Cross-Town Cup Sponsored by Nobody Cares

Earlier this week, management from the Chicago Cubs and White Sox got together with some chief marketing executives to make a ground-breaking decision.

The teams, both currently under .500 for the season and continuing skids into mediocrity, will now play each other for a completely irrelevant title that is the Crosstown Cup sponsored by BP.  In case you live under a rock BP, or British Petroleum plc, is the possessor of an oil well that as I type this is spilling thousands of gallons of oil into the Gulf of Mexico.

Imaginary British Petroleum exeuctive: "oh hey guys, hey.  I know our errors are currently hindering the daily lives of people in the gulf states and causing major environmental trauma that hasn't be seen since the Exxon Valdez but we sure know how to sponsor irrelevant competitions in the Midwest."  My God!

According to ChicagoBreakingNews.com, "the three-foot tall Cup supposedly is in production, but will be ready before the Cubs and Sox meet for the first time June 11-13 at Wrigley Field."  Oh goody.  This rivalry doesn't impact me (I mean I could care less, I'm just a Chicago transplant) but for the love of marketing!  How do companies keep scoring deals to sponsor something that never existed in the first place?  Especially while little oil-covered duckies in the Gulf are being sudsed up with Dawn.

Just when I thought this scenario would damper my day I saw this adorable video.  Even though I find twins slightly creepy (think "The Shining") this made me go, "awwwww."  At least there are two people who can get it right, the Sox fan is slightly violent and the Cubs fan is the first to open her mouth and be obnoxious.  Perfect!

Happy Friday.

My dog has Twitter, therefore she is better than your dog

On Twitter, I must approve of any follower request.  The idea of a stranger reading my thoughts is nothing short of creepy.  Under all circumstances, we should limit the number of creeps in our life.

The other day I approved a follow request from Cher.  The dog, not the singer.  Cher is my family's pup, an eight-old-year German Shepherd/Chow mix we rescued from a shelter in 2004.  She was around two at the time, hence her name stuck.  What was once a sad, scared little thing is now a tomboy diva whom has amazing hair, enjoys a romp in the park, and enjoys life with her head propped on the armrest of the leather couch.

Like all delusional dog owners, I believe Cher has people thoughts.  Her intelligence and actions are borderline human and her actions exceed those of her peers.  (Especially this yippy neighborhood dog named Jade; she deserves a swift punt.)  Cher knows when I'm coming home to visit, when someone is sad, or that Grandma is bat shit crazy and to approach accordingly.  Unfortunately, she can't speak.

UNTIL NOW.

A little big ago, I read about this thing called puppy tweets. This waste of cash device snaps to a dog's collar to "read" their emotions and spew out messages like, "I bit my tail. Ow!" or "I'm bored, come home!"  As if the twitter world wasn't crammed with stupid junk already.  How many days can Justin Bieber possibly one of the most important things in the world?  But the best part about puppy tweets is that I don't even have to know about this device because my dog is better than yours.

Cher Voyles is blessed to take on the qualities on her owners (minus mom) and her peers (minus Gary the cat).  Her insights into the household are witty, charming and full of snappy bitchiness.  She is, after all, a female dog.  Cher doesn't need a freakin' collar tag.  My dog saves money to buy an iPad!  So go follow my dog, she doesn't mind.

Twitter.com/CherVoy

You're welcome.

 The best dog.  Ever.

I ask myself, why am I writing about the Florida Marlins?

I remember watching the Marlins win the World Series in 1997.  Edgar Renteria had the game winning hit and would later go on to play for my beloved Cardinals, where even the St. Louis fans never forgot this heroic feat.  Renteria was also a shortstop so, naturally, he was one of my favorite players.

Now the only Marlin I could really tell you about is Dan Uggla.  His three errors in the 2008 All-Star game put a black mark on his career but, considering Marlins fans don't even go to regular season games, they are probably pretty apathetic to that whole situation.  Fortunately for me, Uggla's confidence isn't wavering considering that last season he insulted my boyfriend's hair and told me if I ever wanted to get with a real man to give him a call.  (To be fair Casey totally deserved it and it was funny to watch him get owned by a man with a tiny, tiny head.)

The team is building a new stadium and, upon completion, will be known as the Miami Marlins.  This is great news as people in Florida will finally learn where the team plays. 

BUT first, in even bigger news, the Marlins present us with something that makes my head want to explode off of my neck.  No exaggeration.  Scott Stapp, the lead singer of the worst band in the universe (a.k.a. Creed) released a song for the 2010 season, "Marlins Will Soar."  Get OFF the "Higher," references Scott because America has a whole hates that song.  Everyone except the Marlins' management.  Below is the video that, as if you needed another reason, will keep you away from the entire state of Florida through September when the season is irrelevant.

See more funny videos and Sports Videos at Today's Big Thing.

The only reason this actually concerns me, and I swear there is a reason, is that Matt Holliday (another Cardinal on his way to greatness) recently had an unbelievable amount of backlash for this tweet: "Big fan of the new creed album, helps me get through long bike workout."  His defensive reaction, as Matt Holliday A's, Rockies and Cardinals jerseys burned across the country is below.  I look forward to having him sign my 1999 Human Clay album (kidding, I didn't own that crap).

