Me, gladly. Ted Williams's first rule of hitting was, "Get a good ball to hit." I'll take 4-4 with 4 walks for a blistering 1.000 OB% any day.
N.O.B.
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Happy Neil Armstrong Became The First Man To Walk On The Moon (on a closed Hollywood set in a remote location of the Mojave Desert) Day everybody.
That’s a good point — yeah, as serious as a bunch of 55+ YO Glory Days has-beens hacking around in a Senior Slowly Pitched Softball Tournament can be 😂
WhyTF would you worry about walks, OB%, BA, etc...? All that matters is dingers & whether or not your stirrup game was on point. The rest of that meaningless crap will take care of itself.
Keep it simple, man. Just come correct stirrup wise and always swing for the fence.
#chicks dig the stirrups (in addition to the long ball)
Keep it simple, man. Just come correct stirrup wise and always swing for the fence.
#chicks dig the stirrups (in addition to the long ball)
Lord, look at that stance. Dad can land and walk on the moon and then he comes home to that.
It isn’t the stance, it’s the low slung start of the bat position… I mean, Ricky is gonna be a late punch & Judy swinging pussy with the WRONG STUFF.
I'll be honest, my first thought when I saw that pic was, "Damn, ol' Neil sure is putting his back into his fastball." I noticed the kid's shitty stance/pre-swing for sure, but what really struck me was how hard Armstrong appeared to be throwing. I mean why the hell was he bringing the heat to his kid? Then, after funk's and kook's posts, it dawned on me -- he's throwing that hard precisely BECAUSE of his kid's lack of baseball ability.
Think about it. It's March, 1969, barely four months before Armstrong and his crew are scheduled to attempt the most epic endeavor in mankind's history. He's stressed and the pressure is building exponentially with each passing day. Now he comes home after an 18-hour day in the simulator and all he wants to do is relax. He walks silently past his wife and son, grabs a couple beers from the fridge and a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet, and heads to the bedroom alone. He pounds the beers, takes a long swig of Scotch, and stares blankly at the floor. Just what the hell have I gotten myself into? he says to himself.
About half an hour later there's a feeble knock on the door. Armstrong ignores it. A few more minutes pass. There's another knock...
Son: "Dad?" the kid asks meekly through the closed door
Armstrong (still staring): "Yeah? What the hell do you want?" The much-needed buzz was starting to kick in.
Son: "Would you pitch to me?"
Arm: (long pause) "Sure kid, what the hell. I could use a good laugh."
They head to the back yard. His wife pleads with Armstrong to take it easy on the boy, but Neil brushes her aside. "He asked for it, Janet, so shut your mouth and just take the damned pictures or you're next." Janet ceases her protestations and walks meekly behind them, camera in hand.
Son: "Hey dad, do you think I'll get a hit today?"
Arm: "Hell no," he replies with a chuckle, "you swing like a GD girl."
The kid takes his "stance" and Armstrong begins laughing. The booze is in full effect. "Hold the GD bat like a man, you little pussy." "NEIL!!!" shrieks his wife, "Stop that, stop it right now! The neighbors can hear you." Armstrong lets out a hearty, drunken laugh, "The neighbors? I don't give a flying f#ck what Pete Conrad thinks. I'm going to the moon before that cocksucker anyway and he knows it. Besides honey, I'm just doin' a little trash-talkin'. You ready boy? Here it comes!" "Ready, dad" replies his son with the innocent eagerness of a child trying to finally make his dad proud of him.
Armstrong doesn't hold back. He winds up and fires a fastball as hard as he can possibly can, his wife capturing the moment as the ball is in mid-flight. His son doesn't even react until the ball caroms off the top of the backstop's frame -- only then does he attempt a feeble swing. The ball continues its path, barely missing Janet's face a millisecond before slamming into the side of the house.
