Medic-alert your grandmother—Madonna to headline Super Bowl halftime show huddling to the oldies

In keeping with its long-standing tradition of presenting half-time acts that are at least 25 years past their prime, the NFL is foisting the legendary diva Madonna upon us for the big game’s intermission on February 5. The so-called “Material Girl,” who first gained prominence during the first Reagan administration, is currently receiving thrice-daily hormone injections from a 24- year old French dancer, who is not FDA approved.

Always looking ahead, the NFL has already booked Katy Perry for the half-time show in 2045, to be followed by the Jonas Brothers in 2046. The league was hoping to secure Justin Bieber for the 2047 game, but Mr. Bieber is already headlining the continental breakfast alcove at the Bullhead City Comfort Inn that weekend.
This year’s national anthem will be sung by American Idol season one winner Kelly Clarkson, who is expected to provide a well-rounded, full- bodied performance. Ms. Clarkson won’t be the only American Idol alumnus working the game. Season five winner Taylor Hicks will be selling churros in the upper deck; and the first attendee who

Funnyball

Decorum dictates that I veil my suspicions of Brad Pitt’s marital relations, having not witnessed them first-hand (my hidden camera ran out of batteries, dammit), but I suspect both he and his wife could be watching Ellen at the same time, and Brad would be closer to the set.

Phallus in Dallas

There is considerable debate among anthropologists over whether or not Khloe Kardashian and Lamar Odom are of the same species, with the general belief that Lamar is the human. In the absence of DNA testing, we project a sex life consistent with a specimen the size of a power forward—same goes for Lamar. Another debate rages over whether or not Khloe shares the same father as Kim and Kourtney. If she isn’t a biological match, then mother Kris must have dallied with a gigolo of actual wit and intelligence during her marriage to the late O.J. enabler, as Kim and Kourtney’s combined IQs recently topped out at negative 59.

Schwing and a prayer

Denver quarterback Tim Tebow is a devout virgin (and will remain so until marriage, we presume). Because he’s never been caught in the act, picturing him having sex requires imagining his origin. To many believers, particularly in Florida and Colorado, Tebow’s was an Immaculate Conception: the long-awaited “second coming.” However, there is a dissenting faction of academics who contend Tebow was conceived via a conventional biological position consistent with his parents, who were missionaries.

Heavy petting

Not surprisingly, professional quarterback and former canine pugilism promoter Michael Vick was conceived doggie-style. However, the terms of his probation prohibit him from engaging in that particular method himself. Rather, Vick is required to do it PETA-style, which sadly for all concerned, is meatless…and fur-free.

Stick it in your ear

Oscar-winning deaf actress Marlee Matlin, perhaps best known for lip-reading at a party for George Costanza on Seinfeld, is strictly into aural sex. It wasn’t always that way with Ms. Matlin— she had a more conventional sex life until her long-time relationship with a famous actor ended back in the ’90s, because William Hurt.

“Regulate me, THEN the banks! Regulate me, THEN the banks!”

The difference between me screaming at someone locked inside a portable toilet and the protesters chanting on Wall Street is that the object of my scorn can actually hear me. In either case, we 99-percenters might be making it harder on ourselves. The guy in the outhouse is undoubtedly making me wait longer by clamping up tighter than a submarine hatch, while the corporate tycoon is raking in even more billions at the occupiers’ expense, relaxing on his gold-plated bidet as he doubles down on pepper-spray stock.

Cookie “Chainsaw” Randolph occupies the airwaves with The Dave, Shelly & Chainsaw Show, weekday mornings on 100.7 JACK-fm.

10.

Memorize your boss’s Facebook page and then, during staff meetings, systematically reference the icons posted on his “Info” section. Examples: “How ’bout them Trojans?” “Socrates quotations RULE!” “Love me some Michael Bublé!”

9.

Avoid asking your boss, “How often you tapping that?” when his personal assistant walks by, especially if the personal assistant is a guy and your boss is straight.

8.

Do NOT tell your co-workers you’re in line for a bonus. They might sabotage you by forwarding to Human Resources that cell-cam portrait of you naked in the bathroom mirror, making a duck face. (Never should’ve taken that in the first place. Dammit, dammit, dammit!)

