Fantasy Baseball's Nerd Avenue: "Steroid Andy Gets No Love"

Andrew Eugene Pettitte.
Born June 15th, 1972 in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

The other day, I was scouring the waiver wire in my most competitive fantasy baseball league. With all the crazy waiver wire addicts in this particular league, decent pitching is thinner than Tori Spelling before she got fat again. As I perused over the various wastes of year's pasts, Andy Pettitte's name caught my eye. Although I had actually rode him like a porn star on ecstasy two summers ago to a playoff birth, I was still skeptical. After admitting to using steroids in the past to overcome an injury, most people were pretty leery about drafting a 37 year old man, recently busted for performance enhancing drugs, while coming off his second worst ERA of his career. However, there is still plenty to like here. In fact, I could actually see Mr. Pettitte being a serviceable 4th and strong 5th pitcher, in any fantasy format, the rest of the season.

The steroid allegations and confessions were giant, bright red, "WARNING" lights flashing in our eyes on draft day. However, those troublesome thoughts were put to bed like a drunk sorority chick after Penny Pitchers at Ball State when he reported to training camp in excellent shape and hadn't lost a drop off his velocity. So, just like Hellen Keller actually being blind, I am actually going to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that the few times he used steroids were actually to recover faster from injury, and actually wasn't much of a factor of his entire career's statistics. I mean his head never grew to the size of Placido Polanco's like Barry Bonds and I can't recall him ever having sex with a 14 year old country singer.

With that said, he is though coming off his highest ERA since 1999, right?

Well, yes, but he also had arguably the best season of his career in 2000, the year after his highest ERA total of his career. He also won nineteen games that year.

Regardless of age, the man still plays for the unlikeable and old, yet forceful Yankees. As much as I hate the roster from top to bottom, they still can put runs on the board with best of them. Also, maybe it was because of steroids, but he has served as a trusty horse over the majority of his career, taking the mound at least 30 times per season. He has thrown at least 190 innings 11 of the last 13 years and over 200 innings 10 of the last 13. Hell, he is only four years removed from a fucking 2.37 ERA to go along with 17 wins. And yes, he is older, but the tank is far from empty and think about all of the great years Mussina, Randy Johnson, Glavine, and Smoltz managed to put together far after their prime. Pettitte currently ranks 10 among active pitchers in Win/Loss percentage, 8th in wins, and an astonishing 10th in strikeouts. He even has a career WHIP of just over 1.30.

The proof is in the poop, folks.

And by the way, here is how he has fared through his first two starts.

2 starts: 14.1 innings, 9 hits, 10 strikeouts, 4 earned runs, 2 walks. WHIP of 0.77.

Yes, you read that correctly. He's had more strikeouts than hits.

It will definitely feel like sucking Tom Selleck's balls after he runs a marathon to root for the Yankees once every five games, but this is fantasy baseball and I'll be hammered by the 3rd inning.

"Yes, I Am Gullible, But This Is Just Cruel."

So most everybody that knows me is aware of how easily I am drawn into stories and also my history of being a self-proclaimed hypochondriac. My fiancee has enjoyed taking advantage of this aspect of our relationship over the seven years we've been together, but she at least holds herself to only a few times a year. However, the last two weeks have been especially hard.

More like Cruel.

Very Cruel.

The first emotional breakdown occurred on April 1st, which also happens to be the stupidest holiday of the year. April Fool's Day is actually worse than getting pinched all day at work because you refuse to wear green on St. Patty's Day. At least on St. Patty's Day you get to drink green beer after work to wash the memories of the pinches away.

After Returning home from work that evening, I did my usual routine. I picked up the house, walked the dogs, grabbed a beer out of the fridge, and flipped on the television. My fiancee works late three days a week as a R.N. in the surgery center. I left around 8:00 p.m. to run to the grocery store and when I returned home, my women was waiting for me with a particularly half creepy/half happily excited look on her face. She is holding something behind her back and tells me she has a surprise. Instantly, as usual, I try to think of the worst scenario I can think of so that whatever it is it will seem that much better than the alternative in my head. After asking if it is a good or bad surprise, she giggles, and hands me a fucking pregnancy test.

She's pregnant.

Holy Shit.

I know I am getting older and will eventually decide to procreate little versions of myself, but now?

Really?

No more late nights drinking beers with hot sauce all over my face or 3 a.m. drunk intercourse?

No more pointless late night drunk Ebay purchases of various sports jerseys, because all of my money will be going to diapers and Pedialite?

No more leaving my car at a friends house because I'm too intoxicated to drive and catching a ride home with someone else and waking up for work the next morning and finding out that your fiancee has already left for work and you need to run the 3 and a half mile journey to your friend's house, hungover, while dry heaving the entire way?

Ohhhh God.

I sat on the couch and tried to sort through the information that I had just been given and soak it all in, when I noticed a peculiar smile on my fiancee's face. Not a "I'm so happy that we're having a baby" face, but a "I can't believe you fucking believed me and I seriously just watched your testicles shrink and am quite sure you pooped your pants" look.

