It’s good to have a hobby. Some people play golf, others tennis, and much fewer collect stamps. Everyone needs one. Ted Haggard’s was meth and male prostitutes, with short breaks to preach eternal damnation to masses of lemmings. Me, I like beating. No, not beating like George Michael in a bathroom. Not even beating like, Ike Turner on a Friday night. I like beating dead horses.

So with that task in mind, here is unapologetic rant about how much I hate the 2008 Cardinals bullpen. At least a dead horse doesn’t show up in my living room at 11:00 p.m. to remind me how dead he is and release putrid odors throughout my house. No, he is dead.  He means me no ill will. On the other hand, the Cardinals bullpen is far from dead, they are actively sabotaging my beloved Cardinals and I often think a dead horse may be more effective in late inning situations.

Aside:  Before I continue to rant incessantly about my visceral loathing of Marty Mason’s incompetents, I want to address the most oft heard reaction that people who wear pictures of dogs on sweatshirts and don fanny packs with oversized t-shirts at Six Flags, spew when they read a hit (pun intended) piece like this.

Here are a couple of unacceptable excuses and comments (and my rebuttals) you often hear when someone with an adequate amount of testosterone voices consternation about a topic.

1.)    You couldn’t do any better, so don’t criticize!

Oh, the ole’ you can’t do it so don’t speak up line. Maybe the least rational in the arsenal of soccer mom quips.  Well, you are correct! I could not pitch for a major league baseball team. And, most shockingly, I do not receive compensation for, in fact, pitching for a major league baseball team. This seems to me an important distinction between me and, say, Ryan Franklin.

I do however, on occasion, practice law. The next time a client tells me that I bombed a summary judgment argument and his case got dumped, I will be sure to inform him that he cannot practice law in a manner superior to me so he should not be quick to judge. I bet that will go over well with the judge after I am sued for legal malpractice.

We come from a nation of critics and being able to perform a task better than one we are objectively judging incompetent is not a prerequisite for said criticism. If so, I am certain, that I could never express displeasure with any mechanic I have employed or say, the President of the United States. I may not be able to explain or duplicate the process in which beer is made, but I can tell when one tastes like crap.

2.)    Well, no one is more upset that (enter massive pile of dog poo disguised as a Cardinals reliever) so there is no use in piling on.

This tactic was cleverly used by my favorite Italian manager Tuesday night. Wrong!  I think there are significant positive effects in piling on. The first of which, is to vent frustration. It is very helpful to speak candidly about our frustrations and concerns. Otherwise, some of our less enlightened neighbors will end up slapping on trenchcoats and doing their Dylan Klebold impersonation on the Cardinals clubhouse.

More importantly, should one’s level of self-criticism be correlated to others notations of lack of performance? Absolutely not! I can assure you that my 8^th grade basketball coach was not the least bit concerned how hard I was on myself when he informed me that apparently my value in bartering was slightly below horse manure.  And the judges that I watch verbally admonish and then forcefully sentence criminals, rarely inquire about how they have reflected on their crimes. The remorse angle doesn’t work with any sensible judge, believe me, I have tried.

Okay, back to the “10 Things I Hate About You” adaptation, starring Jason Isringhausen and Ryan Franklin.  The only thing worse than watching these guys kill your team, is knowing they are about to kill your team and then they kill your team. Isn’t that dramatic irony in film and theater?  It’s like watching the shark attack a helpless girl treading water and wanting to yell, “Hey! Yeah, you, the idiot that is treading water for like nine minutes for no apparent reason, you are about to get eaten by a friggin’ shark.) The only difference is that the Cardinals reliever is not helpless, he is throwing chum to the shark. He is tossing little white pieces of chum, with chummy red stitches

Although I love mildly clever and scathing criticisms, I do think it is one’s duty to propose a solution. And given that my first suggestion is mass euthanization, I should probably set forth plan B. I think you have to move Wellemeyer to closer. Carpenter looked just like he did in my dreams (dry dreams people) and now he is back in my life where he should be. Soon, Wainwright will be on the bump and his value as a starter is too great to move him to the pen. Wellemeyer has experience in the bullpen and is quirky enough to fit the bill for a closer.  Plus, there is something nostalgic about a Cardinals’ closer named Todd. You can move Franklin into the 8^th inning role, where he has flourished at times, and have McClellan there for a 7^th inning guy.  Garcia looks good as a lefty, which was a move that happened too late for my taste.

All in all, I must be a masochist.  I will watch it all unfold, bitch, moan and hopefully things will turn for the better. But if Jason Isringhausen sends me another Godfather-esque horse head, I won’t just lie down and let Don Corleone have Johnny Fontane. I will roll over and continue to beat the hell of that head until we are playing in October.