7.

Give your boss tickets to the Chargers/Ravens Sunday night game (Dec. 18), then impress him Monday morning with clever new synonyms for “devastating loss.”

6.

If you happen to see your boss’s trousers draped over his shoes in one of the stalls as you walk into the men’s room, casually mention what a great guy he is to the guy whizzing next to you.

5.

(Note to self: my boss at JACK-fm is a woman, and she reads PacificSD, so I might want to mix in a “her” somewhere during this bit.)

4.

If you happen to see your boss’s britches draped over her pumps in one of the stalls as you walk into the men’s room, casually mention what a great gal she is to the guy whizzing next to you.

3.

If you must attend the company holiday party, coffee up, burst in with cheery greetings for everybody, sip one fake drink…and then jet discreetly in plenty time to make it home for Jeopardy!

2.

If you’re obligated to stick around at the company holiday party, make sure the copy machine is out of paper BEFORE you start drinking so there will be no record of your bare ass.

1.

Best guarantee for a bonus: work in upper management for a tyrannical corporation that donates heavily to the current presidential administration, because those are just about the only companies giving out bonuses these days.

*A “bonus” is a thing companies used to give employees (a practice that became extinct circa 1993) for jobs “well done” during the year. Never cash, it was typically a petrified fruitcake UPSed to your doorstep or a cheap alarm clock with the company logo on it.

The only bonus Cookie “Chainsaw” Randolph receives from KFMB is the privilege of performing on The Dave, Shelly & Chainsaw Show weekday mornings at 100.7 JACK-fm. That, plus an occasional glimpse of Barbara Lee Edwards in the commissary.

Audience laughter.

Give it up one more time for Johnny Carson and Jimi Hendrix for that killer opening montage of Weezer hits!

Applause.

Didn’t expect to see Elvis and Michael Jackson sitting in the front row next to each other tonight. Seriously, which one of you is the seat-filler?

Smattering of laughter. Close-up of Sinatra NOT laughing, having been snubbed into the second row.

Anyhoo…there are a lot of people I’d like to thank for my being here tonight. First of all: God. Sure, I used to think you’re just an old-man, bearded fantasy figure that helps humans to reconcile death, but now I’m an eyewitness—either that or this is one hell of an acid flashback.

Audience hesitates, looks up to God for a cue, sees him laughing, joins in.

I’d also like to thank my parents for spiking the punch that night at the bridge party, as well as the one eager spermatozoon that beat the other 250,000 swimmers later that night. Good job, little fella. I appreciate the traits, but a lot of times I wished your cousin with the superior hairline and vertical-leap genes would have won the race to the egg.

Big audience reaction. Chris Farley laughs kombucha out his nose.

What a crowd, what a crowd. Since we’ve got eternity, right now I’d like to thank every single person I’ve ever met…

Orchestra begins to play (mostly harps).

…but since you’ve never met them, I’ll spare you. I’m thankful for them all; it was a wonderful life. I see a lot of people tonight who got here way too soon and way too young, but believe me, the world was a better place because of you. You deserve to be here way more than I do, I’ll tell you that.

Orchestra swells louder.

Really? Already? Okay…okay…I see St. Peter in the wings with the hook. One last thing before I go: if you bump into Abe Lincoln at one of the after-afterlife parties, don’t ask him about the play—better to ask him if he thought Mary Todd looked fat in that dress. Cracks him up. Word to your mothers, everybody. Peace out!”

Orchestra crescendo, audience applause. Announcer: “After the break, Zsa Zsa Gabor, finally.” Fade to Cialis commercial: “So Much for Omnipotence,” starring God.

And most of all, thank you, PacificSD readers.

**

Cookie “Chainsaw” Randolph is thankful for the opportunity to entertain you weekday mornings with the Dave, Shelly & Chainsaw show at 100.7 JACK-fm.

Hotel California would be on The Turkeys Greatest Hits CD.

“The Turkey has landed” would be the first words uttered on the moon.

