And now for something completely different

When I was in middle school, I thought it was the bomb to make little Geocities Web sites and establish my presence on the Internet. Now that I look back, I didn’t really put much emphasis on making that presence a professional one.

Who wants to see Jimmy Buffett dancing in a tutu? I think everyone does.

Mr. Cappo, this one's for you

Mr. Rocky Cappo, you can consider this my official apology.

In eighth grade when I was in your science class, I didn’t like you. No one did, man. I’m sure you’re not completely oblivious to this fact; I know you wondered where all of your candy and random classroom equipment went (for the record, it wasn’t me who stole your stuff).

But, Mr. Cappo, my beloved science teacher, I committed quite a few transgressions against you almost 10 years ago. And for this, I apologize. In retrospect, you were actually an okay teacher – though trying to teach middle school students about the rings in an orbital of an atom might be ill-advised for most people, you remained undaunted and plunged on into the world of random biology, chemistry, and, at the end of the year, photons and things that really went completely over everyone’s head.

So, here you go.

Mr. Cappo, I’m sorry for looking like this during every class (props to the John F. Kennedy Middle School yearbook staff for this gem):

Mr. Cappo, I’m sorry for the stupid and immature songs I wrote about you:
Ode to Rocco
What’s My Weight Again?

Mr. Cappo, I’m sorry for the silly little drawings I made about you in middle school (I still have a notebook with over 50 of these cartoons in it, but I won’t bore you with every single one):

Finally, Mr. Cappo, I’m sorry for the Capponator 3000:
The Capponator 3000

So, there you have it, man. You didn’t deserve any of it. You were a good teacher who just took his job too seriously. I don’t know quite where you are now and I doubt you will ever read this.

But in case you actually see these confessions, I hope they have found you with your sense of humor alive and well.

I wasted all that gas for nothing?

Because I am such a lazy individual, when scheduling my classes for this semester only one thing mattered to me.

No, I don’t care if this class is an upper level class. No, I don’t care that this class is taught by the same man who taught me a year ago and didn’t think it necessary to dress up for class. And no, I don’t care if this class is about French politics and society.

Darn it, this class doesn’t start until two.

I knew it was for me.

What was not for me, however, was the fact that I, you know, actually have to do stuff for this class.

I was assigned a paper to be due last Thursday. And, you know, since I’m such an exciting individual, I stayed in and wrote it on St. Patrick’s Day so it would be all ready to go three days after.

Thursday came, and I woke up in time for class, got dressed, and made my way off to campus, where I realized that I had left my beautiful analysis (read: complete BS) of the French executive in the Fifth Republic at home.

Oh, crap.

Now, this wasn’t quite as stressful as the Macroeconomics affair of a year ago, but it was still pretty bad. I had twenty minutes to get to class or else I would undoubtedly get a zero on this paper and somehow be sent back to the fourth grade. So, without breaking a sweat, I sped through the suburban side roads of Gainesville at 50 miles per hour until I made it home, grabbed my paper, and got back to class right as it was scheduled to begin. I approached the door and saw a sign hanging there.

“Dr. Conley’s class has been canceled today (3/20). Turn your papers in next Tuesday.”

Don't put me near a word processor when I'm mad

I am livid.

Recently, the Rays and Yankees have had sort of a feud because one of our guys came in hard to home plate in an attempt to make the catcher drop the ball (a completely normal and very exciting play in baseball, I might add). Well, long story short, the catcher broke his wrist and now Yankee nation (and only Yankee nation) has been whining about it for a week. You can see the story here.

Today, the Yankees retaliated by hitting our top prospect with a pitch and then sending a man to slide into second with his foot aimed directly at Aki’s balls. This did not sit well with Jonny Gomes, who is known to be absolutely insane, and a brawl started. The Rays won the game. Story here.

Well, I am angry. So angry, in fact, that I’m sending the Yankees a letter regarding my anger. We shall see if I get a response (I wouldn’t count on it):

Dear New York Yankees,

I’m writing today to address an issue that has recently come about between your Major League Franchise and my hometown team, the Tampa Bay Rays.

Recently, there has been much hubbub regarding a recent play at the plate involving Elliot Johnson and your now-injured catcher Francisco Cervelli. It escalated into a difference of opinion, with your beloved Joe Girardi saying that you should not play so hard in spring training and the rest of the world disagreeing with him. I guess it’s just a difference of opinion: one man says spring training is to get players in tune for the real season (because, you know, Francisco Cervelli is obviously an odds-on favorite to be the catcher for the New York Yankees on opening day), and another man says that spring training is a grounds upon which players can prove their worth to the organization and hope for a spot on the big-league club (I might point out that with Rocco Baldelli’s newfound illness, Mr. Johnson’s chances of joining the club have increased heftily).

If, as Mr. Girardi suggests, the proper spring training etiquette is to play spring training games with one’s starters in the beginning five innings of a game and just roll over and play some ill-conceived version of cricket for the remainder of the game, I move that the New York Yankees should reduce their ticket prices by 4/9. It’s only fair.

