Dave The Dastardly

Sacrilege! Five Our Fathers, three Hail Marys and one very large strawberry margarita.

To be honest, I don't drink Miller Lite. Just had to borrow that line from the old commercials. I was desperate. But not desperate enough to actually drink the stuff. Hewn from German and Irish stock I prefer Grain Belt Premium or Schell's Light for the days when I'm feeling Germanic and Jameson whiskey when I need a wee nip to ward off the chill of a fine soft day. By the way I have a friend named Miller. He's not lite. He's not my brother either.

I have a few chickens myself. Real ones. They run on pasture, don't get any hormones or antibiotics in their diet and are like Miller Lite; taste great! Also have about 6 acres of woods. I was working on a fallen tree trunk the other day with an adze. Damn pullet kept getting in my way. Stuck its head in where it didn't belong and I had to pullet out of my adze. Sort of like this comment...

Way back when my older kids (both girls) weren't even in kindergarten yet we had a tomcat that was one hunting SOB. We called him Killer Joe Puma. We lived on five acres on a wooded cul-de-sac and by the time Killer Joe was three years old there wasn't a squirrel, bird or chipmunk left alive on the place. The neighbors directly across the road from us had a German shepherd that liked to come across the road and bark and growl at us whenever I pulled into our driveway. Wasn't dangerous, just annoying. One sunny fall day me and the kids watched Killer Joe sunning himself on a stump in the front yard. The German shepherd didn't like that infringement on what he thought was his territory so he came trotting across the road barking and growling at Killer Joe. Who totally ignored him. So the dog came closer. Killer Joe decided it was a good time to clean his paws; probably bloody from a recent kill. The shepherd got really pissed, I guess he didn't like being ignored, and came charging into the yard, stopping a half dozen feet from Killer Joe, who was still busy catching some rays and cleaning his paws as if totally oblivious to the dog. The shepherd closed with two feet of Joe, still growling and barking like an attack dog. Killer Joe came flying off the stump, landed on the shepherd's face, sunk his teeth into one ear and the last we saw of the shepherd he was streaking for home, howling in pain, Killer Joe wrapped around his head. The German shepherd never crossed the road again. And Killer Joe Puma went back to patrolling his private hunting rounds without any further interruptions. Toughest damn cat we ever had.

I wonder what food truck Colon frequents. Or does he just eat the truck?

Anybody notice how game thread comments have decreased since the Garcia and Kintzler trades? Makes me wonder if ticket sales are down also. And if the recent rally is bringing back the prodigal fans. And that brings up another thought; do general managers consider the impact of trades on attendance? Is there like a formula for that?

So why did we want him?

I drink whiskey unnormally and I'm still confused.

Anybody know what the elderly Colon is drinking? Find out so I can buy a case.