Now that I type all this, I really don't know why I'm sharing it with you.  I'm so sorry.

Good mooooooorning Chicago!

Today on my blog I salute a man I love to hate.  He is one of the first voices I hear in the morning when he enters my living room around 8:03 a.m.  When he's absent, I am curiously upset.  The villain appears, with a menacing smile, after I nod a good morning to Mr. Matt Lauer (long-time crush) and Mr. Al Roker says, "here's what's happening in your neck of the woods!"

This posting gives me a good excuse to put up this picture!

This antihero, with an advanced degree in meteorology, makes proclamations like, "arm up for the weekend!" and "it's sunny out there but grab your sunglasses and a warm coat.  You'll need it."  Never mind his incessant ramblings about how gorgeous it is on Tuesday but "expect a cold chill starting Saturday."

Andy Avalos, you have ruined so many of my days with your talk of showers but, without you, how would I know to carry an umbrella? 

Thank you NBC 5 for giving me your weather man, whom brings me hope of sunny days and summer porch drinking and the crippling depression of April flurry warnings.

Until morning, Mr. Avalos, good night.  I will see you when I wake.

The infamous Mr. Avalos up to no good, per usual.

Premeditated but Excited Nonetheless

Ever since I could murmur or, more realistically, know geography I wanted to visit New York City. Bright lights, naked cowboys! In high school, I woke up every morning with Matt, Katie and Al on the Today Show news desk. My dad and I would sing along with Frank Sinatra in the car.  New York always excited me without a real explanation of why.

After my Euro adventures of 2006 this feeling only escalated. "I want to be a globe trotter," I thought. What better way to start with my own country?

Tomorrow morning (!!) I will be on a plane headed for NYC. Due to some sweet hookups and amazing friends I'll shack up in West Village, enjoy the beauty of Wicked on Broadway, and sit eight rows from a stage accompanied by Ms. Meryl Streep. Fo' Free!  I will also be able to check a couple items off my bucket list after I pretend that I'm Kevin McAllister in Central Park, associate every library with Ghostbusters and scream wildly in the Today Show's crowd.  These are stories I will share with my inevitable offspring.

It's obvious that I am ecastic.  But in a city as fast-paced as NYC (although I do reside in Chicago) I must take simple moments to breathe.  I plan on bringing my small American flag, a souvenir from 2009's All Star Game in St. Louis, to drop off at the site of the fallen towers.  It's a symbol of two spectacular moments in my life, on totally opposite spectrums.  I may take a second, or one hundred, to smile at the green lady whom greeted my great-great-grandparents to their future home.

New York City in 2010 is my Walt Disney World of 1990 and I am so ready to play.  (Besides, thin crust pizza is so much better!)

Why does it not surprise me that a parent who would raise their child as a Cubs fan would also let this picture happen?

The Many Masks of Taco Bell

Way back in high school, I exposed myself to a variety of literary forms for amusement and education alike. Senior year I struggled my way through Dante's Inferno, a 14th century poem about the Italian author's journey through the nine circles of medieval hell.

Centuries later, I see Dante's work in real life, through the advertisements of Taco Hell.

Like Dante's adulterers and heretics, Taco Bell has its own offenders. The circles include the drunk, the fat, the poor, and the stoned. In purgatory, somewhere between real food and the 5 layer burrito, are the curious bystanders awaiting their Tex Mex. (To save face, outside of the circle are the people whom love those yummy, yummy cinnamon twists!)

A few years ago, Taco Bell introduced us to fourth meal in an attempt to bring together the high and the inebriated by offering grade D meat, white iceberg lettuce and soggy tortillas.

Now all the circles of hell surface in the 'restaurant's" (loose term) new ad campaigns.

Exhibit 1: The Five Layer Burrito. This 490 calorie wonder will still your heart, literally. Your coronaries will shut down. At least T-Bell shares some honesty with this campaign.

Exhibit 2: The Pacific Shrimp Taco.  o-m-g.  On the fifth day, when God filled the seas with living creatures, He had no intention that they may end up in a Taco Bell soft shell.  No crustacean deserves a fate this vile, even if lacking of a vertebrae.  At the low, low price of $2.99 I can only imagine where these shrimps actually originate.

Exhibit 3: Here's the kicker: the Taco Bell drive-thru diet.  I'm not saying I don't believe in it, but I still have a hard time believing in the packaging.  Don't mess with me TB, you are a wolf in sheep's clothing and I will not play your games!



Taco Bell is just one of a handful of brands lacking in ad direction.  (I'm looking at you little-beady-money-eyes-style Geico.)  T-Bell is attempting to be something it's not (healthy) while still delivering its old, consistent messages of eating glutinous food at 2 a.m.

[True story, last time I walked past a TB drive thru at 2 a.m. there were screaming Hispanics and glass bottles shattering.  I turned for four seconds and kept walking.]

While Taco Bell searches for its self image, I will instead visit the El Burrito Mexicano hole-in-the-wall  restaurant underneath of the red line tracks.  Sure, the burritos are two bites away from burning a hole in my stomach and the employees don't speak English, but at least there's no advertising to disrupt my post-bars dining experience.