I don't know how to say this.I don't know what to do.
This week's episode of Sox Appeal was so dull and so inoffensive that recapping it would be like rewriting an instruction manual for a toaster. How do you make "insert bread, remove bread after ejection" interesting? You can't.
I'm going to keep watching the show every week in hopes that some of that hate from last season returns and provides good material. But if it's as dull as it was this week, I just don't know if there's a point to a recap. I know that Pink Hat Hell was born from that awful program but I think this site has the potential to become something bigger. The non-Sox Appeal stuff gets much more traffic than the recaps so clearly, there's an appetite for things like the columns from Buzz and Chico and the Dispatches from Idiot Nation.
So, this is where you come in. Yes, you. And you. What would you like to see more of? What would you like to see this website become? Guide me, my friends.
If you don't, you might just see some Remy/Orsillo slash fiction and I don't think ANYONE wants that.
Especially that one scene where Wally comes in wearing a corset and puts his...
12 comments:
Tiki, I think the more topical articles like the ones about WEEI and Simmons are the good ones. Sox Appeal is pretty played out.
Let the other guys write and you do the editing.
"Don, Don. We can't keep doing this."
Jerry's voice was gravelly, and he smelled (as usual) like smoke and sweat- it was the very essence of him. Don felt that if he pressed his lips to Jerry's neck he would taste grass and the dust of the infield.
"Please," Don begged shamelessly. Unsaid was all that he needed. "Please," he said again. His fingers flexed in the cotton of Jerry's loudly printed shirt. It was quiet, the crowds outside long dispersed to their bars or their cars or the Green Line trains to Park Street.
Larry Johnson looked deep into Ordway's eyes, as deep as a bottomless bowl of chili.
Chili always gave LJ heartburn, but not even acid reflux could compare to the pain his heart was feeling now.
'Glen, is there anything you can do' he mumbled in between bites of a Shaws birthday cake, Shaws birthday cake always made LJ feel better. As a child he didn't mind spending his birthdays alone because that meant more cake for him. But seriously, he was sad, like a souffle he ate out of the oven before it had a chance to rise. If only his blood pressure and resting heart rate could drop as far.
'Larry, don't go out like this. It was a decision by Jason Wolfe and the suits, there is nothing I can do'
Larry sighed 'Jason and the suits do a good job, really they do', 'I guess the toy depahtment is closed Bwahahahah'
Brilliant!
Dear Penthouse:
I never thought any of your letters were real. I am a small-minded host of a popular radio show in a large northeastern city. Ever since I messed up a crucial play in a high school football game because I was distracted by the tight fit of the opposing quaterback's pants, I have adopted a macho, hyper-aggressive radio persona to compensate for my desires. I even hid my secret thoughts from my radio co-host, even though my gaydar went on high alert every time he spoke of his conquests.
Last week, we were talking about golf -- or so it seemed. But after several minutes of "tips" and "heads" and "shafts" and "balls" and "holes" I knew he had something else on his mind. We told our boss and our listeners that we were going to visit some sick kids in a hospital.
Thirty-five passion-filled seconds on an Allston fire escape later, "visiting sick kids in the hospital" has become our new secret code.
And of course, we always talk a little "golf" before each visit.
The cheeto twins were in the front row of the NESN comedy show. Scary.
Hazel's voice was gentle even through the long distance connection. "Don, why do you keep doing this to yourself? How many times have we had this conversation?"
"But Hae-"
"No Don. No. This is never going to be a healthy relationship. Why can't you understand this?"
He said nothing, staring out through the window at the cold waters of the Charles, the lights glittering off the surface. He wished he'd called TC instead. TC would have lied to him- he wouldn't make him face reality the way Hazel did.
You could stop writing. That would improve it.
It was a gray night, gray as the black overcoat stretched tight across the wearer's portly boiler.
As gray as the mood descending on the wearer as so much cholesterol clogging his veins.
Pete Shepherd hated walking, but tonight he felt the need to punish himself. The type of flagellation only possible from the swollen ankles and burn of chapped thighs caused by the quarter mile waddle down to Burger King, and the resulting stop at Friendly's on the way back home.
Cruelly mocked by the 'Have it your Way' slogan, Pete knew that he was a fill in, a punchline to one of life's jokes that he could not understand.
For Glen, Pete's presumed friend and benefactor, life truly was a Happy Meal, Pete contemplated as he wolfed down his fourth bagged children's meal. As he coughed up the remains of a Hot Wheels from his jowly maw, Pete cursed the toy inserts. But for Pete Shepherd ordering fast food from the listeners he so despised was peril enough. He had to pretend he was ordering some of the food for children.
Pete was disturbed by the firing of Larry Johnson. For what separated them? A muumuu and ten minutes of mild sunshine, truth be told. If LJ could be dismissed so easily then how long did Pete have. Larry thought Glen would protect him .. Larry thought wrong.
As he finished off his third Fishamajig, Pete could only laugh when the waitress asked if he wanted a Happy Ending Sundae. Happy Endings are for the guys in the big chair, flash boys don't have Happy Endings without twenty dollars and a willing fifty year old whore.
Dear Penthouse:
I am a small headline reader on the popular morning show of a large northeastern sports radio station.
I never thought any of your letters were real, until one day when I arrived at the station. The hosts were both out (they said they were visiting sick kids, but they left the office with various lotions and oils--"odd gifts," I thought).
Because I arrived at the station early I sat in the "big chairs," where I never get to sit. I pretended to talk into the mic with some of our celebrity callers, and even got to practice criticizing the play of our city's non-white players. It was like I had landed my dream job.
I must have gotten lost in thought, because little did I know, I was being watched by the station general manager. At first was nervous, but then when I saw the hungry look in her eyes, I got excited. I was afraid to stand up, as my rock-hard two inches would surely be pressing against my pants.
My fear was eased when she walked over, leaned down to my ear, and whispered, "I saw you talking into that microphone. I know what you want. I can make it happen. But first you have to give me what I want." I was ready.
Suddenly she hiked up her skirt, and with a flick of her wrist, whipped out a schlong so large that it blocked my sight. "Play with it," she said, "and the microphone is yours." But try as I might, my spindly arms were no match for her solid slab of girl-meat. The sounds were immediate. "Crack. Crack." Then the pain. My arms had broken under the tremendous weight.
So now I'm back to reading the 'sportsflash' while the hosts make fun of me. But they can't take my dreams.
Tiki, I don't comment here often, but I actually prefer the Sox Appeal stories. I'm up in Portland and don't have any frame of reference for the WEEI stuff.
OTOH, if Hazel and Heidi came across each other and were suddenly fille with feelings they didn't really understand....
Post a Comment