Proud parents of high-achieving Boy Scouts would adorn their minivans with “My Son is a Turkey” bumper stickers.

The white-knuckle carrier of choice when hopping off to that magical weekend in Lubbock, Texas, would be American Turkey Airlines.

There are many reasons to admire the Tiger in this photo--and also many reasons to "sport-hate" him.

By Cookie “Chainsaw” Randolph

Ever been watching a game on TV when a particular athlete comes on and you find yourself saying “I hate that guy”?

I contend you don’t genuinely hate that guy. But you definitely “sport-hate” him.

Genuine hate is reserved for people like the bully who used to beat you up in school, and because you haven’t had the opportunity to pity what an incredibly pathetic douchebag he grew up to be, you still hate him.

Or the dictator, terrorist or a-hole that wipes out a busload of innocent civilians and then offs himself (note to that type: off yourself first).

Granted, we sports fans acknowledge the systemic hate in the European soccer culture where fights between hooligans of rival teams are set up before and after matches at locations away from stadiums to avoid arrests; and random, pre-existing hate looking for an outlet, such as the coma-inducing fan attack during the Dodgers/Giants opening day game; or the wide-spread mayhem at the Raiders/49ers pre-season game this past summer.

My brand of sport-hate is strictly verbal, non-violent. Harmless, except to the ears of a girlfriend/wife trying to watch her DVR of Glee in the other room.

Example: I sport-hate Yankees third baseman Alex Rodriguez. Yet, do I genuinely care that he took steroids, cheated on his wife, has a painting of himself as a centaur above his bed, kissed himself in the mirror for a Details magazine photo or was seen at the Super Bowl being hand-fed popcorn by Cameron Diaz?

No, not really. Certainly not in the way that I care about my family, my job or the way the light shines off my ever-expanding forehead.

I don’t even hate the Yankees, even though they swept “us” in the ’98 World Series.

But I totally sport-hate A-Rod, and admittedly, it’s not rational. The other day I was listing off all the reasons why I sport-hate A-Rod and actually said out loud, “I don’t like him and he’s an ass”—as if those qualified as reasons. Very mature.

This is all a sobering reminder that “fan” is short-form for “fanatic,” synonymous with insane, lunatic, demented, deranged and Michele Bachmann.

But I’m usually not sober when I’m watching sports anyway, so screw that reminder.

Without further ado, I present a partial list of athletes I sport-hate, and the irrational reasons why:

Tiger Woods: He’s mean to trees: first with his Escalade, and now with an endless barrage of errant golf shots. Plus he’s a notorious cheapskate, claiming he doesn’t tip because he doesn’t ever carry cash. Hey, Tiger, that line down there on your Visa tab isn’t for writing down the phone numbers of the Applebee’s hostesses. It’s to add 20 percent for the hostess who helped you cut to the front of the line.

Tom Brady: He’s too good at football, he’s too good-looking, he’s too rich, he’s beaten the Chargers too many times, and mostly, hear me out—I sport-hate the way his hair dangled out the back of his helmet last year. Troy Polamalu, yes. Tom Brady, no.

Kobe Bryant: The only people he disdains more than opponents, coaches and fans are his teammates.

Peyton Manning: The way he pouts on the sidelines. However, I  “comedy-like” him (completely different category) for his funny commercials and the SNL skit in which he curses at kids playing touch football.

My number one sport-hate isn’t an athlete at all. It’s The Fan Behind Home Plate On The Cell Phone, waving at the friend watching at home.

My number two sport-hate is the friend back at home, prompting, “OMG, Amber, you’re on again!” pitch after pitch after pitch.

Security!!!

San Diegans who sport-hate Cookie “Chainsaw” Randolph don’t listen to him weekday mornings on The Dave, Shelly & Chainsaw Show at 100.7 JACK-fm.

Sideline soothsayer, Cookie "Chainsaw" Randolph

By Cookie “Chainsaw” Randolph

Within my vast array of incredibly awesome gifts (which includes unparalleled humility) is the ability to have time-traveling dreams that foretell actual events.

