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George W. Bush Ruined Baseball

Right Back At You Buddy!

Right Back At You Buddy!

The steroid ship sailed for me about four years ago.  At that point, I dropped my Bob Costas “For the Love of the Game” naivete and began thinking anyone in the game could have been a user.  No discrimination, no hesitation.  I viewed steroids and PED’s in baseball in the same way I viewed cocaine use in the mid-1970s.  Everyone was doing it, so don’t judge individuals.  Instead judge the era.  The latest A-Rod information isn’t such a big deal except for people who still thought of A-Rod as the savior who was going to erase the villainous Barry Bonds from the National Pastime’s ledger.  Well, too bad, and you folks who villify Bonds had better start spreading the hate around. 


From day one, Barry Bonds has been the prime target.  Even Clemens, McGwire, Palmeiro, and Sosa have gotten treated with kid gloves compared to Barry Lamar.  Now Barry’s buddy A-Rod should share some heat.  But, instead of spreading the heat I suggest going to the source.  The source, you ask?  The source is one George Walker Bush.  Liberal cynicism?  Nope.  Kicking the cowboy while he’s down?  Nope.  Think about it.  Who stood up in front of the nation and gave Major League Baseball the come to Jesus talk as a part of the State of the Union address?  It was one, George Walker Bush.  Yet, which organization was at the forefront of steroid use when the era began in the mid-1990s?  The Texas Rangers.  Who was running the Texas Rangers at the time Canseco, Juan Gone, and Raffy Palmeiro were sticking each other in the booty?  That’s right, George Walker Bush.  Bush’s political legacy will take generations and gallons of “white out” to fix.  His social legacy needs to suffer as well.  How is the guy who “cowboyed” up to hunt down drugs in baseball going to be the actual source of the problem?  That shows how ridiculous this issue is.  The steroid ship has sailed.  Let’s sink it at sea and just admit that baseball has been screwed up for a long time.  Stop this damn posturing about who gets into the Hall of Fame.  If cats from this tainted era have the numbers, put them in the Hall.  Don’t sit there and not vote for McGwire because he didn’t say anything.  Do you want a Hall of Fame filled with Melky Cabrera’s and Steve Finley’s?  Vote for McGwire.  Vote for Bonds.  Vote for A-Rod.  But first vote for Pete Rose.  If not, the Hall will end up looking lamer than it already does.

FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!


February 9, 2009 Posted by | Major League Baseball, Talkin Trash | , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

This One’s For the Bitches

Forget steroids for a minute.  Forget Olympians bong-toking.  Forget the Lakers tapping the Celtics and Cavs in back-to-back games.   It’s time to break out the full-court coverage on the greatest American sporting event.  That’s right, my friends, it is Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show time.  Some of you may consider this coverage ludicrous, cynical, and even irrelevant, but you’re straight up wrong.  If there’s one thing the FlyMaster loves, it’s bitches.  Bitches of all shapes and sizes.  Loud bitches.  Quite bitches.  Black bitches.  White bitches.  Brindle bitches.  Bitches that drool.  Bitches that like pools.  Bitches that eat meat.  As long as that bitch has four feet, she can compete.   

Leaving a Mark at MSG

Leaving a Mark at MSG

On the real side, the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show is a gem of the highest carat weight.  Each February Madison Square Garden becomes the world’s fanciest dog park.  Last week Kobe and Lebron both left their mark on the Garden.  This week there will be all sorts of marks left on the garden.   America’s blue bloods parade their canine compatriots with more pride than when Yury Andropov surveyed and approved the Soviet Army in Red Square.   You know you’re dealing with a blue blood, conceited, four legged spoiled brats when they sport names like “Champion Dulymus Arbuckle on High Quartermain,” and “Winchester Trig Palin McCain We Lost Damnit.”  The FlyDog is named Del.  Keep it simple, muffy.  Now that the backstory is set, let’s break down the 133rd Westiminster Kennel Club Dog Show.

Last year’s champion was Uno, a beagle that took the City by storm and did it his way.  With his dynamic personality and semi-tolerable breath, Uno was a lock to go back-to-back, but alas Uno is currently embroiled in ACL rehabilitation and a performance enhancing drug scandal that prevent him from competing.  The field is wide open, just like the NL MVP race once Barry Bonds removed himself from the league.   This year’s early favorites are Lincoln, a Brussels Griffon from the Toy Group, and Carly, a corgi from the Herding Group.  Here’s a group by group breakdown.

