Sandra Bullock Previews the National League West

I'm ok.

No, seriously. I'm ... I'm fine.

I have a Best Actress Oscar, and a Worst Actress Razzie. How many people can say that?

CERTAINLY NOT YOU JESSE, OR YOUR INKED-UP HARLOTS AND STRIPPER SLUTS!

5. San Diego Padres - The Padres recently had to trim their payroll after former owner John Moores got divorced, citing "irreconcilable differences." You know what that means, right? PHILANDERING ASSHOLE.

Record: 9-153 (splitting the 18 games against L.A., since you can't lose them all)

4. Los Angeles Dodgers - Speaking of philandering assholes, how about Frank McCourt? I love that this happened to the owners of two of the five teams in California, and neither of them signed a pre-nup.

Wait, what? It was actually Jamie McCourt who was reportedly unfaithful? Pffffft. Whatever. I'm sure she did it to get back at him. Good for her.

Record: 9-153 (splitting the 18 games against S.D., since you can't lose them all)

3. San Francisco Giants - I hope somebody looks out for Aubrey Huff on this team. I mean, it's great that a woman has made it to the major leagues (come to think of it, why hasn't a bigger deal been made of this? Seems like a pretty monumental achievement!), but with these millionaire hot-shot professional athletes flaunting about on the road, picking up groupies and floozies left and right ... I'd just hate for poor Aubrey to be used and abused. Watch out, Aubrey. Keep your head on a swivel.

Record: 82-80

2. Arizona Diamondbacks - The Tattooed Bastard Who Shall Not Be Named was in a sex rehab clinic in Tucson.

That's totally perfect. He's a snake.

Record: 85-77

1. Colorado Rockies - Apparently, the Rockies are a God-fearing, Christian team who abhor filth and obscenities and pleasures of the flesh. That's why I'm glad they're going to win this division. This sport needs some religion.

No. Seriously? Oh, Jesus Christ. I give up.

Record: 89-73
Loss in NLDS

I was right! I was right! Fuck you all! I was right!

When we write our baseball previews, we obviously don't take them very seriously. We write about robots, and do them in the form of letters home to mother. I mean, the Mets to win the NL East? Guffaw!

But when I did the NL West, little did I know that I would accurately - and by that, I mean PERFECTLY - predict both the record and place finish of my Padres. Did I really think they'd win 75 games? No. They were supposed to be terrible. And they were, offensively. I would've been happy had they avoided 100 losses like 2008.

Yet they had decent starting pitching, a good bullpen, a fantastic year from Heath Bell, and some timely hits here and there. They were one of the best teams for the last 3 or so months of the year. Kyle Blanks and Will Venable emerged as possible slugging stars to bookend Adrian Gonzalez, the most unheralded star in the game. Everth Cabrera and Tony Gwynn Jr. proved that speed up the middle is a good thing, especially in a park slightly smaller than Yellowstone.

So thank you, Padres, for a completely-not-terrible year. Yes, I was proud of 75 wins. Damn proud.

(But not too proud of picking the Rockies to finish dead last. You've made a powerful enemy today, Jim Tracy!)

BASEBALL PREVIEWS: The Western Division of the National League

Yes, folks, it's that time of year again. The taxes are due, the Asians are kicking everyone's ass and it's 42 degrees in New York. That can mean only one thing ... BASEBALL! Today your venerable blog starter and tall drink of water Phony Gwynn will take you on a tour of the NL West, a division so stocked with talent, so chock full of intrigue and grandeur, that everyone east of the Mississippi will forget it even exists 2 days after the season starts. Enjoy!

1. Los Angeles Dodgers

Last year some idiot predicted that the Padres would win the West. We shot him, chopped him up and fed him to Andruw Jones.

Obviously Manny Ramirez is the engine that makes this team go. This year Manny makes a full attempt to remember everyone's name but will fail miserably when he calls Hong-Chih Kuo "Dong-Tee Crow," which means "enterprising nun rapist" in Korean. Funny, I thought that was a compliment. It gets even better, though, when Manny tells Eric Stults "I loved you in Killing Zoe, bro."

