Bette Midler = biggest pimp on planet earth

If there's 10 levels of boredom, starving for entertainment enough to peruse cnn.com has to register at least at level 8. I'm not talking about clicking there quickly to see what the top story or late breaking news is, even Cletus does that.

No, I'm talking about that type of boredom where you've already been updated on Obama's health care plan, you've made sure Brett Favre is still retired, you discovered that caffeine increases your risk of Elephantitis by half a percent and all the sudden you're reading an advice column and starting to wonder if maybe you should get your hair cut like Zach Efron because it's the ONLY WAY that women will notice you.

That's the lethargy puddle I was wading in when I discovered this story about Jennifer Aniston's apparent inability to find the kind of love that grandmommies and granddaddies celebrate at the country club with all 27 grandchildren in attendance that are trying to avoid the old guy with the dentures that thinks he fought in the Revolutionary War.
Dentured geezer: "I say we take the British in their sleep!" --Salutes. Falls face first into a bowl of pudding. Spits out fake teeth. After a second of stillness, begins moving mouth slowly to let the sweetness seep in while inhaling more glop through his nose.

Aniston's inability to find Mr. Right is an injustice on the level of eight dollar beer sales at a baseball game. There hasn't been a single Aniston role where she hasn't come off as anything but a fairytale princess. She's caring, she's funny, she shows emotion at all the right times and she has a cute butt (see The Break Up and bring a bib). Oh yeah, and she's gorgeous.
How many guys watched Bruce Almighty and saw Jim Carey yelling "Love me! Love me!" and didn't think, "and if not him, then me. I don't have God on my side, but I'll do more than finish your friggin scrap book."

If she's anything like the characters she plays on screen, she's got to be irresistible enough to find someone to take good care of her when she needs an emotional partner. And if she's not, then shouldn't she be up for some kind of Academy Award? I've seen more than enough movies where Denzel Washington, Mel Gibson and Jack Nicholson play the same character over and over again, and those dudes are in the running every year!

Just as I'm starting to build up the courage to fly to Hollywood and ask the former Rachel Green out on a date, I read this from the one and only Bette Midler.

"She should find somebody who is really hot, who's not in show business. Somebody with a lot of money, and she should live the large life and forget about these a--holes," Midler said.

Not you Bette! Not one of the few actresses I actually respect!

Cue Eddie Griffin! (NSFWish- language)

"They say a black man is a pimp.
Well let me tell you the biggest pimp on planet mother(lovin) Earth, is her momma It's her MOMMA that told her,
"Get a man that got a good job gurl! Make sure he got a good car gurl! Make sure he can take you out and buy you somethin gurl!"
What happened to just fallin in love with a (cool guy) with a bus pass --
-- just cause you love the (cool guy)? But I'm the pimp mother(lover) I gotta be the player.

This is why I don't pay attention to celebrity gossip. Finding out about their real lives and thoughts is too depressing. No more CNN after midnight, even if Michael Jackson rises from his grave and does the Thriller dance.

Melvin Mora is not a son of a gun, nor does he have hair on his tongue

As readers will learn, I'm a baseball-o-holic with a strong preference for the Baltimore Orioles. It goes down rough. Every time.

Though their record doesn't indicate it, times are as good as they have been for eons in Birdland. The roster contains eight rookies. At least six of them have shown promise. Nolan Reimold and Brad Bergesen lead the pack as each have a chance to become the AL Rookie of the Year. Baseball Jesus, a.k.a Matt Weiters hasn't lit the world on fire yet, but O's fans are content knowing Judgement Day is just around the corner.

The home grown talent in the majors might not seem like a blessing to most other teams, but for the Orioles, it's an open bar at church. Keep in mind from 1998 to 2006 the only farm system O's to make the MLB their permanent home are Sidney Ponson, Jerry Hairston Jr. and Brian Roberts. Sorry Rodrigo Lopez, emergency starts with the Phillies don't cut it. No one cares if you get a World Series ring out of it.

The Orioles had few bright spots during their eight years of confusion, but the one that shines like the crimson eye of Cerberus, was the trade that brought Melvin Mora over from the Mets for Mike Bordick in the final year of his contract. The not-so amazin's were blessed with a .260 regular season average for two months and a 1-for-8 performance in the postseason while the Orioles got nine years of an above average third baseman and utility man. It's hard to believe he got moved to the outfield temporarily for the man who batted like his pee-hole contained his third eye. Mora's meatus was known for talent in other areas.

Mora has remained as classy a player as anyone could ask for during a decade-long regrowing period. He's the first Oriole to try to lay down a bunt, he's dealt with position changes only slightly begrudgingly, and he's played injured. That's why yesterday's news that Mora felt disrespected by his coach Dave Trembley was pretty distressing.

It's fair Mora felt he wasn't getting a fair shake to show his stuff in what's likely to be the final year of his contract. He's in the worst power outage of his career, he's an aging player and now he's not getting a chance to work out of it with his last chance at a pay day coming up.
Only a few days prior he said he'd like to play for four more years. That probably a reach unless he's willing to take a role as a bench player.
He's played his tail off for the last six years, earning an average of $5 million per year during his most productive years, a steal for a guy capable of 20 homers and 90 RBI's routinely during that time. Now, when he needs the O's the most, he feels abandoned. Welcome to the league, bud.

The Orioles showed more patience then most clubs would though. The logical transition to Ty Wigginton seemed to take forever. He's sure to be their starting third baseman next year as he's more productive with the bat and there's not much drop off with his glove. Mora seems to know it, and showed his full array of emotions today when clarifying. He sounds like a guy ready to move on.

"Whatever happens the next 24 hours, the next week, the next two months," Mora said, "I just want to walk out of here with my forehead up so that everyone can remember me as a great Oriole and not as a son of a gun."