Sporting Group:

The Sporting Group is replete with every type of retriever, spaniel, and pointer you’d ever want to see. While many of the pundits laud the accomplishments of the English Springer Spaniel, and some of the overseas prognosticators are lining up in the Wirehaired Pointing Griffon’s corner, Sir FlyMaster will be sticking to his preseason pick, the Vizsla. The Vizsla is a little-known Hungarian dog that puts all thes other Sporting Mutts in their place. Watch out for the Nova Scotia Duck Toiling Retriever to make a splash as well.

Hound Group:
The Hound Group represents an array of body types and functionality. From the short-rotund Basset Hound to the immensely regal, yet nappy and drunk Irish Wolfhound, this group is built for excitement. Don’t bet against the frontrunner here. That’s right. The 15″ Beagle will be victorious, if only because the Charles Schultz Snoopy contigent is huge here at the Westminster Kennel, and who doesn’t like Snoopy? If you need a darkhorse, or darkdog rather, don’t sleep on the Black and Tan Coonhound. That’s just a great name because one isn’t quite sure if it’s slightly offensive or just a product of good-old-down-home-Southern naivete. “Look at the jowls on that coon.” That’s one of my favorite lines from covering last year’s Dogapalooza.
Working Group:
The finest bitches and male dogs reside in the Working Group. These dogs can be fluffy, buff, ugly, short, stocky, long, lean, but they all get the job done. The Japanese contingent will be pulling for the Akita, while the Inuit population (all 2 of them) can’t get enough Malamute. Well, sorry folks, 2009 is the year of the Boxer. No dog is more elegant in its aloofness, more resolute in its musculature, and more playful when gnawing on the fibulas of children from war torn countries. Give the trophy to the Boxer and stay out of her way.

Terrier Group:

The Terrier Group features a bunch of glorified rat and rabbit hunters. If that’s your dharma, you don’t deserve an award show. But since they’re in the competition we’ll pick a winner. Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. Pick the Norwich Terrier and get on with the show.

Toy Group:

The Toy group is a disgrace to the animal kingdom. These dogs are the preferred choice of B-list celebrities, gay mafiosos, old ladies with skin that looks like a well tanned kangaroo hide, and the Sportsfly office. This year it was tough to make a decision, but FlyMaster is rolling with the Japanese Chin for two reasons. Japanese Chin sounds like a disparaging disease name from the mid 1800s and the name “Chin” is Chinese, so who the hell is Japanese Chin? Conspiracy in the making.

Non-Sporting Group:All bastard dogs that really don’t serve a purpose and can’t be classified in any of the other groups get thrown in the Non-Sporting Group. Here you’ll find your Poodles, Dalmations, Chow Chow, and other ungodly concoctions. Put some money on the Bulldog (British) because he’s really trying to distance himself from the rest of these ragamuffins, but his leg length and genetic predisposition for hip problems are severely limiting. Mercy vote the Bulldog to glory.

Herding Group:

The Herding Group features some new entrants this year. This begs the question, were there new dogs discovered last year or has that Human Genome Project taken a turn toward the realm of Doctor Moreau? Anyhow, look for the Swedish Vallhund to make a huge debut this year. Word is, the Vallhund looks more like a shrunk down buffalo with goat eyes and a forked tongue, so you know it will stand out. Other contenders are the Bearded Collie and the Corgi. Either way, it’s going to be a heated competition.


No doubt the best in show comp will come down to the Boxer and the Swedish Vallhund. This year’s competition has been switched up to boost ratings. Word has it that Michael Vick will be asked to referee the Best in Show match, with the losing dog being placed on the Signature #7 Rape Stand, where all Chihuahuas are released upon the loser. It ain’t pretty, but it’s sports. Look for the Boxer to take down the Vallhund with some nice punching skills and adept ankle-biting. Sorry Sweden, maybe you can invent another new dog in 2010 and enter again. Until then, 2009 is the year of the Boxer.

FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!

Best In Show?

Best In Show?


February 9, 2009 Posted by | Doping, Features & Opinions, General, Talkin Trash | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Bring Back The Drugs

Nearly a year ago the Mitchell Report on the use of performance enhancing drugs in Major League Baseball was released and since then the sports world has lost its luster.  The FlyMaster is all-about a level playing field and upholding antiquated social mores and folkways, but oh how he misses the days of exaggerated frontal lobes, back acne, ridiculously long home runs, random acts of violence against dugout coolers, and the eye of the tiger.

In honor of the Mitchell Report it is time for the FlyMaster to come clean.  The burden of guilt must be lifted from the FlyMaster’s broad, well-developed, and chiseled shoulders.  Yes, the FlyMaster has used Performance Enhancing Drugs.   