The other night I was having my standard dream of being naked in a classroom during a midterm I hadn’t studied for, when I was launched into a wild adventure that spanned the entire 2011-12 Chargers season.

Fortunately for all of us, when I woke up, I jotted down the results of all the games before I could forget them. Bet accordingly.

September 11 vs. Minnesota: Vikings quarterback Christian Ponder throws for an NFL record 12 interceptions (including one to Chargers equipment manager Bob Wick) in a performance so abysmal, Christian Ponder, as his name suggests, considers changing religions. Chargers 49, Vikings 6.

September 18 at New England: Tom Brady’s hair gets caught in Giselle’s juicer before the game. Chargers 27, Patriots 13.

September 25 vs. Kansas City: Defending division champs? Please. The only bigger fluke than the Chiefs winning the AFC West was Amy Winehouse outliving Jack LaLanne. Chargers 31, Chiefs 10.

October 2 vs. Miami: His recently confiscated Heisman Trophy now moves faster and more often than recently acquired Dolphins running back, Reggie Bush. Chargers 24, Dolphins 14.

October 9 at Denver: Broncos QB Tim Tebow’s throwing motion is so slow, Chargers safety Eric Weddle was able to begin his blitz as Tebow cocked, and tackled him before the release. Chargers improve to 5-0 into the bye week with a 31-0 massacre at Mile High.

October 23 at New York (Jets): Philip Rivers completes an NFL record 47 passes, or one for each of Jets corner Antonio Cromartie’s illegitimate children. Chargers 38, Jets 17.

October 31 at Kansas City. Last year, the Chiefs masqueraded as champions. This Halloween, the trick is on them. Chargers 35, Chiefs 10.

November 6 vs. Green Bay: Super Bowl MVP quarterback Aaron Rodgers, who lives in Del Mar during the offseason, sprains his back on game day while picking up the 123 Union-Tribunes that had collected on his driveway since training camp started. Chargers 35, Packers 24.

November 10 vs. Oakland: Uhoh. This is a “trap” game. The 8-0 Chargers take on the 2-6 Raiders on Thursday night. Raiders return three kickoffs for touchdowns in a special teams nightmare reminiscent of 2010. The ’72 Dolphins can celebrate the fact their undefeated season is safe again. Raiders 21, Chargers 20. Ouch.

November 20 at Chicago: Jay Cutler limps off the field with a separated taint midway through the first quarter. Back-up QB Caleb Hanie fumbles six times. Chargers 24, Bears 3.

November 27 vs. Denver: Poor Bronco Tim Tebow. This time he overthrows a wide-open receiver in the end zone as time expires. In his best throw of the day, the ball shatters a cluster of lights on the scoreboard. Chargers 23, Broncos 20.

December 5 at Jacksonville, December 11 vs. Buffalo and December 18 vs. Baltimore: Even my dream was bored by these games, but the final scores are 13-6, 17-9 and 21-7 respectively. The Chargers are 13-1 at this point.

December 24 at Detroit: ‘Twas the night before Christmas in suburban Detroit, the Lions pathetic, the Chargers adroit. Chargers 45, Lions 6.

January 1 at Oakland: Nothing like ringing in the New Year with 10,000 hungover Chuckies in the Black Hole. By now the 3-12 Raiders are phoning it in (leave your name at the bleep). Chargers 23, Raiders 3.

Divisional Playoff, January 14 vs. Indianapolis: Long-necked Peyton Manning visits the San Diego Zoo that morning to finally meet his biological father: Hoppy the Spastic Giraffe. Chargers 35, Colts 31.

AFC Championship, January 22 vs. New England: Attention addict and Pats receiver Chad Ochocinco legally changes his name to Kareem Oliver Diaz just in time for kickoff. Chargers 31, Patriots 21.

Super Bowl XLVI, February 5 vs. Philadelphia: Booking the Baha Men for the half-time show proves to be a cruel joke on Eagles QB Michael Vick, who hears “Who Let The Dogs Out?” in the locker room and becomes completely distracted. Chargers 35, Eagles 28. Antonio Gates (3 TDs, 116 yards receiving) is the MVP. Chargers finish 18-1.