Favorite song: "Mr. Brownstone" by Guns N' Roses
Favorite movie: Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure

Record: 90-71
Out in Divisional Round

2. Arizona Diamondbacks

"This heat, it's a dry heat. One-hundred-five, 110 degrees. When you sweat you can hear it ooze out of your pores, fry once it hits the surface, and evaporate. Explode. You want to wear black in this town, you better be buried underground. Ever try to fight the sun? Put on boxing gloves, stare at the void, and go toe-to-toe with a star? I don't recommend it, friend. Like dancing with a walrus - it's different and interesting at first, but in the end, you're on the bottom looking up. You can tout Brandon Webb and Dan Haren around this town all you want, but a lack of offense is seriously offensive. Plus, there's a Bill Buckner on the team. Some roads should just be closed forever."

Favorite song: "In the Dirt" by the Phunk Junkeez
Favorite movie: Raising Arizona

Record: 87-75

3. San Francisco Giants

On May 18, 2009, the San Francisco Giants make history. There will be a press conference sparsely populated by the local media, but the blogs will glow and pulse with delight. Some will not believe it; for others, the mere thought if it will cause aneurysms so fierce they will bite through their own tongues and claw through their own flesh, down to the bone and sinew.

Humanity: destroyed. The Bay Area: awash in a red sea of flames. Western civilization: crumbled.

Due to an anemic offense, the Giants will sign Barry Bonds.

Oh, not that one. His MLB2K9 counterpart.

Despite not being able to swing a bat made of tangible matter in the physical realm, he still manages to out-hit Randy Winn.

Favorite song: "Hell in a Bucket" by the Grateful Dead
Favorite movie: Bullitt

Record: 80-82

4. San Diego Padres

Here's the most ringing endorsement I could ever possibly dream up for the MLB Network: I watched the Padres' edition of 30 Clubs in 30 Days, in which they: picked apart the Jake Peavy situation like a Thanksgiving turkey; trotted out every Jupiter-sized hole in the lineup; talked about how well Walkoff Walk favorite Kyle Blanks hits, then explained why there's no room for him on the big league roster; and ended the whole thing with both Joe Magrane and John Hart picking them to finish dead last. And guess what? I still looked forward to the season. That is some black fucking magic right there.

Record: 75-87

Favorite song: "On a Rope" by Rocket from the Crypt; "I'm Not Dead" by Buck-O-Nine (incidentally, what the offense - aside from Adrian Gonzalez - is worth)
Favorite movie: Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy

5. Colorado Rockies

Once there was a team that crawled out of the expansionary muck. The amoeba slowly grew fins, gills and a tail and swam around, content in its simple life. But soon it wanted more. So, many years later, it grew appendages and crawled out of the soup, soon scraping its knuckles on the ground, hunched over, breathing heavily. Finally, one glorious day well into the future, the team stood upright and rejoiced.

Then a hunter in red socks put a bullet in its head.

Evolution's a bitch, ya know.

Record: 74-88

Favorite song: "Broken Hearted Savior" by Big Head Todd and the Monsters
Favorite movie: Jesus Camp

NL West Preview

Yeah, it's time again. The Baseball season is ALREADY FUCKING HERE, so we're previewing the whole shebangs the only way we know how: by making shit up. Today is the NL West, God's division of choice. Don't believe that? Then go ahead and explain the last month of the 2007 season. Go ahead. I'm waiting, taintmoth.

San Diego Padres-- Ok, so, three division previews, three blatant acts of homerism. Do I care that I can say I could hit seventh for this team, and almost totally mean it? No. Do I really believe the Friars will finish ahead of the D(ouche)Backs? No. But I'm typing this thing, and this is what it says. But it will happen. Jake Peavy will use his three-year, $52 million extension as ammunition. Literally. The southern boy will bring an old-style musket to games and shoot down opponents with wads of $5 bills. Mark Prior will make about 10 or 15 starts, and, surprisingly, his arm will not turn into Bisquick. When Khalil Greene starts to bleed after taking a spike to the shin in August, everyone will realize that he's not a robot, and this knowledge will bolster the team and shoot them to the top (a .254 team average and league-low home run totals notwithstanding). Record: 93-69, NLCS losers.