Maintaining peak performance requires the perfect combination of skill, preparedness, focus, acuity, dedication and timing. If all those concepts don’t mesh perfectly, one can always get some Ferrigno Juice, snort a couple lines of monkey dust, or snack on some peyote. The greatest performances in sports history inspire those who don’t lace up our Chuck Taylor’s for a living. However, it seems like recently we’re all forced to swallow the bitter reality pill that some of the greatest performances, in and out of sports, might be tainted by the looming spectre of “PERFORMANCE ENHANCING DRUGS (PEDs).”

I once thought that taking PEDs was a slap to the face of David Eckstein, Matt Bullard, Steve Tasker, Mark Van Eaghen, Sedale Threatt, and all of the other athletes that I admired for playing the game “the right way.” It should be noted that I also thought Santa Claus drove a Cadillac Coupe De Ville and the Easter Bunny actually spoke chicken as shown in the Cadbury Chocolate commercials. I digress.

I always prided myself on producing articles “the right way.” Hours of pillaging other people ideas, claiming I thought of something unique when it was actually Colin Cowherd who said it, ignoring the Chicago Style Guide for Writers, sipping on a morning Gentleman Jack, and all of the prescribed techniques I learned at UC Berkeley just didn’t seem to cut it any longer. Mired in a slump, I needed to find a way break out of the doldrums and that’s when a colleague suggested I try a new concoction he deemed “The Bomb Diggity” to get my game back on track. I coyly asked if this would affect my standing in the morally upright sports writing community and my colleague, Jose, said that nearly 80% of writers were using “The Bomb Diggity.” “80%,” I thought, “that means all my years of doing it the right way was actually the wrong way.”

Now, I knew that my god-given talents of wit, crafty sentence structure, and sparse usage of the passive tense put me on track to be a Hall of Famer, but when I looked around at my slovenly semi-literate competition who were producing ideas and articles way above their pedestrian abilities I was angered. That’s when I took my first cycle of “The Bomb Diggity.” Within minutes of my first inhalation I could feel the strength return to my fingertips. My brain fired on all twelve cylinders. Ideas came to me while I stared at the color bars on dead TV channels, talked to fire hydrants, and frolicked with marsupials. The wind started whispering platitudes in my ears. There was an intense fire in my loins, which I later found out was attributed to another slump-busting technique that didn’t work (syphillis). I was alive. I was strong. I was the FlyMaster.

“The Bomb Diggity” opened up new opportunities for me. I captured five writing awards and a humanitarian belt at the annual “Internet Forum Writer Awards,” held remotely via webcam at 26,432 locations. Women on actually looked at my profile for they could see the passion with which I wrote.  My posse got bigger.  I broke the single day record for forum posts, and then in an instance my world eroded.

A story about two famous internet sports writers, Michigan_Sucks_87 and Kobe_Hater, admitted that they dabbled in “The Bomb Diggity” for a couple of months in early 2001. They knew screennames and geocities websites of other writers who upgraded their mental operating systems via “The Bomb Diggity.” There were no tests in place and retinal scans weren’t legal at the time, so a lot of the story was hearsay, but I’m here to say that I was on “The Bomb Diggity.” In fact I’m on my fifteenth cycle and right now my future is so bright I’ve got to wear shades. Sure, I did the Marion Jones thing. At first I denied any knowledge. I cut off ties with my colleague Jose. I later admitted taking “The Bomb Diggity” unknowingly when I trained at the Jimmy Breslin Institute. Finally, the noose of the truth got to be a little much, so I admitted my faults in an internet chat room and promptly returned those stupid, “hecho en Mexico” internet awards.

Was I disgraced? Did I feel I let the kids down? Could I look at my mother in the face knowing I stepped outside the lines of what is right? The answers are simple. I wasn’t disgraced for one second. If you read my articles when I was on “The Bomb Diggity,” the words would dance on your tongue and scintillate your mind. Kids? Who cares about them with their silly notions of me as a roll model? My mother? She has a dial-up internet connection…she won’t find out about this until 2015.

In the end, I feel like the years I spent using “PEDs” really boosted my career and solidified my position as an innovator in the field. I’ll tow the moral line and do all the Public Service Announcements you can shake a stick at, but deep down inside I know my championship performances now reside in the pantheon of internet sports writing, and who cares if I had the munchies the entire time.

FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!

December 9, 2008 Posted by | Doping, Features & Opinions, General, Major League Baseball | , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment