Thursday, February 16, 2006  

Thaw

And sometimes, everything happens at once.

Winter is all but over. Poor Richard and that skittish, mangy rat in Gobbler's Knob may disagree, but we all know it to be true. Last Sunday's blizzard? When you get hammered with an ejaculation of snow so sudden and intense as to be simultaneously Biblical and pornographic, you can only interpret it as a sign from the heavens. "Watch," they said. "Things are about to change."

And then Dick Cheney shot a guy in the face.

There was a time when this would be good news for a comedian. A gift from above. A blessed event to be consecrated with strong drink and chubby floozies. Used to be that something like this would happen, you would write your jokes fast and hard, and when you told them at the club, the crowd would erupt like you'd found their G-spot. They would have been waiting for it, anticipating it. Elbowing each other in the ribs and crossing their fingers.

Those days are long gone. Everybody's cyber. Bad jokes move as fast as electrons can vibrate. By the time you get to a stage, every blogger, Photoshopper, message board addict, MySpace slut and LiveJournal shutin have mined the vein dry. Even a mother lode like this one, and every possible iteration of the joke will have been emailed around every office on the globe before you can even plug in the mike.

I'm not sure people need comedians like they once did. If they ever did.

But that doesn't change the fact that the gods demanded a blood sacrifice, and Demon Dick gave them one. Or at least part of one. The victim hasn't kicked, but a face full of bird shot packs enough occult energy to boot spring up a few weeks. There are strange and esoteric signs, and you have to know how to read them, but they could not be more plain.

Dick Cheney shoots a rich guy in the grill, and two weeks later there is to be competitive baseball. In March. Early March. A month early. We are obviously talking about primal, chthonic forces here. The 28-guage roars, and something stirs at the center of the galaxy. Cosmic winds tear across empty space and a baseball team unlike any in history emerges from the jungle, dripping sweat and clutching 40-pound bats made of pure brimstone.

This isn't Ray Liotta stepping from between the rows of corn in a vintage uniform, celebrating the father/son bond while James Earl Jones waxes melodramatic and Kevin Costner chews the scenery.

This is the Dominicans.

You cannot overstate this. If you'd assembled this team in a video game, your friends would accuse you of using cheat codes. If this isn't proof of God, it is at least proof of God Mode. I would not be surprised in the slightest if every time one of them steps to the plate there's a discharge of ball lightning and the reek of ozone. Recite the middle of the order like you're reading from an ancient and forbidden tome: Manny, Ortiz, Vlad, Pujols, Tejada. Say those names three times in a row and geometry ceases to work. Angles bend strangely and space folds in on itself. How else can baseballs go that goddamn far?

Venezuela will put up a squawk, sure. And the good ol' US of A ain't no slouch. The numbers boys will try to make a case for Clemens et al. But apple pie, math, and motherhood cannot stand against the unchained and unrepentant mojo of La República Dominicana. And this is as it should be. Their napalm moonshots will melt the snow away and drive the Winter Bitch back into her cave so she can clutch that fucking sellout Punxatawney Phil to her cold, dry, wretched bosom and gnash her teeth and rage while we run barefoot in the grass and drink ice cold Lone Stars.

Dick Cheney just shot his load, and the angels cried, and now spring is sprung.

Later, when subopoenas are flying and old men in suits are shuffling shamefacedly out of the White House with boxes full of vanity shots and personal effects, I want you to remember who put an end to this long, cold, six year winter.

Manny, Ortiz, Vlad, Pujols, Tejada. With a little help from Deadeye Dick.

One show this week. TJ's Spirits in Ashland, Mass. 8:00. Monday's a holiday, so you can come get sloppy without consequence.