“Mormons should be happy that Scientology came along and made theirs the second weirdest religion.”--Bill Maher

My daughters took in the St.Patty‘s Day parade in Scranton yesterday, and then spent the better part of the day bar and club-hopping their way through the downtown. The first thing I inquired about was what the Flashbacks dance club was like since Wilkes-Barre will be home to the same outfit real soon like. The answer contained some good and some bad news. The bad news being that they didn’t find their way into Flashbacks. And the good news being that the waiting line to get in there stretched the length of a city block.

The eldest daughter was the group’s designated driver, so she came home completely sober. My youngest partook of trendy agricultural amusement aids as the day proceeded and she seemed to be a bit on the “happy” side. The two of them were wearing green T-shirts saying “Don’t kiss me because I’m Irish” on the front, and “Kiss me because I’m drunk” on the backside. And from what they reported, just about every male in Scranton yesterday tried their level best to kiss every member of the group. They were sporting “Jerry Springer” beads, but promised me that they didn’t earn them in the usual Springer fashion. Ebon bought herself a green river horn, as we like to call them, and damaged the hearing of many she encountered in the filled-to-capacity clubs.

They also reported that the cover charges required at just about all of Scranton’s night spots were prohibitively expensive. One joint collected ten bucks a head at the front door and amazingly, my girls paid it. That’d be the day I’d pay that amount of money just to make like a freakin’ sardine with a bunch of drunk and horny green-clad folks looking to cheat on their significant others. Peace said even when she flashed her wedding ring, the “partiers” wouldn’t take no for an answer while begging for a few wet smooches. C’mon baby, it’s St. Patrick’s Day. Now gimme a big wet one. If that’s what a nationally recognized St. Patty’s Day celebration typically devolves into, I hope Wilkes-Barre’s never rivals Scranton’s legendary drunk-fest. But that’s just me.

They also tell me that Lynn Swann seemed to be quite the crowd favorite. I know he’s been trailing Ed Rendell in the preliminary polling, but who knows. Maybe we’ll have us an ex-NFL athlete for a governor soon enough. If that ever comes to pass, I might just have to pack up the Cds and whatnot and move on to Sorber Mountain after all. Y’all can argue about your failing state ‘til the terrorists come and getcha, while I’ll just drink my home-fired swill and shoot innocent squirrels out back of the tool shed for a lack of anything better to do. There ain’t no need for no goll darned politics up Sorber Mountain a ways. Just needs me some cheap swill, some repacked ammo, and a woman so to cook and clean up after me. Then again, if they reelect ole’ Ed from Philthydumpia, maybe I’ll just settle in near some backwoods swamp in Mississippi, start fearin’ God and all, become a local clansman and develop me a taste for charbroiled alligator.

Or, I could just stay here and watch all of the marriages disintegrate when gambling finally comes to town. When hubby blows half his paycheck up the racetrack before wifey even gets a crack at it, the local cops will likely be inundated with domestic violence calls. Reminds one of when Anthracite was king. The men would practically kill themselves in the deep mines for literally pennies an hour and then run right to the nearest watering hole on payday so as to “wash that coal dust” out of their mouths. And when they’d finally stumble on home with a good snoot on, the women would be left to figure out how to run the households with even less of the accumulated pennies they were counting on, right after the marital brawls ended. And yet, they say we should celebrate our coal mining heritage. How? By drinking our paychecks away and then brawling with the wives?

I dunno. I got myself all off track, but the gist of this nonsense was that my daughters went to Scranton yesterday and resisted the urge to join in and act like total assholes in public.

Good for them.

I‘ve been following the latest on Barry Bonds, since he’s been all-but-proven to be a steroids cheater. I’ve listened to some sports talk radio on the subject, as well as looked at plenty of commentary on the internet. Today I ran across the following opinion posted by none other than Kevin Lynn of WILK:

The fact is, athletes give what they can to be great at their sport. Some are hindered by lack of speed, or desire, or talent, or they fall prey to injuries or self-indulgence. The elite push the envelope, and many of them look for an edge on the dark side. I’m not saying it’s ethical, I’m saying it’s predictable. It’s also black and white. When Barry Bonds tests positive we’ll talk. Until then, he’s following the rules and we’re watching history. We should enjoy the show.

I hate to say as much, but I agree with him. Well, sort of. Well, to a point. I’m conflicted.

