N.L. SoM: And I know something about bad ideas


Today is my birthday (Yay!) and though I should be in the receiving mood, I’m a giver. I can’t help it, blame my quality, white-bread, suburban upbringing. As a newly minted 23-year-old, I want to share some wisdom with the rest of you as I list for you several instances of bad ideas.

We all have them, and they usually begin the same way: “Hey, wouldn’t it be cool if.” I’m going to stop you right there. No. No it would not be cool. In fact, trust me, it will end up extremely not cool. So before you put that egg in the microwave after your third hit of that “sticky” bud because you wanted to make a quickie omelet, ask yourself, “Is this a bad idea?”

Living or working in the Baxter Building: You probably aren’t familiar with the Baxter Building, but it’s a 35-story office building in Manhattan. Seems harmless right? Well, it is. Until you find out who lives on the top five floors: The Fantastic Four. Disclaimer: while I am a huge comic book nerd, I have little to no interest in the Fantastic Four. Sorry Reed, Sue, Johnny and rock-guy, your boat just doesn’t make me float. But that’s beside the point.

Yeah, thats a rocket silo right under youre one-bedroom studio apartment.

Yeah, that's a rocket silo right under you're one-bedroom studio apartment.

You are basically sitting under a nuclear and radioactive testing facility? How long until the people on floor 30 have a tree-branch growing out of their foreheads or shitting fireballs or some other horrible genetic mutation? Not to mention, who in God’s name would want to live or work underneath people who are constantly targeted by the most evil, vile, all-powerful villains on the planet? Even if you manage to not have your building destroyed after the first 10 issues or so, do you know how loud a battle for world supremacy sounds at 3 a.m. when you have take your kid to swim practice in the morning? Fucking loud. But are you going to tell the 6 foot, 500 pound rock-guy in blue underpants to shut the hell up? Didn’t think so.

Punching that person on the elevator who always presses for the floor right below yours: I know how you feel: Listen up jackass, I’m going to the 4th floor and one god-damn time I would like to get to that floor without taking an extra thirty seconds out of my day because you happen to always get into the same car as me. Here’s the thing, as much as that mental stomach-punch you receive when someone presses for the floor one or two floors below your own, don’t punch them. It’s not their fault — sort of. Sure, they did press the button and sure, they are the one causing your unnecessary waiting, but maybe you should have been pressing the “door close” button a little faster or pretended you didn’t hear them say, “Hold the elevator.” OR, you could have just evened the score and let loose a warm, wet breezer pass through your cheeks.

But please, try not to punch them. That’s assault, brother.

Eating that shriveled, red chili that comes with Thai food on a bet: Everyone knows what chili I am talking about, right? This little guy, the ‘prig kee nu.’

Unless you want to know what it feels like to poo lava, just say no.

Unless you want to know what it feels like to poo lava, just say "no."

“But Andy, it’s so tiny, why would I worry about that little guy?” Because it’s hot as shit. It’s like this: Chili peppers are measured on a scale called the Scoville Scale, and at 50,000 – 100,000 units it can be twice as hot as what we in the states are used to, such as Tabasco sauce and Cayanne peppers, and somewhere around a billion times hotter than a Jalapeno. And you know what happens when you take the bet and eat that chilis for $2? You wind up going to the Walgreens next door to buy a $.99 giant can of Arizona iced tea (plus $.10 tax), feeling the inside of your stomach melt off and end up throwing up in your high school’s parking lot. All that for $.90? Bad idea.

Trying chewing tobacco for the first time when you are really drunk: If, by some grace of God, you don’t vomit within the first 10 minutes of chewing while hammered, get ready to hit the floor. A virgin chewer dipping for the first time is like watching a child with an inner ear infection walk a tightrope: we all know what’s going to happen, even if the kid thinks he’s going to make it. You think a cigarette gets you buzzed after tossing back plenty of brew? Chewing tobacco is like a fly-by from Iceman, good luck staying vertical. Get sober, throw a apple flavored pouch in a couple times, then step up to the big leagues next weekend, then thank me later.

Using Kevin Gregg as the Cubs’ closer: Ah-ha! There was a baseball point to this whole post. Look, Kevin Gregg has been woefully unimpressive in his first couple months as Cubs’ closer. Just look at the numbers:
22.1 IP, 0-1, 5.24 ERA, 24 H, 13 BB, 1.66 WHIP, 8/10 Sv/SvO
Yucky poo.

Get out of my 9th inning!

Get out of my 9th inning!

He blew the save last night, allowing some French frog named Jeff Franceour to mash a 2-run dinger off of him. Listen, Carlos Marmol may be wild right now, but his ERA is roughly two runs lower than Gregg and he has electric stuff. When you watch Kevin Gregg pitch it’s almost impossible not to have ‘nam era flashbacks of Joe Borowski or Rod Beck (RIP Shooter).

Lou, it’s time to anoint Carlos Marmol as the closer, and I’m not saying this just because my fantasy team Moneyballs drafted him about seven rounds too early. Kevin Gregg just isn’t cutting the mustard. Trust me will ya, because I know a little something about bad ideas. (David Ortiz, you’re killing me!)


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