It’s a little known fact that Milwaukee was a Native American settlement long before the Brewers came on the scene. But the Algonquins didn’t know how to play baseball or sell beer. They didn’t even have a billionaire that could convince them to build a baseball stadium at the taxpayer’s expense. All those shortcomings left them behind the eight-ball for landing a professional baseball team and that created a great deal of angst around the council fires. So in a fit of pique (I’ve never had the pique, though I heard it’s gruesome) the Algonquin chiefs voted to attack Chicago. Mostly because Chicago had two professional baseball teams... okay, one and half professional teams, and Milwaukee had none, but also because the Algonquins were tired of fighting Chicago traffic and paying all those annoying tolls on their way to their winter homes in Ft. Myers. So an attack seemed like a good idea. If nothing else they could maybe capture a few toll booths, collect the tolls for a couple of months and make enough money to build their own baseball stadium. Though to be honest, piquely (I made that word up) speaking, anyone who has ever tried driving through Chicago with less than a milk can full of change can certainly empathize with the Algonquins’ desire to wipe out Chicago. Unfortunately, the failed Battle of Fort Dearborn on August 15, 1812 led to the Algonquins being forced out of Milwaukee (I believe they moved permanently to their lake homes around Hayward but spend their weekends selling tickets outside baseball stadiums across the country) and the city was turned over to the Germans who were coming here by the U-boat load. Now everybody everywhere knows Germans can’t even take a pee without drinking a beer (that's sort of a chicken or the egg thing) so the first thing the Germans did when they moved into the Algonquins’ abandoned teepees was to build a brewery. And then another. And then another. You know, because the Germans are hard-workers and needed jobs as well as beer. So they kept on building breweries and drinking up the beer, causing more breweries to be built and more jobs being created which led to more Germans drinking up their paychecks on Friday night and on and on. It was sort of a self-perpetuating economic cycle. By the 1850’s there were over two dozen large breweries in Milwaukee and one tavern for every forty citizens, which in some cases was a violation of the fire codes but with all that tap beer flowing freely and the resultant readily available pee, tavern fires could be quickly extinguished by the patrons, though it did tend to make them smell funny, the taverns, not the Germans, and therefore tavern overcrowding was mostly ignored by the fire marshall. Especially if he picked up a double sawbuck inadvertently left on the bar by the tavern owner. Donkeyshane. At one point in its history Milwaukee produced more beer than any other city in the world. Fortunately, the city also shared its fine brews with the rest of the world. For a price. Which of course meant a few lucky Milwaukee brewers joyfully entered Billionairehood. The German wave of immigration was followed by a Polish wave of immigration, both waves leading to the quaint custom of doing the “wave” at baseball game. The Poles, though no stranger to beer, were too late to get in on the ground floor of the brewery boom, so they went into the sausage business instead. It was inevitable then, what with so much beer and sausage being made in Milwaukee, that Polish sausages smothered in kraut and washed down by a couple of cold draughts (thats the way they spell it in jolly old England because it’s hard to see the paper you’re writing on when you have a stiff upper lip) became standard sporting event fare. It was into this beer-drinking, sausage-eating Milwaukee that the Seattle Pilots, purchased through bankruptcy court by a shrewd billionaire named Bud Selig, moved in 1969 and became an immediate hit with the local fans. There was now someplace to drink beer and eat Polish sausages other than dingy old taverns that smelled strongly of spilled beer, stale sauerkraut and uh, urine. In the new stadium, paid for by the taxpayers of course, a fan could pay double for his beer, triple for his sausage and listen to the crack of homeruns while breathing fresh air. If they left the roof open. Bud renamed the team the “Brewers” after the city’s former minor league team and the rest is history. Actually all this is history. Well... maybe it only resembles history. Faintly. Jumping ahead to modern times, the Twins versus Brewers, when both teams were in the American League, was one of the more friendly rivalries in baseball history with busloads of fans from both states attending “away” games. Naturally a large amount of beer was consumed and dozens of Polish sausages were scarfed down by these enthusiastic traveling fans, bringing bucks into both cities and the Bucks into Milwaukee, where it apparently stopped. I have never been a pilgrim (sorry Duke), or donned sack cloth, mostly because its never been on sale at Kohl’s, but I have made pilgrimages to both the Twins and Brewers stadiums, both as a Wisconsin resident traveling to Minnesota and as a Minnesota resident traveling to Wisconsin. I guess they had me coming and going. But no matter which direction I traveled, or which state was my residence at the time, I never had a more enjoyable baseball experience than drinking beer and eating Polish sausages with the fans of both states. In my less than humble opinion, ending that friendly rivalry was one of the worst MLB decisions ever inflicted on Twins and Brewers fans. And the man whose fingerprints were all over that decision; Bud Selig, the same bozo who as commissioner tried to contract the league and eliminate the Twins and Expos. Where were the Algonquins when we needed them? The new alignment means the Twinks and the Brewers only meet once per year for half a homestand each, which really cuts down on ticket sales, charter buses, Polish sausages, beer, Pepto Dismal and out-of-state speeding tickets for both Minnesota and Wisconsin. So tonight's game is it, your last chance for this baseball season to relive those thrilling days of yesteryear AD. So kick back, open your favorite German brew, tuck your Polish sausage into a bun (don’t read too much into that) and hoist a draught for the Algonquins. Maybe they'll organize an uprising, capture MLB headquarters and put the Brewers back in our division. Added bonus tonight; recent trade acquisition Dietrich Enns will be taking the mound for the Twins; his MLB debut and our first opportunity to see if we were hoodwinked again. The Brewers are going with Zach “The Ripper” Davies 13-4 4.18 ERA

Not so much in Minnesota though. That's why the Vikings left that rock behind in Kensington; they tangled with the local skraelings and took off for home. Didn't have the stone(s).

Other than Big Bang and excluding the Twins and the Vikes what's there to watch? Though Viking pre-season games are about as exciting as a Norwegian wake.

Maybe he just needs to get his ash in gear and carve a lightning bolt into his bat. It's sort of a natural thing...

Let me push you over the edge.

I should've known better to ask that question on this site. If you look up "delusional" in the dictionary it says "another term for a MN Twins fan".

I had the same impression. Thought I read somewhere he'd played 1B a fair amount of time in the minors. Are we both delusional?

I learn a lot reading these game threads. And sometimes it has to do with baseball. To entertain while educating is one of the most successful methods of instruction. The best classroom teacher I ever knew summed it up for me this way; "Never let the little b@stards know they're being taught anything." TD excels in that regard.