April Fools.

How cruel.

The second emotional disaster occurred earlier this afternoon. On the way home from work, I was sitting at a stop light and sneezed violently. After grabbing a tissue and wiping my nose, I noticed that my nose was bleeding. I hadn't had a bloody nose in a long time and I quickly began flipping out. Although it only lasted for a few seconds, I instantly text my fiancee at the hospital and asked her if I should be concerned. Her response?

"Holy Shit. You definitely need to come in right away. My boss said that we can squeeze you in and we have to run some tests right away. The blood that is clotting between your nose and your brain is possibly clogged and is need of help right away.

Once again, my balls recede into my abdomen and I nearly vomit with worrisome and after Googling "Nose Bleeds Brain Tumors Death" for a few minutes, I tell her that I'm on my way to the hospital and quickly head for the door.

But just like April Fool's Day, I was just another gullible victim. Apparently her coworkers were enjoying my text messages and phone conversations more than American Idol.

Once again, myself gets the best of me.

"My Dog"

This is one of my dogs.

She is neat.

She is big.

She barks sometimes.

She likes walks.

She prefers burritos to chimichangas.

Her favorite country is Ecuador.

Her favorite music group is Hootie and the Blowfish.

Her favorite hobby is stealing the neighbor's mail.

Her favorite curse word is "son of a cunt".

Her favorite song is "Who Let The Dogs Out".

She used to date one of the Baja Men.

She broke up with him when he refused to take her to see Monsters and Aliens in 3-D.

Her name is Madison.

She is neat.

I might be drunk.

"Doc Gooden's Locker Room Gang Bang" Boneless Wings"

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"The Johan Meter"

An Excerpt from last Tuesday's JSA (Johan Santana Annonymous) meeting.

me: "Hello. My name is Dr. H and I am a Johan Santana addict."

room: "Hello. Dr. H."

It all began four years ago in my second year competing in the extremely nerdy game known as fantasy baseball. Although I had only been exposed to fantasy football in previous years, I instantly became hooked to baseball. In our league, you are allowed to keep one batter and one pitcher at the end of each year and ever since I drafted Johan in my inaugural draft, we've been together like Darryl Strawberry and cocaine.

By the same time the next year, I was already sporting a Minnesota Twins Johan jersey wherever I went. And Last year, upon learning of Johan's trade to the Mets, I instantly ordered a new jersey on Ebay (completely shit-faced at 3 in the morning I might add) and was rocking the thing on Opening Day.

Sadly, I actually live vicariously through the Venezuelan arm of this 5'11 1/2'', 198 pound man. If Johan is up on the hill three hours behind in Anahiem and I need to be at work early the next morning, I won't be able to sleep until he is taken out of the game. It is actually kind of pathetic how much my everyday mood is dependent upon Santana's pitching performances. Trust me, it isn't a coincidence that my arguments with my fiance tend to be more frequent during the days following a rough outing. On the other hand, it is sweet marital bliss when Johan is on a nice win streak.

Anyways, after I returned from a recent camping trip, I got ready to shave the scruff that had grown on my face over the weekend. However, for some reason I decided to create a goatee. Ironically, I am seriously OCD about shaving my face and can't even remember the last time I went more than a day without my mug feeling like a baby's ass. (No, I'm not a pedophile. No, I have never touched a baby's ass) Although the thing is hideous and makes me look 10 years older, I am keeping it. You want to know why? Because from now on this patch of pubic hair around my mouth will be known as "The Johan Meter". I will only be shaving this damn thing after a Santana loss, so basically, the longer my goatee is, the better Johan Santana is pitching. However, I actually hope he loses his last start of the season, because I can't imagine how disgusting this thing would be after a 4 month long offseason

Further updates of The Johan Meter will find their way here.

"You Ate My Cheeseburger!"

"Will You Smell My Butt?"

"The Green Semen Shirt"

"The Mysterious Weiner Picture"

Introduction to "Bloobing"

Bloobing (def.) blue-bing (noun): Blogging about boobs.

ex. Jimmy asked his mommy for internet so he could bloob about his sister's large rack.

Boobs. I love them. Every guy loves them. Bill Clinton loves them. Peyton Manning loves them. Maury Povich loves them. Lesbians love them. The point is that it doesn't matter what kind of a guy you are, but as long as you are straight, you probably love boobs.

So I was thinking about boobs today at work and began to wonder what they really are. I mean, basically they are just two large lumps of fatty tissue attached to a woman's chest. Every other time you find a lump on your body you go see your doctor. Is it just the boobs or is it the lady they are attached to. Obviously, a nice set of jugs won't suddenly make Mother Theresa hot, but I'd probably still sneak a peak if she happened to be wearing a loose fitting shirt. The more I think about boobs now the more I wonder what the most appealing aspect of them is. Anyways, they may just be two large growths protruding out of the chest of a lady, but I still love em'. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs.