You’ve got to be realistic about these things: Stephen Strasburg isn’t the man we all dreamt he’d become. Absolutely, he’s become a very valuable pitcher and member of the invariably underachieving Washington Nationals, but alas, we expected career eliteness, Nicolas Cage in the 90’s level Eliteness. (Capital E for Emphasis.) Instead, we were given 2000’s Cage; Yes, Lord of War and Kick Ass were solid, but the rank stench of Bangkok Dangerous and Ghost Rider shall endure throughout the eternity of human existence. [Jay’s Note: But his hair sure achieved a lot in those two.]

We all recall Strasburg’s seven inning, 14 K performance in what was the most hyped debut in MLB history. Anything less than a first-ballot hall of fame career would be a massive disappointment after the mound mastery we saw displayed June 8th, of 2010. A little while later, as we all know, the dreaded Tommy John surgery was required and he just never became the man I desired him to be. Of course neither did I, but that’s a conversation for my therapist and I to have, but I suppose a botched penile enlargement surgery and Tommy John surgery have similar consequences (Jay, please look that up). [Jay’s Note: Risky Google of the day…] Every season, I would predict Strasburg to have his breakout season, and joining or surpassing the Clayton Kershaw’s and Justin Verlander’s of the world, only to be shamed by my colleagues, family and friends alike. It just never happened. The guy has TWO complete games in his CAREER. TWO COMPLETE GAMES!!!!!?!?!? How is that even possible?. I want to know how many times baby nuts has gone more than seven innings in his career since his debut. It’s one of the more insane stats I could ever imagine, and that’s without me even having a clue what the number is. I just know it’s extremely, mind numbingly low. So I suppose that is having a clue, but I’m not a detective, I’m Beddict the Elder and want JUSTICE!!!!! I could go on, but I’ll spare you the pain and self-loathing Strasburg has bestowed upon me over the last decade.

Last night, the former golden boy was taken to the woodshed and bent over a barrel and shown all 50 states by a lineup that features Pablo Sandoval, as he went a whopping two innings, and gave up three, before leaving with shoulder tightness. Here’s what I else I’ve found interesting around the MLB along with your Two Start Pitchers for the coming week!

Take Heed!

Please, blog, may I have some more?

Wait, what? The Mariners got Jean Segura AND Mitch Haniger for the continually underachieving Tai Walker? The same Haniger who’s third in offensive WAR in the AL (through Friday), first in the AL in runs scored with 16, leading the AL in times on base, fourth in the clubhouse in jersey-chaser takedowns, and first in my heart for being part of the heist that was the Taijuan Walker trade. Coming off a year where he masta-donged 25 and 94 with a .321 BA in AA/AAA last year, the D-Bags felt the urge to dump another diamond in the rough, a la Max Scherzer. I’m still trying to wrap my head around that trade all those year ago. I couldn’t believe at the time and couldn’t believe they weren’t making a bigger deal about it.

I may be going too far as I’m a Walker fan, but Haniger clearly has All-star capabilities and hitting in this loaded lineup is going to keep him relevant all season long. Much unlike myself, it’s really easy to be a fan of this dude.

Here’s what else intrigued me this past week… Take heed!

Please, blog, may I have some more?

Greetings! Last I recall, the Elders and I were passing Thai sticks in the Secret Pool of Kuang Si, discussing some profoundly important subjects while we took turns etching ancient symbols into the skin directly on and surrounding the pubic region. But of course, our bodies are all immaculately smooth, hairless and chiseled, as if made from marble and then formed in the scorching lava of Mount Kilimanjaro. Why does this matter, you ask? The context will be necessary on our journey together through what looks to be a tumultuous 2017. Trust me in this, and the opportunities for massive glory in all forms of life may fall at your crusty feet like droplets of acid rain that will one day doom this planet (but not yet), burning all your self-pity and self-doubt away, peeling your skin off like a viper, you can be born anew, with a clearer vision and a more artful plan of attack. Anyways, I just woke up on an airplane, as it seems I’m headed back to the United States and below we have what one could consider a synopsis of sorts, of what the Elders and I discussed about fantasy baseball and “other things”.

I am the great Tehol Beddict and this is Disgrace/Delight! Take Heed!

Razzball Commenter Leagues are open! Play against our contributors and your fellow readers for prizes. Join here!

Please, blog, may I have some more?

