Something had to do it. Something had to end the resplendent quietude of the Sneetch. I feel reborn, readers, having not posted on this site for exactly three years. But now, there is something I just can’t keep to my loathsome self no matter how hard I try.

I considered a few Michael Jackson posts, or the Sammy Sosa is gone story. I once refused temptation after I sat next to Poppy at a pizza joint and then saw Denim Vest and Bizarro Jerry in North Hollywood on non-consecutive weekends. I withheld when Lou sent me a link about Lebowskifest West, which you should attend. I spared you all after Sheps and I took pictures of a burning Albert Pujols Leaf 2004 card. I even exercised restraint after washing my car next to Fat Kid From the Sandlot in one of those “Only in L.A. Moments.” And for that, a world is forever grateful.

L.A. has brought many, many great things. Such as nightly high speed car chases, 8 million people perplexed by parallel parking, “The Anaheim Angeles of Los Angeles” (which translates to “The Anaheim Angles of The Angels”), twelve dollar mixed drinks during happy hour, and desperate, stupid people who beg for things for free.

Oh, Craigslist, how I love thee. Now I know Craigslist.org isn’t unique to Los Angeles, the aforementioned home of Los Anaheim Angeleses, but Senior Craig is at his best and his worst here. You can get a film job easily on CL if you are an underage woman willing to bare all for a steamy DV scene for $7 an hour. You can even barter your Boyz II Men tickets for Crash Test Dummies opening for William Hung (an actual ad I saw on there today). Most of the barter ads are WILL TRADE SENSUAL MASSAGE FOR COFFEE BEAN AND TEA LEAF GIFT CARDS, WOMEN ONLY, or WILL TRADE PHOTOGRAPHY SERVICES FOR NEW IPOD SHUFFLE OR 420!!!#$%!!

But this, Cubs fans, is what ended my glorious silence.

A box of 12 unopened condoms. Email to arrange pick up. If you follow the link on the page, you will find that the one who wishes to disencumber his satchel of the twelve burdensome condoms is doing so because they contain a spermicide which may heighten the risk of HIV during anal intercourse. It’s certainly better to purchase pre-owned, dubious contraceptives from a stranger than discharging $14.99 for a box a Trojan Magnums. We’re only talking pregnancy and HIV here.

Alas, now I must go. I have seventeen miles to drive to pick up the contraceptives. If you’re looking for a slightly used dental dam, email me. I’m looking to barter for a five-megapixel camera, preferably in box.

In typical Sneetch fashion, I cannot resist one last note. What is up with John Mayer winning song of the year for “Daughters”? Let’s make a deal, man ensconced in velvet. You don’t tell me how to be a father, and I won’t tell you how to be a sub-par @$sho!e who writes mediocre music for fifteen year old girls. I don’t swim in your toilet. Sneetchcrest out!

Tonight, or rather yesterday night or even later when you read this, Hunter S. Thompson died in his Aspen, Colorado home from a self-inflicted gun wound. I wanted to write something really nice about him, something that would express how much this news saddened and affected me. But rather than try to put it into poetic verse or well-written prose, I think in this age of cynicism, that fact this affected me so deeply in the first place says it all. I’m not even sure why it has, but I suspect it has a lot to do with how I connect his writing to my years in college, and much more so, to my best friends.

Just a few days ago, Jah Jeff sent me a link to what is now Hunter’s last published writing, a brief article for ESPN.com’s “Page 2″.

This story made me laugh and appreciate his work, and I hope it does you.

Today is the start of Spring Training, the glorious day when pitchers and catchers report. I’ll leave the forecast for the NL Central to Lou, as he masterfully nailed things last season, but I have a few offerings today.

First, this Haiku to mark the occasion… I sorta stole it, re-worked it, and gave it a generic title:

“Pitchers and Catchers Day”

Smallest Chi Cubs fan
With shirts too wide for shoulders
named “ARCIAPARR.”

Next, I have a message to all the Cards fans out there… *throat clearing* …NO ONE GAVE A SHIT LAST YEAR, SO WHY TRY THIS YEAR??? Seriously, ask someone outside of that area who the Red Sox beat the ever loving shit out of and raped like a dirty, cummy little one-armed Czechoslovakian whore to win the World Series, and they’ll look at you like you have watery crap seeping out of your ears. Seriously, take a year off, put some money into remodeling the double wide or dating your cousin proper, and leave the division and the season to the Cubs and their long suffering fans… give good hygiene and out-of-bloodline marriages their due.

And finally, the winds of change are a blow’n across the Major League Baseball landscape. Steroid talk is all the rage (pun intended) so the days of Tony LaRussa’s juiced-up, bloated players knocking balls 600 feet are probably gone, not unlike that 60 pounds of muscle Big Mac lost eating Monster Burgers and making television audiences ill. But let’s not also forget that the Republicans are in the White House (as well as the pocket of the Christian Coalition/”Moral Majority”) so balls hit 600 feet aren’t the only ones off limits these days. Homosexual activity, as displayed here, probably isn’t going to fly either…

This is for everyone who understands that the best part of a great meal out on the town isn’t the 30 dollar steak, the attractive hostess, or even the feeling of being wonderfully, deliciously full. It’s the way, if you look into your glass as you take your last sip, candle light shines off the ice.

You can have your Pitts, Cruises, and DiCaprios. I’ll take vodka, Kaluha and the glow of warm light off ice every time.