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SOUR GRAPES, SHADOW MAPES, AND THE BRAVES I HATE


All links are optional. Songs are listed below along with the linked phrase as it appears in the text. And Daniel Snyder should snort some Ebola

One highlight of last season was the retirement of Mr. Chipper Jones. As the summer marched into fall and and the resurgent Phillies climbed their way into wild card contention only to fall out at the hands of Astros, the MLB, in it's flair for the sentimental spectacle, began it's gratuitous farewells to arguably one the game's great but not best 3rd basemen; hell, the NL East teams went so far as to lavish gifts upon him for the agony he brought them year after year. The Phillies present, a painting that looked like nothing more than a bad Hopper/ Bellows knock-off, failed to measure up to occasion. I decided to remedy this injustice with the following work and its unavoidable delay corresponds to the grandeur appropriate for such a vaunted career. Plus I like Sour Grapes. A lot. 2 seasons of it now. Fuck, more like a lifetime. Look, I actually entertained having nice things and that we had arrived after a century of trying, but no.

WE ARE A DESERT PEOPLE

SO PUT YOUR HAND IN THE BOX.

And now the Braves rubbed our noses in our own shit. Scalps Hats off to the Braves on their excellent season. And while those words punched my face as they left my mouth, this ranks up there with drinking radiated chemo drugs: building a winning baseball franchise , the Braves do it well. I'm quite jealous. Now, I fully enjoyed the Phillies run and all during the stretch, savoring every bit of it, still maintained realistic expectations about the eventual decline as the core aged, but nothing along the lines of this Wiley E. Coyote in an Acme Bat Suit plummet to the Earth.


The Phillies failed the old fashioned way, they earned it.

And by decline I mean a laddered one to ensure the team remained within sniffing distance of contending; evenmore so as the ownership have finally embraced the full potential of Philly's market. I saw us as becoming the Red Sox lite of the NL East however, something went terribly wrong. Rube and some bad luck, though mostly Rube. I've said it before, Rube's the unlucky version of Sabaen, the Bizarro Sabaen who sent us back into the Limbo from whence we came, back among the majority of baseball fans on the outside looking in who can only knock, knock, knock a Cardinal's corpse.


2013 Season of the Witch: .330 RISP courtesy of Clutchulu

But despite spending this season re-acclimating to Baseball Limbo, the aesthetics of losing aka "for the joy of the game" something had been gnawing on me like Bowa with a chew toy, something was missing ... I ... well, fuck it. I MISSED CHIPPER. There. It's been said. I missed him so much I devised a radical plan with which I hope to kill two birds with one stone - a proper, albeit very belated retirement present and a way for Chipper to always be with us. Here it comes. Remember, think twice about throwing a tizzy fit, I have an internet gom jabbar at your throat. We induct Chipper Jones into Phillies Hall Of Fame. Deep breaths. FEAR IS THE MIND KILLER. But hear me out.
This aint a ying/yang, no hero is complete without a nemesis diatribe. No, first the therapeutic effect of lessening the pain by welcoming the pain and wearing it like a badge of honor. Or the clinical name, Stockholm Syndrome. 2nd, is the strategic benefit of always keeping your friends close, but your enemies closer. How can he threaten us from retirement?. Because, Chipper remains the symbolic face of the organization because Chipper = good ol boy. Because Chipper, now part of history, is more dangerous because a memory is malleable in the hands of nostalgia & nostalgia is what lubricates the banality of evil's axles. And Baseball swims deep in nostalgia's amber waves of grain.

Because you see, America's team as well as Team Chief Wahoo, took the the national stage again with little changing since the other times in '95, '96, '97, '98, '99, '01, all to the continued shame of the country. And given the young, potent rosters of each team, I foresee more racist filled October's to further humiliate Native Americans and make a mockery of the nation's symbolic past time. So we fight insanity with insanity, spectacle with spectacle and to do it, we must defile the sanctity of our Hall of Fame only to redeem it thru the justness of our cause. You see, if fear is the mind killer then apathy is its grave digger. I for one prefer to break some faces with my shovel than bury the past. We call this slice of the blogosphere The Good Phight for a reason...I hope. Thusly,

I'm rising down to the occasion.