But then, I would rather violate a porcupine than subject myself to a stadium full of Yankees fans.

However, this is not the point I wish to write about today.

No, you can consider this letter a formal complaint about the actions of the spring training contest between these two teams that took place today, March 12, 2008. I will specifically list my grievances as follows:

1. The obvious attempt of Mr. Shelley Duncan (who, might I add, has an adorable name) to severely injure or otherwise hurt Mr. Akinori Iwamura while sliding into second base was classless and completely unnecessary. Outfielder Jonny Gomes retaliated, thus inciting a “brawl” on the field. (I use this term lightly because, frankly, baseball fights are outrageously relaxed. I say we should give them all knives or something and see who the stronger team is. I’ll give you a hint: it’s probably you guys – steroids, you know.)

2. It is crystal clear that this was a premeditated affront to Mr. Iwamura’s testicles. Fearing a brawl or possible suspension, Mr. Girardi did not have New York’s star players in the lineup. No Rodriguez, no Jeter, no Damon. What a pleasant coincidence that they didn’t make the trip to St. Petersburg!

3. Interestingly enough, pitcher Andy Pettite was scratched shortly before the game. And wouldn’t you know it – Evan Longoria was hit by a Heath Phillips pitch in the first inning. Curious, wouldn’t you say?

There you have it. As a personal note, my least favorite baseball team for a good while has been the Red Sox. Thanks to Mr. Duncan and Mr. Girardi, the Bronx Bombers have now taken that place in my heart. So, congratulations! I know how fond your organization is of being number one.

I hope you actually got to this point in my letter. I respectfully request that I be mailed with correspondence noting that someone has actually read this letter. An apology on behalf of your organization would be nice, as well. I don’t expect either, though; a classless organization such as yours should not be held to such rigorous standards of decency.

Heck, you can have Hank call me if you want. My phone is always on.

Thank you for your time, and please remember that while I severely dislike your team (and by association your fans, your players, your employees, and your city), they are welcome to Tropicana Field at any time. I love watching the Yankees lose.

Respectfully,
Casey A. Peterson

I can give you this advice because I am obviously the funniest man alive, right?

Some jokes are perennial favorites in the comedy world. I know this because I spend my days and nights tuned into Comedy Central. I’ve become quite a connoisseur of stand-up comedy, but there are just some things that have been beaten to death.

The most prevalent of these jokes, in my opinion, is the age-old side-stitcher that black folks can say the N-word and white folks can’t. I’m looking at you, The Boondocks.

It never fails: whenever an African American comic goes up on stage, he is bound to tell this joke. And it was funny the first time. But now, it’s just a little old.

I think it’s time that folks realize that there are funnier things in the world than noting the proper use of a single, devisive word. Talk about your marriage. Talk about your childhood. Heck, talk about your family and their silly little quirks. But for the love of God, give the N-word a rest.

I needed a change of scenery

Another year, another redesign.

I’ve been feeling ultra-creative (read: nerdy) lately, so I decided to give the old blog a bit of a makeover. I told myself that I would do it during Spring Break, and now that I’ve been home in Pinellas County for five hours, I figured I would get started.

The current theme is based on Naruto Strikes Back, and I’m still fiddling with some things. Overall, I very much enjoy the warmer colors.

It's going to suck when we have to play the Mariners

You know, I’ve voluntarily subjected myself to quite a bit of disappointment in my life. I’ve been a Rays fan. However, this is their season.

If the Rays make the playoffs this year, Ian will personally take me on his back to every game that they play, home or away. Let this be proof of our binding verbal agreement.

How We Didn't Lose The Greatest Game Ever Played

Great news, everyone!

Thanks to the benevolence of the God above, the heavens parted tonight and poured down upon the fields of green that we so commonly call the Southwest Recreational Center.

You know what this means, right?

The Red Devil Gators didn’t lose. Oh, it was glorious: I didn’t strike out, overrun a fly ball, or commit my usual fourteen errors. Yes, it was undoubtedly the greatest game I’ve ever played.

Now it’s time for the playoff push. I hope the good Lord decides to spring another 40 days and 40 nights of rain on us again – I think it’s time for some spring cleaning.

Confessions of a Night Owl

Lately, my sleep schedule has been very thrown off. It seems that I can’t adapt properly to life with employment. Despite the fact that I now get up in the morning (technically) for some sort of obligation Monday through Friday, I still find myself going to bed after 3:00 in the morning.

Which brings me to my point, here. Today, the lovely Sarah Jones and I were discussing how early we got up every day for high school. I woke up at 5:00 in the morning every day. As a reference point, that’s less than two hours away from now. Man, if I knew then how my biological clock would operate now, I’m pretty sure I would have dropped out of school completely.

Seriously, it amazes me how much more devoted to my studies I was in high school. It makes me feel really guilty about how I live my life now.

But not guilty enough to go back.

Underneath 13th Street