You’re welcome.

By Cookie “Chainsaw” Randolph

I’d like to confess to a murder, because after all, this is a humor column. It happened like this… As you may know, the latest fitness craze is hot yoga, in which 25 people are jammed into a 20-by-30-foot room with forced heating that elevates the temperature to 105 degrees. This, so that you can stretch with more elasticity, release toxins and suffer more acutely while converting your body into a salt lick.

I approached my first hot yoga session like any other first-time activity that involves other people: head down, avoiding eye contact, going straight to the back of the room so that any and all rookie mistakes would be seen by the fewest number of witnesses.

As I stepped into the yoga room (which is not unlike deplaning onto the tarmac of Mars), this dude at the door, surrounded by a bevy of hot chicks, tapped me on the shoulder and boomed in a way over-projected voice, “you’re s’posed to take off your sandals before you step into the yoga room, man.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” I complied quietly. “Perhaps next time raise the volume a half-decibel so they can hear you in Guam.”

I quickly found a slot in the back row middle, looking out at a sea of mats pre-placed by the torture victims still waiting outside for the yogi to march them back into the oven.

As they filed in, none other than Loud Man plopped down on the mat directly in front of me. Great. Twenty-three Jennifer Anistons with next to nothing on and I get Loud Man dead ahead.

We began with something called the “downward dog,” which is a cross between advanced plyometrics and prison sex.

The yogi took us through a score of other positions, for which I had to mimic either Loud Man or the Jennifers next to me, because I had no idea what the yogi was saying. To my ears, the postures sounded like “Chaka Kahn,” “Salmonella,” “Talladega” and “Diverticulitis.” (I recently found out the thing the yogi says at the very end is “Namaste,” which means, “the divinity in me bows to the divinity in you,” in Sanskrit. I learned this after asking the yogi why she always whispered “Monistat 7” at the end of the hour.)

The yogi spoke in a soothing voice not unlike the sadistic Lawrence Olivier, when performing radical dental work on Dustin Hoffman without Novocain in the movie Marathon Man.

“Always remember: This is your time. Breathe. There’s no ego, no competition, this is all about you and your practice. Think of your mat as your own island paradise,” she said, echoing the immortal saying: No man is an island…until he’s lying in his own sweat puddle.

Thirty-five minutes into the hour, I was doing pretty well. That is, until we were ordered into the Kamikaze pose, or whatever they call it, wherein you stand on one leg, kick your hind leg straight back, spread your arms out like airplane wings and forward-tilt your torso parallel to the floor while looking straight ahead.

Did I mention Loud Man was directly in front of me? Wearing shorty-shorts that would have made Magnum P.I.’s hot pants seem like clam diggers?

Did I mention Loud Man, aka Horse’s Upward Ass, was NOT WEARING UNDERWEAR?

Yeah, that’s right. The seam of his shorty-shorts formed a perfect median strip for his open-air kiwis some 36 inches from my heat-plumped eyeballs.

Suffice it to say, I fell out of my pose, nearly toppling a row of Jennifers like dominos.

Okay, so I didn’t actually murder Loud Man, but if thoughts are sins the same as actions, I’m guilty of 105-degree murder.

Happily, since that fateful day, I have successfully avoided Loud Man. Nevertheless, occasionally during transcendental moments on the mat, I meditate this headline:

“Jury Exonerates yoga Killer; Courtroom Applauds.”

Monistat 7.

Cookie “Chainsaw” Randolph finds his chi weekday mornings with The Dave, Shelly & Chainsaw Show on 100.7 JACK-FM.

By Cookie “Chainsaw” Randolph

America loves paying tribute to icons—alive, dead or nameless—and that passion burns in San Diego.

The very-much-alive Tony Gwynn never won baseball’s triple crown, but he’s won the triple crown of monuments: the Aztecs’ Tony Gwynn Stadium, Tony Gwynn Way which skirts Petco Park and the Tony Gwynn statue inside Petco’s Park at the Park.