Arizona Diamondbacks-- Randy Johnson has clearly sold his soul to the devil. It's the only possible explanation. The man is 44 and has reportedly been throwing smoke in camp. He also listens to heavy metal and plays the drums. Heretic! Late in the season, to get a boost, Johnson will feast on the flesh of some of the D-Backs' younger players. First he'll entice Stephen Drew into an empty trainers' room with a Maxim and a Ribwich. There he'll sever his carotid artery with a boxcutter and slurp the blood like a Chianti. Then, when Chris Young enters to investigate, Johnson will club him over the head with a bat and eagerly lap up the goo inside. Then he'll go out and no-hit the Giants. Record: 91-71, NLDS losers.

Los Angeles Dodgers-- Joe Torre. What more can you say for the guy? Other than the fact that he's got a 894-1003 record (.471 winning percentage) when he pilots non-Yankees teams that don't hemorrhage money out their ass? Umm ... not much, I guess. He manages people well, right? Well, isn't that the name OF THE FUCKING JOB? We'll see how stoic ol' Joe looks when Andruw Jones waddles up to yet another ducksnort bloop hit in shallow center, then follows it up at bat with a lazy fly ball to left. I don't even have anything bad to say about Nomar. I hope he can hit at least one more home run, so he can feel his cleat hit that thick rubber at home, then give hi-fives to his teammates before spontaneously combusting. God I hate this team. I will personally give $20 and a few month-old Playboys to the first earthquake to swallow these blue-clad fucknuts up. Record: 86-76, no playoffs.

Colorado Rockies-- Ahh, the feel-good hit of the summer. Or, one that involves baseball and not a badass bass-driven song about copious amounts of awesome drugs. Too bad that shit ain't happening twice. When Jeff Francis falls back to Earth at the tune of about 13-11 with a 5.13 ERA and a WHIP of who-knows-what, the Rockies will decide divine intervention is needed - again - ... and sign Pope Benedict XVI to a two-year, $12 million deal. Aside from a mid-90s heater and a nasty slider, PB-16 features a surprisingly lively stick, becoming a poor man's Micah Owings. It's not enough, though, as Matt Holliday succumbs to a late-season bout of mono after hanging out with LaDainian Tomlinson and Hope Solo while making another pretentious, snarky, "We can be funny, too, if you disregard our terrible past of making women and children work for next to nothing in sweatshops overseas! No, seriously, French Toast! That's so random it's hilarious!" Nike commercials. Troy Tulowitzki continues to be the best and most-clutch athlete in American pro sports with a last name that ends in "owitzki," however. Record: 85-77, no playoffs.

San Francisco Giants-- Realizing he's made a mockery of, in order: 1) working-class America 2) the institution of baseball 3) every other pitcher in the big leagues 4) the hitters he pitches against 5) every pitcher who had ever pitched in the big leagues, the minor leagues, college, and high school 6) capitalism 7) the Giants' front office and, finally, 8) the Giants' fans, Barry Zito formally apologizes for signing the most absurd deal in history, grabs his acoustic guitar and a surfboard, and hitchhikes down to Malibu. Feeling unburdened, the Giants then give Barry Bonds a prorated contract for the rest of 2008 worth roughly $19 million. His back zits proceed to drive in more runs than the entire lineup. Record: 158-4 ... wait, this isn't the AARP league? It's the National League? Of MLB? Oh, then ... 69-93. Bingo!

They Grows Up and They Grows Up and They Grows Up

Umm ... wow. I mean, there's no other way to explain it. How apropos that a team with a bruise for its colors would put such a monumental beat-down upon every base ball club in its path. Sports Illustrated cover jinx? Screw that, man, the Rockies are just talking about their fantasy football teams and taking it one game at a time.

This has been said ad nauseam, but I'm from Denver. And I'm not a Rockies fan. I've been a Padres fan all my life, and a few years ago I resigned myself to the fact that I'd die before I ever saw the Rockies in the World Series.

Oops.