To commemorate the event only one band came to mind

75 Bars Bar Crawl

a remix of 75 Bars by the Roots
Note: any italicized text comes from the original lyrics which can be found here

I'm from the city of cheese steak eatin fat fucks Chippa
With hammers on our belt to beat your ass with Chippa
Ever wear your Braves gear on the rez, Chippa
Let the door hit your ass on the way out, Chippa
Chippa make dead Phillies and we hate you Chippa
deep down Chippa, so much Chippa, even hate your l'il Chippas
No telling when the Duracells gonna fly Chippa
Now, when it comes it comes high in the Sarge sky Chippa



Not every game Chippa, no ritual fame or no disgraced refrain, Chippa
yeah phightas, cause our roots guide us good phightas
Been dealing with you for 19 years of fear, Chippa
tired of your walk-off flair, mad props there Chippa
Hole of the derriere, Chippa, a Brave taking more than his share
Shooters off her Hooters, press aint too fair Chippa?
Neither is a waitress you treated like a ditch digger



Shit's wack, try and find a reason up in there, Chippa
To leave her with a chip off the old chop, Chippa,
show me the kid who don't need a pops Chippa,
shed another wooden nickel tear, Chippa
He's in the field with a shield and a spear, Chippa
You in some girl with her heels in the air Chippa
It aint just you Chippa, we got jocks don't know their ass from a zipper



and burned bones in our cellars but y'all still lone ranger cave dwellers
So, I don't care Chippa, just how your body's thru
screw you, my body's broke cuz my collar's blue
Gentlemen of the Hump Em Dump Em League
won't bow down aint Hello Kitty lapping up your spilt mead
I'm just a snarky blogged off scream
remix fugazi by the name of jreed, I'm feeling happy
as a huffer, that momentary head rush
hearing you and the DeathStros were leaving us



So here's a Trojan gift basket from some braves named AIM
came with your casket and to bury the hatchet in ya brain
They see ghosts, Chippa, of pain, trapped, Chippa in casinos
of addiction and shame - you say white guilt?
that's internet Peter P[r]an[d] pinball tilt
of a white wig reverie too gilded to see straight, it's a river,
resupplied from weeping wounds stitched with the same hate



Aint a modern day saint; more post-modern kick in the taint
an ADD Uncle Fester punk ass bed wetter
Warm smooth flying like in Eno's jet stream grooving
And if luck ever figures me for a father,
then I'll follow in the ways of the gentle carver,
cradling the grace caught with 2 hands like I'm cupping desert water



If you stand where I stood, in a field alone with bat and glove, Chippa
How to feel so unwanted no check could ever mend
It's the silence of the lamb, the void only a village transcends
or a later fate to self-medicate: poppers, percoset, percodan
for no future with left to plan? Casino mob always
needs hands - kids outside looking desperate again, Chippa
And the blunts and liquor killing their lungs and liver
The huffer mind so stunted can't function no more
So stick your dick in the hole of the culture crushed whore



Sitting Bull regal in headress re-memed Spread Eagle to oppress
Abramoff jests, caress my big cabal
See the legendary fall & if you ain't heard 'bout that
Then y'all Mad Max Jesus on a bender with an eight ball
I'ma put you right back where the dirt is at
450 fahrenheit on the thermostat
Paper starts too sweat like a frat boy gonna yak
But he aint much of a learner yet,
on the back burner is where Montag puts that
pages still to burn, the self-immolator unmet
will be in a class of his own
once he steps to the plate and says fuck no
To burning words with those faux tomahawk blows
A Ferdinand the Bull learning his own flow
outta step with the fool herd standing tall like Big Bird
spittin' out rhymes with the wooly mammoth about a dream deferred
To be seen and heard, unimagined



to have his story returned not homogenized by hipster fashion
His name is long, his heart is strong
Snuffleaghus cold rocks a party till the break dawn
Y'all still a light year from the level he's on
Now I'm just a pawn with this platform to kick up a shit storm
But to those who move and shake or who participate
for the village from which you strayed
Be a real rebel, step up and your debt's paid

MUSIC



Fuck, more like a lifetime


break some faces with my shovel


the next statue atop the museum stairs better be the Roots
i'm rising down to the occasion | 75 Bars


30 years, 22 studio albums, 6 EPs, peer and critical acclaim...Pax Melvana
when it comes it comes


It might be a way 2 smoke pot but this vid. could raise S.Sontag from the dead
Hello Kitty


DeathStros


deconstructs stereotypical "Injun" movie music & turns it in2 a majestic yet humble jam.
lone ranger


Hardcore stalwarts from Italy with an amazing rendition of this song
AIM


like the Misfits, more proof dumb people can make compelling art
ghosts


David Eckstein is clutchy! As far as videos go, this is in my top 10
Peter P[r]an[d] pinball tilt


same hate


Eno's jet stream


silence of the lamb


poppers, percoset, percodan


aces in my book
kids outside


huffer mind


culture crushed


a global force for fat because the ugly ones rock the hardest
the self-immolator


i so miss the dirty days
faux tomahawk blows


Ferdinand the Bull


cold rocks a party


those who move and shake


who participate


real rebel


debt's paid


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