Rob Manfred is like a horse trying to play the piano. He hits all the wrong notes.
With his recent 8-game suspension of Dodgers pitcher Joe Kelly for not hitting any member of the World Series cheating Houston Astros and making goofy faces towards their dugout Manfred has essentially declared that worse than domestic violence.
Let’s examine this not so incredulous claim after the jump.
Using sophisticated hacking technology, the Coggin is able to give you an exclusive look at today’s in-progress NFL social media class for its athletes. Due to several social media faux pas, the NFL mandated the course be taken by several of its most recent
Let’s take a look at the ongoing meeting transcript, shall we?
Yesterday marked the horrifying 27 year anniversary of the 76ers deciding to draft a gawky 7-foot, 7-inch, unathletic version of Frankenstein’s monster over the sublimely talented Penny Hardaway in the 1993 NBA Draft, dooming the franchise to mediocrity until its resurrection by Allen Iverson.
Bradley made a living hanging out at the three-line and meekly patrolling the paint for some of the sorriest Sixers squads I’ve ever seen, while Hardaway and a young Shaquille O’Neal led the Orlando Magic to an NBA championship appearance and several successful postseason runs.
Bring up Bradley to any Sixers fan, even if they weren’t alive during the mid-90s, and they’ll instinctively wretch as memories of the least intimidating ever version of the Slender Man permeate their subconscious.
Half a season into his rookie year and Philadelphia fans knew the organization had drafted a complete dud.
This intrepid Coggin reader, @Cmalet50 on Twitter, and his buddy knew Bradley was a slob months before he even stepped foot on an NBA floor. He shared an incredible story with the Uncle Coggin, which you can see read after the jump.
Enough is enough. At this point I think we’d all rather watch replays of “Little Big League” and “Major League” on the MLB network than get our hopes up for the off chance the player’s union and the owners decide to stop lobbing passive aggressive tweets at each other to, you know, actually play baseball.
70 games. 60 games. 50 games. 90 games and we play into December in front of rats with open bottles of Schnapps at Citizens Bank Park….who gives a shit. It doesn’t matter at this point.
Finally, in these trying times, we have ourselves some bonafide good news.
The 76ers, ladies and gentlemen, have the spirits on their side in Orlando, as a bonafide psychic has deemed the Sixers chances for a championship in this strange season as very good.
But, and here’s the BIG catch, only if we believe in them.
Do people still even watch baseball in 2020? With so many other better, faster paced sports to watch, why is baseball even an option for this country? National pastime? More like the national passed-time, if you ask me.
Baseball has been passed over and left to rot on the side of the road. It’s a wonder there’s still a demand for the “bland old game.”
Frankly, I wish it would go away forever.
Ahh ha! The game is afoot, dear readers, and Detective Coggin suspects the most foulest of play.
It is my theory, my friends, that Mike Missanelli, the ill-tempered 97.5 the Fanatic midday show host, was the victim of a MOST DEVIOUS scheme yesterday afternoon that has sent shockwaves through the Philadelphia region…nay….THE WORLD.
Big news everyone! Billionaire baseball owners don’t want to pay their athletes previously agreed upon prorated salaries and want to cut salaries even further for the absolute privilege of playing an abbreviated season amidst a global pandemic!
And guess what?! Boy oh boy, I bet you can’t guess….but the players don’t want to take a pay cut and be paid based on revenues earned in the truncated season. WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT?!
It’s billionaires arguing with millionaires about how many millions they’ll all be paid, while the rest of us have been sitting in our filthy hovels for the last three months wondering when we’ll ever be allowed into Target again without face masks.
Fuck baseball. Fuck the owners for being greedy pigs. Fuck everyone involved squabbling for money.
There’s nothing like the horrific sight of a 300-plus pound man covered in tattoos scraping a cheese grater across the forehead of an agonized Italian-wrestling stereotype named “Little Guido” to truly bring out the finest of South Philadelphia.
ECW was quite it’s own little adventure back in the mid-90s for wrestling fans who wanted a little less athleticism in their wrestlers and a WHOLE lot more blood and profanity in a show. Hosting shows at the infamous 2300 Arena on South Swanson Street where very little wasn’t allowed, ECW crowds did not give a flying fuck about much of anything as long as they could binge drink, watch wrestlers bleed profusely and yell at scantily clad managers to show their tits.
I watched a few PPVs recently (CyberSlam 96 and ECW Barely Legal) on the WWE network and was THRILLED to be able to step into a time portal and people watch when the action spilled over into the crowds.
So many mullets, so many polaroid cameras, very few teeth…let’s take a look at some of the finest fans in attendance at the two PPVs shall we?
The perfect ad doesn’t exist, you say. No simple advertisement could so truly encompass the spirit of a business or a product so perfectly, so succinctly, so ELEGANTLY that it immediately takes your breath away and makes you drop down to your knees to thank GOD that such beauty exists in this world.
Nothing like this could ever exist, you say. Nothing could bring the world together in such harmony and love, to unify the breaks that divide us so deeply at times, to be so utterly sublime that it quite literally stops you in your tracks and demands your attention.
You wouldn’t think an advertisement, let alone a local advertisement for a Philadelphia bar, could make you YEARN for better things.
That is until Locus Rendezvous Bar & Grille, located conveniently on 15th and Locust in the heart of Philadelphia, decided to air this beauty to bring us all together and make us believe in hope again.