Attention reader:  Please power on your home all-in-one printer/copier/scanner.  Use the all-in-one printer/copier/scanner software to ensure your device’s color ink cartridge levels are sufficient.  With your feet shoulder width apart, bend at the knees and print this internet post containing the Inflatamaniacs character biographies shown below. Using a no. 2 pencil and your wooden ruler, connect the Inflatamaniacs character on the left to the matching character biography on the right.  When you are finished, turn your paper facedown and remain seated until the proctor collects the exams.  If you matched the characters correctly, report to the principal’s office immediately because you are subtly racist.


The official BBB videographer, who we shouldn’t give up on just yet, captured the following Inflatamaniacs as they thrilled and delighted the crowd during the 2012 Florida State League All-Star Game at Charlotte Sports Park in Port Charlotte.



Saddest Bear Ever

The Saddest Bear Ever

I am Saddest Bear Ever.  I shrink from the forefront like a violet undressed.  My countenance of woe and raised eyebrows question, “Does anyone love me?”  It’s hard to tell sometimes, you know?

You see, I’m not like the others.  Rocky the Bull, that majestic bovine stallion, blesses us with his broad shoulders, his proud snout and those beautiful horns of gold.  I don’t have those.  Phinley the Shark keeps the party rolling with shredded Bermudas and tons of pretty lady friends.  I don’t have those either.  Let’s not  forget the centerpiece of this handsome group, Aaron’s Rent-to-Own Furniture NASCAR Racing Dog, brandishing that champion’s charisma like a weapon aimed straight at my broken little heart.

Who am I kidding?  My glass and Chick-fil-A Cow’s will never mingle and clink tastefully at the after-party.  I will not know the dashing thrill of a Jet’s Pizza Man’s rocket ride.  No mascot groupies will share come-hither glances with a loser the likes of me.  Why am I even here?  I should leave.

I am Saddest Bear Ever.

May 12, 2012

Florida Auto Exchange Stadium

Dunedin, FL


Billy the Marlin Creates Mystery

Communiques that are brief often leave many unanswered questions.  Recent examples from the author’s own life include perplexing texts such as “I don’t think this is working”, “Please stop calling me”, or “I don’t want to do this anymore”.  These inscrutable messages do make one thing clear, however.  It is usually advisable, in the abiding interest of clarity, to express oneself too much, rather than not enough, lest the receiver of said communication open too many avenues of mental thought-type questions.  That is why I bring to your valuable attention this mystic jewel of YouTube as a cautionary tale.  Behold and you will know wonders and curiosities, all of which go unanswered.

It is true of this video, as of life itself, that there will be no part two. There will be no epilogue.


F**k Yeah Raymond, Do it Like That

The lack of pants suggests confidence.  The steady gaze, almost aggressive in its firmness, suggests a single-mindedness of purpose.  Raymond will arouse you. 

Music: “Your Touch” by The Black Keys.  Video by YouTube user DASUAG93.  Juxtaposition, my own.


Raymond’s Certificate of Authentication

clean smallerToday I post for your perusal an electronic representation of the Raymond’s Certificate of Authentication I received from the Tampa Bay Rays.  As is often the case with official documents, this document contains an untruth.  Although it is true the document in question was presented to me, David Barker, and it is also true I took receipt of said document on April 18th, 2011, the manner in which I earned this attestation is disparagingly misrepresented.  For you see Raymond, whatever mongrel-type animal you claim to be, I did not merely retrieve that foul ball, I caught that motherf****r.  That’s right, I caught it; and your faint imprimatur, pantsless visage, and Sharpie-scribed document will never knock free the memory I clutch close to my heart for lo these many months.


Irresponsible Anthems for the Children

The indoctrination of youth begins early.  Baptisms, Fourth of July parades, and tractor pulls are but a few tribal rituals we fervently believe will enhance the lives of unwitting children.  With great conviction, we drag the little ones, lollipop in hand and stumbling naively, into every conceivable adult preoccupation in the hope they will adopt our values as their own.  To this end we force them to say things they clearly do not understand.  How many children currently believe “eli minnow” is an actual letter of the alphabet?  How many children, eyebrows raised earnestly, expertly recite the Pledge of Allegiance without a clue to its meaning?  Oh well, eventually they get it.

One delivery system for childhood indoctrination is the sporting event.  In fact, I presume all current season ticket holders were at one point in their lives bribed to sit-down-and-behave with ice cream served in a tiny, upside-down helmet.  The problem I have noticed, however, is a disturbing trend in the world of interstitial baseball entertainment:  the awkwardly inappropriate pop song played between innings and at bats.  The chilling video evidence presented below harbingers the inevitable moral collapse of drunken, rhythm-less white people everywhere.


You may not have noticed, but the particular song lyrics to which all those little tykes happily bopped up and down is about murder.  Yep, that’s right, Murder.

I’m coming to get ya, coming to get ya
Spittin out lyrics, homie I’ll wetchya

Anyone familiar with ‘90s gangsta rap knows what wetchya means.  Did you also notice how the children were duped into participation by the introductory image of a kindly dowager and her pastoral cowbell?  If that wasn’t enough, the susceptible young minds finally succumb to the snugly feline disc jockey, DJ Kitty, secretly known as Minister of Evil Propaganda to the Innocents.

There are other examples of this disturbing phenomenon.  Willy Aybar used to strut to the plate while his favorite song about a stripper echoed through the catwalks.  Deadeye killer Rafael Soriano took the field to the Latino gangster stylings of Pitbull.

I’m really not sure what to make of all this.  The songs are fun and the adults need to be entertained too, but it’s kind of weird to have the kids listening to this stuff, right?  They might not be able to understand the lyrics at the game, but later they will seek out these song lyrics on the internet.  Then they’ll get it.