My favorite story about Melvin Mora, was in 2004 when he transitioned back to the infield from the outfield after Tony Batista's departure. He'd become so comfortable using his outfield glove that he refused to turn it in for the smaller infield version, despite his coaches' advice.
With six errors in the first four games of the season, Mora finally came into the dugout looking defeated after making an error early in the fourth. He frustratedly chucked his outfield glove into the locker room and grabbed an infielders glove. He only made 15 errors the rest of the season.

That orneriness was still present tonight when he spoke about his frustration yesterday. But in the end, he did what was in the best interest of the team. It was classic Mora.

"I'm glad I said it because that's the way I feel," Mora said. "I don't have hair on my tongue. When I feel something like that, I'm going to tell everybody. I never get tired [of] thanking this organization because I've had my career here. I always thank the fans because they've been outstanding with me. ... I've had a good time here with the Orioles, but if you have to move on, you have to move on. I'm always going to be an Oriole, no matter what I'm going to be."

I'm not sure exactly what it means to have hair on your tongue, but I'm glad Melvin doesn't have it. Maybe it's an old Venezuelan idiom. Even if Mora does grow an abnormal tongue beard over the next few months, his departure from the O's is one I do not look forward to.

The Terror Surrounding the First Entry

This is the first time in more than three years that I've experienced any serious anxiety about a writing topic. I've always believed that I could get a blog started, if I could only come up with the first piece, a reason to write.
Other blogs have a specific focus or thread that carries, at least loosely, through all of of the entries posted, whether it be sports, theatre, movies, self evaluation, or observations from their writer's daily lives.
As my friends can verify, I am not a focus aficionado. Conversations jump from poor pitching performances of the Orioles bullpen all the way to the thin line of legality that divides pornography from prostitution - sometimes without a breath.
While a single happy-medium will not exist in this blog, I hope that readers will at least be able to dial down the center of each post with ease. I also hope to work on tightening my work. Constructive or even demolition-style criticism from my readers, all two of you, is greatly appreciated.
Don't be afraid. This is Carrot Top's last appearance.

In college I dealt with my anxiety creatively, but still counterproductively to the project at hand. This is a coping mechanism I learned erroneously from my father.
Growing up, I was never a very clean kid, nor did I have a whole lot of work ethic. In my first summer home from college, my pops enlisted me in a construction job. It would give me character. It would make me appreciate why I was going to college. With a degree, I'd never have to work with my hands again.
Somewhere along the line I entered a misguidance chip to the plan. Instead of learning the value of a good education, I decided that the only time I would ever perform manual labor was when I was putting off something mentally agonizing.
The theory spread through my entourage in college. Soon, the only time anyone cleaned our apartment was on nights where one of us was supposed to be studying or finalizing a paper.
As you can see, this led to some pretty ridiculous predicaments.














My roommate Joellson chose to battle this particular mess on Thursday of finals week. My other roommates had finished our tests earlier in the week and were on autopilot for the rest of the winter. If it weren't for Joellson's chemistry test, this mess probably would have grown festive-colored mold during the 12 days of Christmas.

It wasn't until I began writing for my college paper, The Daily Collegian, that I began to enjoy writing.
Anxiety was still an issue, but rookies on staff were expected to suck. Most wrote their first three stories with a lead about the weather. If you managed to cover something other than the color of the sky by the third story, you were considered to have potential.
Though I worked quickly ahead of the curve, leading with a description of a boat crossing the finish line in story No. 3 (my first beat was crew), I still toiled for hours before finally laying down 12 inches of poo-etry about how one boat went a little faster than the other.
In my second year on staff, my girlfriend at the time found the perfect solution to my anxiety issue - she dumped me.
For six weeks I was a wreck. I couldn't eat. I didn't want to get out of bed. I could only drink a six pack before I caught a serious buzz.
Things were bad.
That's when my doctor prescribed me with Effexor, a drug used to ease depression and anxiety.

The first few weeks were pretty interesting. Every time I felt a severe pang of guilt or sadness, it was followed immediately by a feeling I can only describe as a tiny worm crawling from the the back of my brain, down my spine, and finally settling comfortably between my shoulder blades where the feeling subsided. To this day, no other patient has described the same feeling.

Around the same time that I got used to the props from Tremors nestling between my vertebrae, other writers on staff began to notice confidence in my voice. Not in my actual speaking voice; I was a somewhat pudgy, wide-eyed amateur covering Penn State field hockey, admittedly more because the players were hot than because I had any interest in the sport. Lord, I was a pussy.
Instead, I was loosening up and getting comfortable with the words that were flying from my fingertips. When my future best friend at the Collegian commended a lead I'd written involving Miss Cleo hiring the field hockey team for her second go-around with future prediction, I felt like I belonged. From that point, my anxiety crawled away. Doctors located the worms six months later.
I didn't forgive my ex-girlfriend for months. Even though she cursed me with residual trust issues that still last in a smaller form today, I have to thank her for helping me hit my breaking point. My parents had worried I was suffering from depression prior to the breakup, but I wouldn't face my issues until I hit rock bottom.

Now I'm a sports writer at a local paper, covering mostly high schools. Any full grown adult that has anxiety issues stemming from talking to 16-year-old girls should probably be checked into a sexual abuse clinic. A preemptive strike would have saved Michael Jackson from a life of misery.
In my job, I'm given writing assignments. If I can't find a beginning, I work from the middle and find my lead later. It's not nearly as nerve-wracking as figuring out what to write about in a first blog entry. Though this probably wasn't the best way to introduce the malady, it feels like it fits.
Hi. My name is Adam. I suffer from LCM Syndrome.