In five short years, Barry Bonds went from being human to being something mirroring The Incredible Hulk. His muscle mass not only doubled in size, so did his freaking already fat head. Pre-steroids, he averaged 8 home runs per 100 at bats at age 35. Post-steroids, he was averaging an un-human 16 home runs per 100 at bats as he closed in on 40 years of age. As Kevin said, I’m not stupid, and I too don’t think Major League Baseball can come down on a guy who has not tested positive for any banned substances. Unlike Kevin, I cannot in all good conscience sit back and enjoy the home run show when the show is obviously a sham made capable by illegal drugs. Barry Bonds is the biggest cheater yet, so I fail to understand why his obvious cheating should be overlooked.

No, you can’t bust the guy without proof, but it’s obvious that he’s either ingesting one substance to cover up the use of yet another, or he’s buying someone else’s urine. Or some such sh*t. During my trucking days, I’d just about seen it all whereas cheating to pass drug tests was concerned. True story. A guy I worked with drank a gallon of vinegar to mask his use of pot. He puked all day long and failed the drug test anyway. Yuk.

I dunno. For me, it’s a very troubling situation being a baseball purist and all. Barry Bonds was always a good athlete, but his career statistics pale when stacked against what he has compiled since going dope fiend. Fact is, without the massive chemical assists, he would have never come close to challenging either Babe Ruth’s, or Hank Aaron’s career home run totals. And no matter what Kevin, myself or anyone else has to say, that much is undeniable. Let’s say Bonds continues playing and ends up retiring as the all-time leader in home runs. From that point on, whenever the home run record is made mention of, real baseball fans will collectively groan and slowly shake their heads. We can’t have that. Can we?

If there is a baseball God, or any sort of justice at all, Bonds will tear his hamstring to shreds and never don a baseball uniform again. From what I’ve read, he’s ingested so many steroids so fast, he’s likely cut his life short. What price is worth being at the top of the baseball record books?

As far as any of my earliest memories are concerned, 714 was always a number that stood for something. And less than ten years later, 755 joined that very short list of numbers worth remembering. And if Bonds finishes his career with any number higher than those two, it will count for nothing except to denote that he was no Babe Ruth and he was no Hank Aaron.

777 career home runs? How ‘bout 798? Will any number he compiles matter when he had to stoop to cheating to reach them? Methinks not. He was a great baseball player for many years, but I suspect history will judge him very harshly. And he deserves as much.

Sez me.

If you care at all about whether the river at Wilkes-Barre ends up a dammed lake filled with fecal matter among other highly objectionable pollutants, here’s your chance to be heard. Follow the following link for the very latest:

Take a gander at this bugger. Wilkes-Barre’s official bicentennial web site.

We’re 200 years old!

CELEBRATE WILKES-BARRE - overseen by Mayor Thomas Leighton, his staff, and a committee of volunteers from throughout the area - has taken on the task of commemorating the Bicentennial with a year-long celebration, including a five-day summer celebration. Held June 30 through July 4, scheduled events include a Bicentennial Blastoff, Parade, Gala Ball, free concerts and a Fourth of July Fireworks.

I want to know who the national recording artist is that’s going to be playing at Kirby Park.

Cheap Trick anyone?

I took in Wilkes-Barre‘s parade this afternoon, but it wasn’t near as much fun as it usually is without any grandrodents tagging along. Don’t get me wrong, the parade was well done and drew a huge crowd. It’s just that I’m lost without my little buddies at events such as these. Gage & Taylor headed back to Pottsville last night. And with the rain falling right up until the parade was all but set to roll, Zach’s dad informed me that he wasn’t going either. What the muck? And I had the wagon prepped and ready to go.

I came really close to getting myself glad-handed by Ed Rendell as he was making his exit from Wilkes-Barre behind the city’s band shell. I’m really not sure why, but one of his bodyguards gave me a super long looking over as I approached very slowly on the Hummer. Got me, man. Do I look like an assassin or something? And, yes, I forgot to wear something green, which was quickly pointed out to me by one of my neighbors. I mouthed the words “I’m wearing green boxer shorts” across the street, but I’m not sure if she understood. I’ll do better next year.

Hey, keep those hateful e-mails coming. The “Free Hugo” T-shirt was a joke, people. Do you honestly think I give a flying leap from the eighth-floor cell block what becomes of him? My son will be thrilled when he hears just how many ninnies he caused to lose their cool over a frickin’ shirt.

Rutro! The latest from Scanner Land: All available units. 20 Public Square--large bar fight.

Happy 10-94 Day!

Now go sleep it off.

Later