Remember when I first got here and basically called you all a bunch of loser bitches? You’re still a bunch of bitches, but at least you’re only four Cubs wins/Brewers losses away from not being a bunch of losers. This year, anyways.

Only in Indiana would a couple think that “Wrigley Fields” is a better name for their newborn than “Sweet Cock-Draggin’ Ass-Slappin’ Pennant-Winnin’ Motha-Fuckin’ Lou.” Can you use apostrophes on a birth certificate? Thanks to Ned Ryerson for the tip.

I was thinking the other day about where Trammell’s pock marks rank on a scale from “golf ball dimple” to “moon crater.” Then, I read an article which ranked Cubs playoff teams, and that seemed like a more relevant thing to talk about. I’d go with “concave part of a spoon,” by the way.

There were a bunch of ridiculous rumors flying around this weekend and distracting my players about how A-Rod is going to come to Chicago in exchange for being my boss. If you think for one minute that I’m going to take orders from a guy who wears purple lipstick, you’ve got another thing coming. Hendry? No, that wasn’t lipstick. It was grape jelly.

Zambrano was “Balls to the Wall” Z yesterday. Would it kill the guy to eat some orange slices during the game, though?

There’s something about scoreboard watching that’s more fun when the scoreboard is made up of giant metal plates. Like the one in Quade’s head. Or the one we feed Daryle Ward off of.

If all goes well, we could have Prior back in time for the playoffs. Nah, I’m just fucking with you. He’s close to being able to put on his jersey without feeling any pain, though. That’s something, right?

Look, you know I was against the fan competition for singing the 7th Inning Stretch. I have to say, though, they couldn’t have picked a cooler kid to do it. Dustin Eglseder, a 22-year-old recently diagnosed with bone cancer, was poised, confident, and sang the stretch the way Harry would have wanted it sung. Good job, kid, and good luck. That sweep was for you.

The Best Fans in Baseball honored Craig Biggio by giving a measly fucking three grand to a bunch of needy kids. The look on Biggio’s face is priceless. It’s that look of, “Three thousand dollars? Christ, Spiezio has three grand’s worth of blow sitting in his locker right now. Don’t you think you could have donated at least as much money as you paid to make the 1940 on Pujols’ birth certificate look like a 1980? Or maybe if you hadn’t blown all that cash on flowers for Hancock’s funeral. Or Kyle’s. Or bail money for LaRussa. Or oversized novelty baseball hats for Ankiel. Christ, three grand won’t even buy a liver that the Eckstein family can all share.” You know. That look.

Look out, Dempster. It looks like there’s a new comedian in town. A new, fat, unfunny comedian with money to burn. Move over, Louie Anderson. Farther. Farther. Farther. Fuck it. There’s no way we’re fitting you both in the frame.

Ah, Cubs fans. You loved the diminutive Theriot. Now, you love the tiny Fuld. If I could dig up Eddie Gaedel, you’d put a likeness of him on the shoulders of the Harry Caray statue.

The dickhead White Sox managed to kill a defenseless bear the other day. Too bad they weren’t able to kill any tigers, twins, royals, or Indians this season, huh?

If you were thinking about entering Kermit, don’t bother. It says “sexiEst,” not “sexIst.” I called and confirmed.

Well, I’m off to enjoy another day off. I was thinking about watching the Brewers choke away their last hopes of postseason play, but instead I’m going to go fill up balloons with piss so I can chuck them at the nerds who line up early for Halo 3.

-Sweet Uncle Lou