Armstrong explodes in a fury of rage brought on by both the alcohol and the tremendous pressure of his impending journey. "YOU CALL THAT A F#CKING SWING? WHY THE HELL DO I EVEN WASTE MY TIME ON YOU? YOU CAN'T BE MY SON. YOU. CANNOT. BE. MY. F#CKING. SON. YOU'RE WEAK. YOU'LL ALWAYS BE WEAK. ALDRIN'S KID IS ALREADY HITTING BALLS A MILE AND HE'S ONLY FOUR! FOUR! NOW GET THE F#CK OUT OF MY SIGHT YOU LITTLE BASTARD." Armstrong storms back to the kitchen for more beer as his son runs crying into his mother's arms.
Think about it. It's March, 1969, barely four months before Armstrong and his crew are scheduled to attempt the most epic endeavor in mankind's history. He's stressed and the pressure is building exponentially with each passing day. Now he comes home after an 18-hour day in the simulator and all he wants to do is relax. He walks silently past his wife and son, grabs a couple beers from the fridge and a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet, and heads to the bedroom alone. He pounds the beers, takes a long swig of Scotch, and stares blankly at the floor. Just what the hell have I gotten myself into? he says to himself.
About half an hour later there's a feeble knock on the door. Armstrong ignores it. A few more minutes pass. There's another knock...
Son: "Dad?" the kid asks meekly through the closed door
Armstrong (still staring): "Yeah? What the hell do you want?" The much-needed buzz was starting to kick in.
Son: "Would you pitch to me?"
Arm: (long pause) "Sure kid, what the hell. I could use a good laugh."
They head to the back yard. His wife pleads with Armstrong to take it easy on the boy, but Neil brushes her aside. "He asked for it, Janet, so shut your mouth and just take the damned pictures or you're next." Janet ceases her protestations and walks meekly behind them, camera in hand.
Son: "Hey dad, do you think I'll get a hit today?"
Arm: "Hell no," he replies with a chuckle, "you swing like a GD girl."
The kid takes his "stance" and Armstrong begins laughing. The booze is in full effect. "Hold the GD bat like a man, you little pussy." "NEIL!!!" shrieks his wife, "Stop that, stop it right now! The neighbors can hear you." Armstrong lets out a hearty, drunken laugh, "The neighbors? I don't give a flying f#ck what Pete Conrad thinks. I'm going to the moon before that cocksucker anyway and he knows it. Besides honey, I'm just doin' a little trash-talkin'. You ready boy? Here it comes!" "Ready, dad" replies his son with the innocent eagerness of a child trying to finally make his dad proud of him.
Armstrong doesn't hold back. He winds up and fires a fastball as hard as he can possibly can, his wife capturing the moment as the ball is in mid-flight. His son doesn't even react until the ball caroms off the top of the backstop's frame -- only then does he attempt a feeble swing. The ball continues its path, barely missing Janet's face a millisecond before slamming into the side of the house.
Armstrong explodes in a fury of rage brought on by both the alcohol and the tremendous pressure of his impending journey. "YOU CALL THAT A F#CKING SWING? WHY THE HELL DO I EVEN WASTE MY TIME ON YOU? YOU CAN'T BE MY SON. YOU. CANNOT. BE. MY. F#CKING. SON. YOU'RE WEAK. YOU'LL ALWAYS BE WEAK. ALDRIN'S KID IS ALREADY HITTING BALLS A MILE AND HE'S ONLY FOUR! FOUR! NOW GET THE F#CK OUT OF MY SIGHT YOU LITTLE BASTARD." Armstrong storms back to the kitchen for more beer as his son runs crying into his mother's arms.
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I one hundred percent assumed his hand were backwards, but upon zooming in, that is the only thing he’s doing right.
No pun intended.
Ha, I didn't realize I had made a Buzz Aldrin pun. Man I thought the same thing about his hands too at first -- I think the weird bat angle creates that illusion.
Not sure if any of you remember when my daughter had her accident. Scooter accident, knocked her unconscious. I witnessed it and scared the hell out of me. Thought it killed her. Thankfully, she was wearing her helmet. She lost her four front upper teeth. She has been using a partial until she matures enough that the bones quit moving and she can get implants. She is almost seventeen and Wednesday was phase one of what we hope to be the final leg of this journey. She went to the oral surgeon to receive a bone graphing from a cadaver. Also, while they were tending to that, they went ahead and took out her wisdom teeth. So doctor comes out and says everything went great. He modified her partial a little bit so it would fit better when she heals.... yada, yada, yada.
