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Christmas is just around the corner, and that can only mean one thing in the Umbrage household: wait a minute, do I even have a household? Does one guy living in a studio apartment with a picture of a potted plant count these days? Usually it seems implied that there are some kids and/or hamsters involved, but I don't know if that's part of the textbook definition. If I count, then some guy living out of a suitcase down at the Y isn't far off, and that's a pretty half-assed household if you ask me. There should be some kind of minimum standards.

Kids I most definitely do not have, and unless the Spirit of Christmas comes around and kicks my ass over it some day I'm not giving it high odds that will change. Why exactly is it that some starving hobo passing out in your entryway is considered a nuisance, yet a pack of bratty little ingrates dominating your whole life, barfing milk left and right and making you listen to Raffi is looked upon as a blessing? I think we've got our priorities in some kind of uncomfortable Twister position there.

The thing that gets me is the people who pretend that they like kids. Right. Just like I love being stung in the dick by a hornet. Nobody likes kids, not even other kids. Put two of them alone in a room together and you won't get ten minutes into a porno before one of them hits the other in the head with a toybox or the corner of a brick. Forget about not letting them see R-rated movies; the average kid kicks more ass than Steven Seagal. They just don't have the sound effects and guys back-flipping off the Hoover Dam to make it seem impressive.

Face the facts, kids are mean like the Viet Cong. If adults acted like that the whole world would be like Jerry Springer during sweeps week. The show, not the guy. You wouldn't be able to walk out in the rain without someone yelling that you'd peed your pants, and then out of nowhere somebody would pull your shorts down and rub some spaghetti in your hair. Yeah, what a wonderful world indeed. What a freakin' miracle of nature.

I was out on a date with a girl the other night and she told me she had babies, all I can say is thank God that window was open or I might not have gotten out of there in time. I found out from a friend later that I'd misheard her and she actually has rabies, got bit by a flying squirrel or something, so I kind of felt bad about flinging myself out of the restaurant like I did. I might give her a call to go out again some time, maybe in a couple weeks when the pills have had time to make sure she's not going to foam from the mouth on my upholstery or anything like that. She was nice, and it's not like she has kids anymore.

I want to meet the guy who suckered the world into thinking that having kids is a good idea. Probably the same guy who invented the diaper or Pokémon. All I'm saying is that if this guy holds a seminar, consider me there. If I could get just one tenth of that magic to rub off on me, within a week I'd have people paying me money to watch them kick themselves in the face. Granted, I hope I'd eventually come up with a better money-making scheme than that, since I'd probably get tired of flying all over the country to witness face-kickings and people getting blood on me and all that, but it would be a start. And it illustrated my point pretty well, I think.

So yeah, you can keep your "household," if that's what it comes down to. I'll console myself somehow as I recline on my spitup-free couch and sleep in until noon. And I hope you like Candyland, you poor bastards.

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Baseball fans love nothing more than debating who was the best of the best, and which of the game's many legends are deserving of enshrinement in the hallowed Hall of Fame. Boring, I say. I'd rather see newborn monkeys processed into chewing gum than sit through another of those inane debates. No, what interests me is the exact opposite. Who exactly were the worst of the worst, the most pathetic, inept baboons ever to strap on cleats? Who were the miserable excuses for human evolution that made us retch the most, clutching our privates in wonder at how these crack babies made it to professional ball in the first place?

Who can forget Frank "Gas Can" Whitmore? Frank was famous all across the Caribbean League because bringing him into a game to stop a rally was like trying to piss out a house fire after drinking a gallon of turpentine. In both cases, your dick would catch on fire instantly.

Then there was Lennie "Three Strikes" Driscoll. This human marvel couldn't hit the ocean if he fell out of a submarine. I saw one game where every time Driscoll came up, the ump would give him two strikes just for stepping into the batter's box, to save time. This guy would strike out in batting practice. I saw one game where he was wearing a jersey at least ten sizes too big in hopes the pitcher would hit him accidentally, so he could get on base for the first time all season. Only then the wind picked up and Driscoll ended up taking off like a kite, and he was called out for leaving the batter's box as he flew over the opposing team's dugout, swearing all the way like a foul-mouthed angel.

There was "Shoeless" Joe Montegle and "Cupless" Joe Smitz, the middle infielders for the Flagstaff Fag's Half in 1971, both of whose careers ended on the same messy double-play attempt.

And I haven't even mentioned the worst catcher I ever saw, Phil "Nose Bone" Drummond, who had a nasty habit of jumping out of the way whenever the ball was coming too fast, leading to a fatwa being issued on his head by the Minor League Umpires' Insurance Fund. Phil was also renowned for his hard-nosed play on close plays at the plate, like the time he took out an umpire in a bone-jarring collision when Phil was trying to get out of the way of a runner that was coming home.

Few lists like this would be complete without Blind Willie McTipp, the second baseman for the North Shore Riggers in the mid-seventies. I could write an entire column just on the many problems raised by having a seeing-eye dog on the field. Not only did the dog constantly fight McTipp over the ball, but Willie would be dragged off the field involuntarily every time somebody in the crowd started hucking around a Frisbee, which made the infield defense a little shaky.

Surprisingly, Willie wasn't the only legally blind player ever in pro ball, since Wenchell "Lights Out" Croup was in the same league a few years later, as a first baseman for the Stone Valley Nothings. By then, dogs had been outlawed from most stadiums thanks to the Southby Spineless Weasels' "Neuter Night" promotion mishap in 1980, so Wenchell was on his own, which made things interesting to say the least. For the most part, he depended on his teammates yelling when and where they were throwing the ball, like "NOW! CROTCH!" Croup was almost killed several times in 1982 when the team got a new shortstop from the Dominican Republic who didn't speak any English. But you can bet your concussed ass he learned the important parts of Spanish real quick-like that season.

But inept as they all may be, none of these paragons of motor-skill deformity could hold a candle to Hodge "Black Hole" Lightner, the centerfielder for the Long Island Dutch Ovens for most of the 1960's. Hodge set a minor-league record for going three entire seasons, 1961-1963, without ever touching the ball. By bat, glove, or hand, Hodge remained unsullied by horsehide for three long seasons. Players of the day considered Lightner to be something of a miracle, since the team's entire training staff, mascot, and most of its fans either caught or were hit with the ball at least once during that time span.

But Lightner had a unique talent for making spectacular diving attempts at catches, no matter where on the field or in the stands the ball was hit, and never actually making contact with the ball. Fans loved his hustle and management kept bringing him back, season after season, on the mistaken belief that Lighter was "so close" and just on the verge of "busting out." Those hopes ended one day in 1967, when Lightner was trampled by fans during a "free ice cream" promotion at the Dutch Ovens' home park, Home Field.

There were more terrible players than just those, of course, but even thinking about these guys is giving me indigestion. Butter me up with some Pepto Bismol next time and maybe I'll tell you the rest.

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