I can't resist commenting on this because I've batted from both sides of the plate. I was the first of my family to go to college, despite my father's attempts to convince me I'd be better off getting a "steady job". I worked my way through college and never asked for a dime from my dad. He still had five kids at home to feed. So I skipped classes to paint houses and tended bar nights so I could afford to pay tuition. I always carried an overload and graduated in three years because I couldn't afford a 4th year. I made $7,200 my last year in college and took my first job (teacher and coach) for $6,900. A $300 cut in pay to use my college education and I started to realize my old man was maybe smarter than I thought. The key thing I learned though was that I couldn't do just one thing. I needed to use my hands as well as my mind or I grew bored and frustrated. So over the intervening years I've been a real estate broker, newspaper publisher, columnist, horse trainer, sheep farmer, electrician, framing carpenter, another stint at tending bar, another stint as a painting contractor, hobby magazine publisher, teacher/coach, high school principal and school superintendent. And I picked up two more college degrees in the process. So I know a lot of sh*t. Some of it useful. But one of the most important lessons I've learned over the years is we aren't locked in to doing just one thing. We're not easily categorized by our careers because we're all capable of doing other things. So never judge a book by its cover. Oh, and change is good.

Or what left field seat Kirby Pucket hit with that line drive homer on a Tuesday back in 1990 when the wind was out of the east and Tom Kelly had just opened his second bag of seeds.

I knew there was a good reason why Mississippi is such a backwards state. No fault of their own.

"I throw baseballs on thursday." Trevor May Whoop de do! I throw people off my trail every day of the week. I also throw a fit whenever the Twins bullpen blows a game. Oh, wait a minute... That Trevor May! Atta boy, Trevor! Chuck 'em in there Big Fella!

"3. The A’s – Can you remember a trade deadline that didn’t involve the A’s somehow? All the players whose number has been retired by the A’s have been traded by the A’s. It’s an endless cycle. The A’s have been stuck in an infinite loop… they have fur and then trade that fur for animals who produce fur." Great analogy Brian. And something we should all keep in mind. "5. Oysters – I like Oysters but when you look at them… you can’t help wonder… How hungry was the very first person to find an oyster and say… Screw it… I’m eating this." I've always wondered who invented pickles. Did she see this green tube-like thing growing in the woods and think I bet if I jam a bunch of these tuberosities into a pickle jar, shove some of this other weed in there, too, pour in some vinegar and boil the pi$$ out of it the old man will have something to go with his beer while he watches cavemen in suits draw out football plays on the cave walls? Did cavemen have pickle jars?

Hide the silverware folks. The Twins are a helluva lot better this year than they were last season. Yeah, they still can't contend against the best teams in baseball, but last year they would've been whipped by a decent girls softball team. That's improvement no matter how you slice it. At least this year we had hope. Last year we were contemplating suicide. Next season, if we cut some more deadweight and bring up a few more kids this year so they get some experience, we'll be legitimate division contenders without having to sell the farm. World Series? Two years out. Patience, Grasshoppers. (Master Po). Relax girls or you're going to give yourselves the drizzles. (Augustus MacCrae)

Once upon a time, in a land where the snow never seemed to melt, mercury thermometers weren't mercurial and summers were always too short, a lanky, but not a lefty, young man played for the Dodgers. Not the big Dodgers, the Midget Dodgers. The Lankster was fleet of foot and quick of both wit and bat speed. Both admirable qualities, one of which he still possesses. Tentatively. Like Mark Chesnutt, The Lankster "proudly wore his uniform just like the Dodgers did". Not that he could sing like Mark Chessnut, but he sure could wear his uniform particularly proudly. Especially after the Midget Dodgers took the city crown. But then the Brooklyn Bums moved to LA, fleeing to a warmer climate and a new stadium and they weren't so bummy anymore. Instead the Bums became sort of the West Coast version of the hated Yankees. And the Lankster's pride in the Dodgers took a back seat to the Twins. Then came the 1965 World Series, the Dodgers over the Twins in seven. That's when that old Midgets uniform became an oil rag. Ain't no pride in an oil rag. Sure can't wear it proudly. Could maybe write a country song about that. Get Mark Chesnutt to sing it... The Lankster however, despite opinions expressed to the opposite, is not a complete idiot. Though that point is often hotly debated. The Lankster did keep his championship trophy and he fondly remembers those youthful days it symbolizes whenever his wife makes him dust it off. And occasionally, in weaker moments, he still feels the tug of Dodger Blue and wishes there's a genie in that trophy who can take him back to a time when he can again play shortstop without throwing out his bad knee, bum leg and weak back just taking the field. Maybe if he polishes that old trophy really, really hard... Hey! I'm getting an idea for a baseball story here! An old fart rubs a dusty old baseball trophy and genie pops out and grants his wish to turn back the clock and make him into a youthful baseball star... I'm going to call it "Damn Dodgers"! What the hell, it's probably what I'll be saying after this series anyway.