Greetings! Back at it again with the fresh Disgrace/Delight posts. Naaaaaaasty! We are here, my goodmen, to discuss the downfalls and risings of some of the most skilled athletes on this planet. I shall do my utmost to lock the derogatory comments in my cranium and not bestow them on the good readers of Razzball, for I am not here to offend, but to teach. I am not here to decry these talented young men, only to track their progress as professional athletes and root them on towards future glory and the type of massive wealth that peasants such as ourselves could truly never comprehend. Buuuuuuuuut, you’ve got to be realistic about these things. For I, favorite son of the Elder Gods, just can’t pass up an opportunity to roast a slap-dick hitting, noodle-armed throwing, ass shaving pansy, that would be better served mowing the lawn at Beddict manor, than being rostered in our fantasy lineups.

I am Tehol Beddict, and this Disgrace/Delight. Take heed!

Please, blog, may I have some more?

Greetings!!! Your liege lord, Beddict, has fallen on disastrous times. My goodmen, I was robbed by a thief in the night, the kind of criminal mastermind that makes Danny Ocean look like a pocket picking peasant. Not only did this despicable bandit gank me for my Mac-book Pro, but he swooped my black diamond encrusted platinum ring, my SMS wireless sports headphones signed by the Elder God, 50 Cent, a beautiful Burberry jacket, some fly-a** Louis Vuitton sunglasses, two Nike sweatshirts, a pair of high-top limited edition Nike Air Force One boots, and two different kinds of cologne. In the hood, we call this the come up of a lifetime. This scum-sucking pilferer hit the mother load, probably thinking he just robbed a professional athlete, when instead it was just poor old Beddict, washed up mankini model turned fantasy sports writer. I’ve never felt such pain, such anguish, giving me the sort of writers block that would make George R.R. Martin not look like a total pile of Hippopotamus shat. I come to you now, begging for your forgiveness. On my knees, begging you for another chance as I feel we were right on the cusp of greatness. Let’s work out the kinks and get back to doing what I was created to do… whatever that may be.

I am Tehol Beddict, and this is Disgrace/Delight. Take heed!

Please, blog, may I have some more?

What a time to be alive! Baseball season is finally within reach! Not in reach, like your delusional mind is telling you about the girl you’ve been obsessed with since junior high and have been in the friend zone ever since waiting for your chance to strike (you’ve got to be realistic about these things), but actually happening! Jay(Wrong), the greatest editor in all of fantasy sports and the Weasley to my Harry Potter, has been up my a** like a 12-inch butt plug about me getting in my content, so here you have it! Ask and you shall receive my goodmen! Today, I tell the tale of the storied third base position. It seems the position has fallen on harder times than Nicolas Cage, as I didn’t respect any of the players outside the top-10 enough to even write about them in the disgrace section. NOT EVEN WORTHY OF DISGRACE? To attempt to put into words how insane that is; that would be beyond my comprehension and would take up my entire day. Or maybe if I had slept a wink last night instead of popping perks with this nice Chinese gal I met at the casino, I’d be able to properly explain. Such is life.

Please, blog, may I have some more?

Once, long ago, magic flowed through my brain, producing works of literary phenomena on my trusted and secure Mac Book Pro. These fingers worked more proficiently than Amber Rose’s as she brought Kanye West to orgasm through thorough butt-stuff. It’s been said I was the Vivaldi of fantasy sports writing, so what, you might ask yourself, caused me pull a Nicolas Cage and go from Oscar winner to Oscar Pistorious? Was it the drugs? I suppose that could have played a small role. Was it because my star has yet to rise amongst this plethora of d*ck-limping writers out in the fantasy sports universe? It gets to me, I cannot lie to you my goodmen (and women). But that never stopped me before… hmmmmm, what could it be? What else, but a woman! She told me I “sucked the soul out her butt”, but somehow I was the one who ended up empty and lifeless. What could I do but grovel on the jagged and frigid flooring of the cell she would lock me in at night after pleasuring her? Her juices were literally the only nutrients supplied to my once ripped body. Crippled and weak, I managed to escape one night while she was catching a Friends marathon on Netflix, breaking, nay, slithering out a fourth story window, where I began free-falling to what I believed to be my certain death, only to fall in the back of truck filled with black market Cialis packages. I snorted one, and immediately gained the strength to return to Beddict manor in order to regain my strength. Still, I lacked the motivation to write……

Oh wise and powerful Elder Gods, I am on my knees, begging you to remove these chains of bondage from all my appendages, for I am lost and the goodmen of Razzball desire the old Beddict. I’m no longer entertaining, creative, insanely handsome (okay, that’s a lie), or knowledgeable about fantasy sports. Wait! Hold on, I feel something! Even now, as I type these very words, I can feel the Elder blood beginning to pulsate within my veins, bubbling like Mt. Vesuvius, moments before it’s eruption! F*ck this, 2016 is mine, and I dare any mortal to step in my path!