Gwynn’s our version of Oprah—everywhere he goes, there’s something named after him. Maybe that’s why, whenever I go to an Aztecs game, I check under my seat for keys to a new VW Beetle.

San Diego native Ted Williams was born (and died) too late to receive those kinds of memorials. Plus he left San Diego as a young man; plus he was kind of crabby. What he did get was a stretch of state Route 56 in North County called Ted Williams Parkway—which, unless he got lost one day looking for a creek to fish, he never personally tread until the 1992 dedication.

The San Diego Ice Arena in Miramar might be a more fitting tribute for the Splendid Splinter, what with his body currently being cryogenically preserved until science learns how to regenerate dead tissue (the erectile dysfunction industry has made huge strides for at least one organ so far).

Let us consider the genesis of our obsession with naming things after people. The trend traces back to Biblical times. Young Moses never forgot the summer vacation between second and third grades when his parents drove him and his brother Aaron (“you kids stop the horseplay, or I’ll turn this asscart right back around”) through the intersection of Sodom and Gomorrah in downtown Leviticus Township for the first time, craning their necks to see the gigantic statues of Adam and Eve.

In America, memorializing really took off once we started having residents.

The story goes that every town in the United States named First Avenue after George Washington, Second Avenue after John Adams, Third Avenue after Thomas Jefferson and so on up the line. Most people don’t know that.

Obviously, only the bigger cities can honor all the presidents. For example, 44th Street in New York City—until recently, it was known chiefly as the starting point for the annual St. Patrick’s Day Parade. Today, it honors our current commander in chief, the selfproclaimed Irishman himself: Barack O’Bama, our 44th president.

Statues abound for just about all the presidents (Martin Van Buren and Chester A. Arthur have been notoriously short-shrifted, but, I mean, come on, we’re talking about Martin Van Buren and Chester A. Arthur here—nobody else ever does).

The most magnificent presidential tribute is Mt. Rushmore, in South Dakota, which honors only the Fab Four (George, Abe, Paul and Ringo). There was talk about adding (insert your least favorite president here), but the mountain doesn’t have room for two more faces.

Show business honors its legends with memorial stars to walk, sleep or do other stuff upon. I’m referring to Hollywood’s Walk of Fame, where each night the homeless play rock/paper/scissors for the rights to lay upon Rita Hayworth.

Chainsaw prepares for his golden moment with Nurse Amazon. (Photo by Brevin Blach)

Then there’s the case of the self-addicted Donald Trump, who doesn’t need anybody else to help memorialize him. Trump’s name is on more signs than “STOP.” If Nepal ever runs out of money, The Donald could swoop in and buy the naming rights to Mt. Everest, which still wouldn’t be massive enough to accommodate his ego. TRUMP Moon could be next. Or better yet: TRUMP Uranus. Now we’re getting somewhere.

This all makes San Diego’s largest and perhaps most infamous memorial somewhat ironic, since it honors not an individual we know, but a photograph of two individuals we don’t.*

I’m referring, of course, to Unconditional Surrender, more commonly known as the sailorkissing- the-nurse statue, that 25- foot tall curiosity that stands in the southern shadow of the USS Midway, along our bay front. Photographer Alfred Eisenstaedt didn’t get the names of the subjects in his iconic photograph, taken on V-J Day in Times Square, back on August 14, 1945—the day Japan surrendered, effectively ending World War II. The couple kissed, the camera clicked, and they were gone.

It’s a wonderful snapshot that captures the mood and spirit of a nation like no other.

Judging by the nurse’s body language, however, the Axis powers (Germany, Italy and Japan) weren’t the only bodies surrendering unconditionally that day. She looked like she was about to sprint, Nurse Jackie-style, to the nearest penicillin cabinet. Awkward PDA aside, no image is more fitting than that of an American fighting hero lip-locking a nurse that kept the fires burning. Good for him, good for her and good for us.

Image notwithstanding, the statue itself is a bit curious, to say the least. Did it really have to be 25 feet tall? “Oh, the anatomy!”