[Checks pulse, pinches self]

But this? This is like the younger brother that you and your friends used to let hang around, and you'd make him go and get you Cokes and Totino's. He'd beg to get into games, and you'd tell him to buzz off - until you'd let him in for a play or a series or an inning and then completely ignore him.

And then, while you're off smoking and drinking your memory away at college, he grows up. Fast. You come home for Thanksgiving and your formerly pipsqueak little bro is suddenly 6'2", a chiseled 190 pounds, and he looks like a goddamn Calvin Klein model. And instead of wanting to hang out with you and your buddies, the three hottest girls in his high school show up to take him to a "movie."

But hey, I'm bitter as shit. My team had a good team this year, and the Rockies brushed them off like dandruff (although, NLCS MVP Matt Holliday still hasn't touched the plate. Just sayin'). People are going to talk a ton about the faith angle, and God's team, and all that (look for FOX to heavily play up the Mike Coolbaugh story, for better or worse). And yes, we know - they don't have any history. Sorry. Nobody cares that Denver itself has a pretty long baseball history, back with the old Denver Bears and then the Denver Zephyrs, and that as way back as the early 1960s Denver was considered for expansion.

And, no, nobody knows who the hell these guys are. Well, it's evidently apparent that they're pretty damn decent at playing baseball. So, if you're a baseball fan, you might want to push all that other shit aside and just ... watch.

Because we rarely remember the moments when the little ones grow up.

Heed this advice or I cancel the subscription - ALL of them

Dear Editors of Sports Illustrated,

I know what you're about to do.

Don't.

Let me say that again:

Do. Not. Do it.

You're going to want to put the Colorado Rockies on the cover this week with a cute little tagline; something along the lines of "Rocktober" or "Rocky Mountain High" or "Purple Philly Eaters." You will drape the borders in purple and black, and you may or may not have a nice, detailed close-up of the raspberry on Matt Holliday's chin all cropped and ready to go. It's the biggest story of the playoffs thus far and, naturally, you want to take advantage.

Please refrain. I know I gave everyone free will and all that, but seriously: fight the urge.

Look what you did to Philadelphia. They came back from seven down with only 17 games to play to win the NL East. They had more momentum on their side than you could shake a cheesesteak at. So what do you do? Put Jimmy Rollins on the cover. Proclaim him the MVP. Tout their moxie, their make-up, their mojo. And what do the Phillies do? They proceed to play Brett Myers's wife to the Rockies' Brett Myers. They get treated like a Red Sox fan in Yonkers. Their bats turn to ashes. They go from Liberty Bell to Misery Hell.

Well, I won't let you do it again.

Do you see what I've done? I've taken the Colorado Rockies to the NLCS. Let me repeat that for you, in case it didn't quite seep in: I've taken the Colorado Rockies to the NLCS. The National League version of the Tampa Bay Rays. The last - and only - time they made the dance, they got there on fumes. If it wasn't for the strike-shortened 1995 season, the Astros would've caught them and passed them like a space shuttle zooming by a fat pigeon.

I've done some amazing things in my time. All those Victoria's Secret models? That's all me. Do you know how hard it is to make hundreds of thousands of sunrises AND sunsets? Every freakin' day? It ain't like making the kids pb&js, doing some Sudoku, meeting a client for lunch and then heading off to O'Rourke's for a White Russian or two. No, no, no. I worked for this. Hard.

And not only did I have to do it on the large scale, I had to do it locally, too. Turned the Broncos' defense into 11 old guys wandering around a King Soopers looking for Bacon Bits and Aspercreme. Removed the anchor of their offensive line; got the new running back to do his best impression of Redman from "How High." It's the second week of October, and sports fans in Denver are talking baseball. Hell, I should win thousands of converts and a sacrifice or six just for that.

So please, for the love of Me, don't put the Rockies on the cover. You can throw them in one of the little corner banners, or at the bar along the top, but don't make them the focus. Please. If you do, it'll ruin all of my work. And that would be worse than my unfortunate, incidental inclusion in "What the #$*! Do We (K)now!?", truly one of the most inane, unwatchable pieces of slothshit I've ever had the misfortune of laying my omnipresent occipital organs on. Seriously, have you seen that movie? They had animated gelatin cells doing the Robert Palmer "Addicted to Love" video. At a wedding. If I have my say, the people responsible for that bubbling lake of diarrhea will spend eternity tongue-washing Satan's taint.