The nurse brings her out to us and she is in the classic loopy stage. So my 6'2" daughter is being escorted out by this 5' tall nurse and it's already a pretty comical sight. Nurse says, "Here is your little dancer. I had to tell her to quit dancing and just sit in her seat so she wouldn't fall."
We finally get her to the car and she is high as a kite. We're driving down the street and she is just comical. Can't hardly hold her head up. Laughing and carrying on about silly little things. She tried rolling the window down to wave at the other cars on the street..... Then it gets quiet and she takes a serious tone. Looks at her mother and raises her index finger to make a statement.
"I Do Not Do Drugs! But his is making me consider it!"
For a sharp kid, honors in her school AP and all that stuff and very anti drug. That was a surprise for her mother and I to hear. We thought it was hilarious. Four hours later she didn't remember saying it. But, I'll have a hard time forgetting. Good times.
The nurse brings her out to us and she is in the classic loopy stage. So my 6'2" daughter is being escorted out by this 5' tall nurse and it's already a pretty comical sight. Nurse says, "Here is your little dancer. I had to tell her to quit dancing and just sit in her seat so she wouldn't fall."
We finally get her to the car and she is high as a kite. We're driving down the street and she is just comical. Can't hardly hold her head up. Laughing and carrying on about silly little things. She tried rolling the window down to wave at the other cars on the street..... Then it gets quiet and she takes a serious tone. Looks at her mother and raises her index finger to make a statement.
"I Do Not Do Drugs! But his is making me consider it!"
For a sharp kid, honors in her school AP and all that stuff and very anti drug. That was a surprise for her mother and I to hear. We thought it was hilarious. Four hours later she didn't remember saying it. But, I'll have a hard time forgetting. Good times.
Where's the video? Surely you have this on video.
Reminder 7: you didn’t win the chip last season
Mav in fine form on Twitter today. Sprayed my screen after reading one of his Tweets. Monkeypox concerns tweet was solid gold.
Well done, good sir.
Well done, good sir.
Blue Bell Flavor of the Year 2022
Absolutely irresistible.
Absolutely irresistible.
Purchased some a few weeks ago. Have not had time to post the pic. Awesome, indeed.Blue Bell Flavor of the Year 2022
Absolutely irresistible.
** N.O.B. Public Service Announcement **
2022 FFL Draft scheduled for August 28, 2022
Be there. Aloha.
2022 FFL Draft scheduled for August 28, 2022
Be there. Aloha.
I had a friend say over the weekend that "Buc-ee’s is overrated and the Walmart of gas stations and he would much rather go to Five-star." NOB thoughts?
A relative of mine actually used that same comparison. The Walmart of gas stations. Said it like it was a bad thing.
Yes, I love Walmart. They have no competition.
Yes, I love Walmart. They have no competition.
I assumed you would find fault with the overrated statement. He also said the nuggets were just fair and the brisket was just ok.
Danke schoen, brother 🙏
Anybody know a good psychiatrist, e.g. one that specializes in arachnophobia and/or arachnophobia-induced nightmares and PTSD to be more specific? As always, TIA.
Here's the deal...Saturday morning I take our dog out for her morning pee, as per usual. She does her business and we head up the back steps. On the concrete just to the side of the brick step into the house there's this little pearlescent ball, and of course she has to smell it. It looks like a snail to me because (A) we've had an outbreak of those slimy little bastards the past couple weeks, and (B) I've got my bifocal contacts in since we aren't playing softball because our coach/sponsor bailed on us and nobody has picked me up off the waiver wire despite some interest a couple months ago so f#ck it I don't need to eagle-eye distance vision anyway cause I'm not in the outfield anymore and I'm tired of wearing reading glasses over distance contacts so I might as well wear these damned bifocal contacts cause they're great for reading at about 18 inches but not too great at about a 4-foot-and-beyond that range. So I pick the snail up to throw it out into the yard because I don't wanna step on it later and slime my back porch. Except it wasn't a snail.