I am Tehol Beddict, and this is, Disgrace/Delight! TAKE HEED!

Please, blog, may I have some more?

For the third time in his brief but illustrious career, Mike Trout, the one they call the fish, has produced dongage [Jay’s Note: What word is that Tehol?] on his born day. He’s still well short of my record, as I’ve now delivered dongage on 25 consecutive birthdays, including a quad-donging back in 1999. Maaaaan, you really should have seen me in my prime, downing two dozen raw oysters a day, along with a set of steel flutes that would make Van Damme do splits, and had me delivering dongage like Barry Bonds on the juice… But enough about me, I’m just filling in for Dan Pants and Grey the Elder God, and since Grey titled my first ever Razzball post “The One They Call the Fish,” I thought it only right to pay homage to my one true savior and favorite writer. Grey must be busy trying to track Domonic Brown down for an interview for the podcast he’s never invited me on. Laaaaawd, that boy is hotter than fish grease and carrying me on his broad shoulders as we speak (write?). Anyway, here’s what else I witnessed yesterday in fantasy baseball:

Please, blog, may I have some more?

Greetings! Surprise, tis not Grey the Elder God, nor Dan Pants, but I, Tehol Beddict, wordsmith and fantasy baseball extraordinaire. Some of you may have been wondering where my Game of Thrones post was this week (okay, maybe, like, two of you), but truth be told, I was in the type of NyQuil induced coma that would make Anna Nicole Smith (RIP Bae) jealous. (And if you’d like to hear me in my NyQuil induced coma while talking about Game of Thrones, be sure to check out the newest Fantasy Football podcast.) Say one thing for Tehol Beddict, he loves NyQuil. You see, when I’m sick, I despise doing anything, so I just skip the DayQuil and just stay home and take the night-time stuff, dozing off every few hours, awaiting the end of the torture that is the common cold. During these moments of sedation, I’ve realized some interesting side effects from NyQuil that I believe could change an entire industry. And what industry is that you ask? The porn industry of course! That tasty green liquid makes it extremely difficult to orgasm and also thickens the Au jus, making for the ultimate money shot! The only problem I foresee with introducing this into the adult entertainment world is that, being that it makes one so tired, how can one bring the energy forth to really slam it home? An IV with sugar free Red Bull perhaps? Either way, I think I’ve found something… Wait, am I supposed to be writing about baseball? [Jay’s Note: One can only hope…] Ahhh, yes.

Speaking of drugs, Josh Hamilton is BACK! Back with the team with which he rose to fame. Back to dropping double-dongage on the opposition as if they were Paula Abdul on a Tuesday night in autumn (do-do ya love me!?). I was high on Hamilton (no pun intended, MAYBE) before the season began, but now that he’s back in Texas, where he’s comfortable, I couldn’t be higher… unless I took a double dose of NyQuil. NEVER DO THAT!  I’m sure Hambone was immediately swooped in leagues he wasn’t previously owned after yesterday’s two-bomb performance, but needless to say, if he’s there, go head and make that happen friends.

Anyway, here’s what else I saw yesterday in fantasy baseball, TAKE HEED!

Please, blog, may I have some more?

I dont ef with none of y’all sites anyway

Your funeral could be any day

Ever since Domonic Brown said, “Beddict, let me play”

All these haters been in the way

I’m just doin what Grey and Rudy say

Putting out 1000 tweets a day

Greetings! I came extra hard-body with the intro today, for the fact that I can’t recall EVER being so keyed up for a fantasy baseball season. My game slipped last year and I’m not proud of it. One could say swinger clubs, mankini modeling across the globe, and building schools for the underprivileged took up most of my time, but say one thing for Tehol Beddict, he’s not one to rationalize subpar results. Much of my spare time has been spent making countless sacrifices to the Elder Gods in hopes of gaining their favor for the upcoming season. One of them (Draconus) came to me during a peyote induced hallucination this past weekend, telling me that I must take a vow of celibacy from spring training till the end of the regular season if I am to acquire their assistance in dominating ALL of my leagues. To say the decision was difficult would be the understatement of the millennium, but after speaking with my agent and numerous lovers on the subject, the answer became clearer than the Saran rap I use as a backup when I run out of dental dams. Yes, the only men and women I’ll be servicing this year are you, the readers. Prepare yourself, for we will be traveling to uncharted depths of fantasy baseball analysis as well as unearthing the true reasoning for the disgraceful fall-offs of Nicolas Cage, Stephen Dorff, and of course, Christian Slater.

I am Tehol Beddict and this is, Disgrace/Delight! Take Heed!

Please, blog, may I have some more?