Well, now you know how strongly I feel about this. I ask that you do not disappoint me.

Sincerely,

God

P.S. This new "Players" section is - how to put this - weak. The old Scorecard was much, much better. Oh, and I love Gary Smith as much as the next guy, but jeez - could you actually get him to go to a game sometime? I'd sit through three paragraphs describing the scent of the locker room just for some, ya know, ACTION.

Embracing the Unembraceable

In the tenth inning of a 3-3 game last night at Shea Stadium, Barry Bonds pinch-hit with one out. After an at-bat that has resembled literally thousands over the last decade or so, he trotted off to first, the glib recipient of yet another ho-hum, five-pitch, intentional unintentional walk.

Two batters later, with two outs, Kevin Frandsen roped a liner down the right field line. Bonds jogged, thinking it was foul. As it hit the chalk just beyond where the grass meets the warning track dirt and made a hard right into the stands, Bonds was lazily looking over his right shoulder. With the third base coach hopefully screaming obscenities at him, Bonds turned it up and strolled into third.

Then he smiled.

And that's when it hit me: I love Barry Bonds.

I love the way he wears more gear than the troops in Iraq, even though there are very few pitchers in the National League with enough short-and-curlies on their coin purse to actually plunk him.

I love the way he seems to have a forcefield around him at all times, with a look that suggests he wouldn't piss on his own kids if they were on fire; or, better yet, he would - if they paid him.

I love the way he possesses such a vitriolic hate for the media. Have you seen these clowns? Why the fuck should he talk to them? Have they hit 73 homers in a season? Can they take the one good pitch - think about that; ONE GOOD FUCKING PITCH - they've seen in about three days and move their muscles in such a way that the round, cylindrical object they're holding makes solid, square contact with a round, spherical object that's coming toward them at 94 miles an hour and breaking about six-to-eight inches from roughly fifty-nine feet away? You're goddamn right they can't.

Speaking of the media, I love the way he makes those bland, expressionless quotes and statements (like when he said it doesn't bother him that Hank Aaron won't show up for #756) with that benevolent, detached million-air - even though inside it's got to be like six Bartolo Colons and eight Sidney Ponsons fighting for the last ham sandwich of the clubhouse spread.

I love that he may have taken more performance-enhancers than the Rolling Stones touring the Playboy Mansion - or he may not have. And I love that he hit oodles and oodles of gravity-bending blasts off of pitchers who, most likely, were on something, too.

Most of all, though, I love Barry Bonds because he makes it so easy for me to hate him.

In the movie "Unbreakable," Samuel L. Jackson's character, Mr. Glass, explains about how the villain's head is always larger; Bonds has his ever-burgeoning cranium. Mr. Glass's mother tells how there are brute, thuggish villains who use their strength and might and wily, evil villains who use their brains; you can argue Bonds's case for both sides of that coin.

Mr. Glass lives in an isolated world, surrounded by drawings and fake people, and travels in a car padded with leather; Bonds is famously isolated, surrounded by yes-men, and relaxes in his infamous leather recliner in front of his locker in the clubhouse. Mr. Glass blows up planes and trains and burns down hotels to find the one person who completes him - the person who is his direct opposite; Bonds, on the other hand, blows up everything around him in the hopes of finding someone like himself - a comrade to defend him.

Without having someone to cheer against, you would never know who to cheer for.

So for tonight, Mr. Bonds, you get exactly what you got in the tenth inning - a free pass.

MLB Preview: NL West

We here at the Pretzel Factory are proud to present an absolutely absurd look into our idea of what will happen this year in Major League baseball team by team. They are broken down by division and in the order of predicted finish for your enjoyment. Enjoy your preview of the National League West, friends!

