs on Jerry Seinfeld here*]

... Settle for Ken Griffey instead. Junior.

Yeah, I know that was last week's news. But you might have missed the total evisceration of the Trib's Mike Downey by Fire Joe Morgan's Ken "Some Call Me Mose" Tremendous. Which is also from last week (Friday), but ... we move slow in humid weather here at CBRAT World HQ. Although I'm not sure if complete static refusal to budge is "movement," technically. Too hot to argue. Throw me the idol, I throw you the whip. Anyway, maybe it's just because I'd have been more excited if Ken Williams somehow had managed to pull a star relief pitcher out of David Blaine's pruny, perennially submerged tuchus [insert Photoshopped image of the reincarnation of LaMarr Hoyt emerging from David Blaine's magical butt here] than an ancient, crippled bat-diva [insert Photoshopped image of KG Jr. dressed as Adam West sending back a meal here], but I found it funny.

POSTSCRIPT: Damn that's a lot of "Kens" for one tiny little blog item. Three, in fact. Ken, Ken, Ken. Ken't hold onto a goddamn lead -- that's what the White Sox ken't do lately! [insert apology for terrible, albeit true, joke here]

_____

FOOTNOTE:

*[suggestion: dip into library of Paul Konerko photos for source material -- is the resemblance not uncanny?]

Who are you?

I am Bat Cat!!!

Climbing the everythings of Gotham Apartment in a never-ending quest to rid its streets and sidewalks (I mean -- catwalks) of my most despiséd nemesis -- the house fly -- and to eat their tiny crunchy bodies, I am Bat Cat.

Armed with nothing but a soul-warping desire to cleanse Gotham Apartment of buzzy mobile bug-objects and my super-powers of: reckless extreme climbing ability ... dogged monomaniacal persistence ... and the kind of amoral willingess to mix comic-book metaphors with a sheer disregard for logic possessable only by a mutant fly-fighting feline -- as I've already said twice before (but with slightly different emphasis), I am Bat Cat.

OK, OK, you're Bat Cat. Sheesh. I'll tell you -- never bring a kitten to an Imax show. They have no sense of perspective.