Stand anywhere close and you’re looking right up that girl’s skirt. It’s like being a munchkin under the subway grating, peering up at Marilyn Monroe’s nether regions—otherwise known as DiMaggio’s locker—an alternate view of America’s second-most iconic photograph (Nick Nolte’s mug shot is third).

The artist had to know what he was doing. Provocateur!

*In 1980, the editors of Life magazine asked that the subjects of the original photograph come forward. Eleven men and three women responded, with none of the men claiming to be the nurse. Edith “Hot Lips” Shain (1918-2010), who attended the sculpture’s 2007 unveiling, was widely accepted as the nurse.

Artist Bill Purdom's take on Mickey Mantle's major hit.

A few years ago, I got a stack of mail and left it sitting for a few days. Finally sifting through it, I discovered the annual Hall of Fame gift catalog from Cooperstown. In it I saw this magnificent original painting by the wonderful artist Bill Purdom. Knowing the catalog had been out for a while, I felt certain that some uber-Mantle fan like Billy Crystal or Bob Costas had already snapped it up. I dialed the 800 number with a mixture of excitement and dread. Then, after reading the item number back to me, the operator said the painting was still available. I didn’t believe her. I mimicked Joe Pesci, questioning Marissa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny: “Are you suuuuure?” She was, and I got it.

This is Mickey Mantle hitting one of only two home runs that reached the upper-deck façade at the original Yankee Stadium (nobody ever hit one completely out of the park). It’s May 30, 1956, the year Mantle was at the height of his artistic powers, winning the Triple Crown with a .353 batting average, 52 homeruns and 130 runs batted in.

By Cookie “Chainsaw” Randolph

The “Art of Baseball.” I wonder if there is such a thing, considering that baseball consists of little more than a gathering of men who occasionally burst into flurries of action during an otherwise mundane three-hour period of standing, sitting, cursing, chewing, spitting and package adjustment.

Seeing as how this monotonous process accounts for such an overwhelming majority of the game’s duration, however, it only figures that, unless you master the art of standing, sitting, cursing, chewing, spitting and package adjustment, you’ll never make it in baseball.

If a baseball man were to chew, spit and curse simultaneously, in the direction of an umpire, he’d be ejected, since most of what he’d be saying and chewing would arrive upon the ump. This behavior is considered “art” only when the baseball man does this intentionally, in order to inspire his troops to, well, stand around with more…vigor. The men who excel at this art are known as “managers,” who, for some reason, still wear players’
uniforms—only with much more fabric around the midsection. The manager wearing the player’s uniform is an art form exclusive to baseball—we’re not going to see the Chargers’ Norv Turner coaching in full pads or Lakers manager Phil Jackson courtside in a tank top.

Another art form that takes years to develop is one that calls for a thick, even layer of Dixie Cups and sunflower seed shells on the dugout floor, no matter how close a trash can may be. Ballplayers understand that spitting shells into a Dixie Cup with the purpose of placing it into the trashcan later will completely destroy their ability to hit a baseball.

In the case of chewing tobacco, a true artist can spit his team’s logo onto the Astroturf from 10 paces away. This takes years of practice. No wonder only Chernobyl has registered a higher concentration of toxic soil than the hallowed ground where former Phillies center fielder Lenny Dykstra used to discharge his salivaries on a nightly basis. The man was the Jackson Pollack of baseball. Now you know why so many major leaguers have Stanley Steamer on monthly retainer.

As for package adjustment, if you don’t think this is an art form, you are a woman. Chaz Bono is finding this out as we speak—and he’s got a lot of catching up to do, since most behavioral learning occurs during adolescence. If he shifts the wrong way in a movie theater seat while making the big
reach-around move on his girlfriend, he’ll inadvertently jerk her into a headlock while buckling forward in pain. You’d hate to see a perfectly good transsexual romance ruined like that because some rookie didn’t know the fundamentals. Most males have this mastered by age nine. This could be why, with the possible exception of Barry Bonds’ preop, nad-shrinking hormone therapy, we’ve never had a transgender make it all the way into the big leagues.

—Cookie “Chainsaw” Randolph paints word pictures weekday mornings at 100.7 JACKfm on the Dave, Shelly, and Chainsaw Show.