As soon as my fingers touched it I knew something was off. The texture was wrong. Instead of being hard like a shell it was rubbery and pliable. No matter though and I casually tossed it into the yard. I looked back down to see if there were any more around (they usually travel in packs) and then OMMFG IS THAT WHAT I THINK IT IS OH MOTHERF#CK ME RUNNING HELL YES IT IS I see it...a cock-sucking tarantula-sized wolf spider is sitting on the vertical face of the brick step and of course the brick is brown and since I'm f#cking color deficient (gee thanks for helping save us from the Japs granddad -- he drove a Higgins boat in the Philipines -- but did ya really have to pass on that gene to mom then me???) it blended in and I didn't see it. Yes, apparently I had just picked up the motherf#cker's egg sack!!!
Fortunately I had a can of spider/scorpion/komodo dragon/Alien creature spray in the house and I used nearly the whole f#cking can on that damned thing. Then I got scooped up the egg sack -- IT WAS SO BIG YOU COULD SEE IT IN THE YARD FROM THE PORCH EVEN WITH BIFOCAL CONTACTS -- with our dogs poop scoop and took it to the edge of the field behind the house, doused it with lighter fluid, set fire to it, and then repeatedly jabbed the damned thing with a long screwdriver. 48 hours later I can still feel the texture of that f#cking sac and see that damned momma spider in my mind's eye and it freaks me out. Copious weed and booze for the remainder of the weekend didn't dull, much less erase, the memory. I think I'm gonna need some intense psychotherapy and/or electroshock therapy, or some good psilocybin, to get past this. I'd prefer not to have a prefrontal lobotomy, but I suppose that's on the table as well.
So basically I'm now an emotional, paranoid, psychotic wreck because my grandad survived WWII and my coach tanked the 2022 Men's Senior Slowly-Pitched Softball Season. Thanks guys, great work.
As soon as my fingers touched it I knew something was off. The texture was wrong. Instead of being hard like a shell it was rubbery and pliable. No matter though and I casually tossed it into the yard. I looked back down to see if there were any more around (they usually travel in packs) and then OMMFG IS THAT WHAT I THINK IT IS OH MOTHERF#CK ME RUNNING HELL YES IT IS I see it...a cock-sucking tarantula-sized wolf spider is sitting on the vertical face of the brick step and of course the brick is brown and since I'm f#cking color deficient (gee thanks for helping save us from the Japs granddad -- he drove a Higgins boat in the Philipines -- but did ya really have to pass on that gene to mom then me???) it blended in and I didn't see it. Yes, apparently I had just picked up the motherf#cker's egg sack!!!
Fortunately I had a can of spider/scorpion/komodo dragon/Alien creature spray in the house and I used nearly the whole f#cking can on that damned thing. Then I got scooped up the egg sack -- IT WAS SO BIG YOU COULD SEE IT IN THE YARD FROM THE PORCH EVEN WITH BIFOCAL CONTACTS -- with our dogs poop scoop and took it to the edge of the field behind the house, doused it with lighter fluid, set fire to it, and then repeatedly jabbed the damned thing with a long screwdriver. 48 hours later I can still feel the texture of that f#cking sac and see that damned momma spider in my mind's eye and it freaks me out. Copious weed and booze for the remainder of the weekend didn't dull, much less erase, the memory. I think I'm gonna need some intense psychotherapy and/or electroshock therapy, or some good psilocybin, to get past this. I'd prefer not to have a prefrontal lobotomy, but I suppose that's on the table as well.
So basically I'm now an emotional, paranoid, psychotic wreck because my grandad survived WWII and my coach tanked the 2022 Men's Senior Slowly-Pitched Softball Season. Thanks guys, great work.
Yea, that ayahuasca dude down in Bell Co or wherever. Fix ya right up.