San Diego Padres:
Does your team have brothers hitting at the top of the lineup? Huh? Didn't think so. That reminds me ... "My blood runs cold! My memory has just been sold! My angel is the centerfold, Angel is the centerfold." Wait ... you mean it's the J. Geils Band? Not Giles, as in rightfielder Brian and newly acquired second baseman Marcus? No shit? Damn. Well, whatever. In between tons of hotfoot pranks, violent games of Doorknob and some kick ass Nerf basketball tournaments in the locker room, the brothers will regain their batting stroke and, along with Adrian Gonzalez and Kevin Kouzmanoff (so far the only man in recorded human history to hit the first major league pitch he's ever seen for a grand slam) form a vastly improved offense.

Oh ... you mean they're still in Petco?

Never mind then.

At least there's Jake Peavy. And Greg Maddux. And Chris Young. And Trevor Hoffman. And David Wells. Which reminds me ... hey, new skipper Bud Black? You might want to keep some Twinkies and animal crackers around when Boomer's pitching. And some Capri Sun. You might have to help him with those little pointed straws, though. Them's a bitch. Wins: 91. Playoffs: Eliminated in the World Series.

Los Angeles Dodgers:
Can I have one of those Chesterfields now? Thanks. You know, I like to read. About baseball, and the environment - that shit fascinates me. Here's something you may not know: With speedsters Rafael Furcal (hopefully not drunk) and Juan Pierre at the top of the order, and very little behind Nomar Garciaparra and Jeff Kent to drive them in, Grady Little will let the little scamps run wild. And oh, boy, will they! They'll do so much runnin' - hahaha, yeah! - they'll do so much runnin' that the friction will heat up the surface temperature of the Earth by one whole degree, causing a catastrophic portion of the polar ice caps to melt. The Pacific will creep up and into Chavez Ravine, and all the Dodger fans will be able to leave in the fifth inning instead of the seventh. Oh, and eggplants. Something about eggplants. Wins: 89 (WC). Playoffs: Eliminated in first round of playoffs.

Arizona Diamondbacks:
Hey, they got new uniforms! Sweet! I guess they figured out it's not 1992 anymore and that looking like a walking bruise isn't so cool! Which is funny, because they didn't exist until 1998! I don't know why I keep using exclamation points! Oh, because the Big Unit is back in the National League. Over/under on when he'll either bean a mentally disabled kid in the third row or surgically insert a pair of game-worn spikes up a beat writer's rectum? I'd say June 14. Sounds good, anyway. You know what else sounds good? Having a beer with Eric Byrnes. Seriously, that guy's the shit. Wins: 86. No playoffs.

Colorado Rockies:
The Rockies will, for a while at least, continue where they left off last year. Garrett Atkins and Matt Holliday crushing the ball. The starters actually getting some ground balls and giving way to the bullpen to do a pretty damn good job. The humidor keeping the baseballs as moist as Paris Hilton at the NBA All-Star Weekend. But something won't be right ... er, how do I put this?

Ok. Here goes. You ever have Rocky Mountain Oysters? No? Well, th- no, not real oysters. Have you ever been to Colorado? Damn. Anyway, to put it lightly, they're ... bull balls. That's right - cow nuts.

I know what you're thinking: "I wouldn't be caught dead eating bull's testicles." Yeah, but you thought nobody would ever find out about that thing you do in the shower with the luffa, didn't you? Well, just so happens that during a Super Bowl party when I was about seven or eight, I ate some RMOs. I didn't know it. I didn't ask. I assumed - and later thought, based on the taste - that it was chicken. And when I did, it was decent; a little chewy, perhaps, but edible. But when I found out what it was, I felt sick.

Hence your 2007 Colorado Rockies: the bull's balls of MLB. Wins: 79. No playoffs.

San Francisco Giants:
Barry Zito will wow the San Francisco crowd w- Hey, what's going on?



AHHHH!!! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! IT'S GROWING! IT'S FILLING EVERY EMPTY SPACE IN THE UNIVERSE! YOUR WEAPONS ARE POWERLESS AGAINST IT!!! Wins: 0 (Forced to forfeit the entire season when Bonds eats a horse on ESPN's Sunday Night Baseball). No, no, no, no no no no no no no no no playoffs. C'mon.