Buffa's Buffet: 5 things on my mind
Look for the topics in BOLD, people who actually click through.
Rain is an asshole, am I right?
Everybody’s afraid of ice and snow, along with a moderate fear of the Mississippi turning heel and drowning St. Louis--but rain is the constant in this town with weather. The spring into the summer rainfall feeds your weeds like a carnival would a young boy, and the fall is full of water.
But overnight Monday, St. Louis received what would amount to about nine inches of rain. Riverport was flooded. River Des Peres got pretty high. You could have filmed Jaws 5 and 6 over there for a very low budget, and may have gotten Tom Berenger to play the lead El Maguey chef who rescues four kittens from the Chippewa White Shark. Pardon me. I have medicated with Kimbo Kush, which hits about as hard as the late fighter.
I was and continue to be a big Kimbo Slice fan. He was one of the first YouTube sensations, an alley-brawling puncher who could knock a guy into next week. Slice hit them so hard that the victim’s mother would suffer a sudden stomach ache. He was a real life Rocky, a million-to-one-shot who went from the alley to the Octagon, winning five of seven professional MMA fights. He would be 48 years old if he were alive today.
Slice, aka Kevin Ferguson, died in Florida six summers ago.
It’s only fitting that a cannabis strain befitting his name be one that hits as potently as a Kush family member. I compare the Kush family to the Lannister clan in Game of Thrones. Deny their greatness out of jealousy, and they will constantly impress you. Kosher Kush and Pre ‘98 Bubba Kush are solid strains that can knock you down.
The biggest misconception about cannabis, which is the environmentally friendly and original word that can be replaced by “marijuana,” is that it’s the automatic gateway to worse and far more deadly drugs. That’s just wrong. A weaker mind is quickly manipulated by the idea of what’s powerful and better than smoking a drug that millions of doctors across the country prescribe to people. There’s little dark and dangerous about weed. Really.
I’ve smoked recreationally for the past 4-5 years. What started as a nice thing to do with my dad while watching a movie evolved into my guilty pleasure. Instead of eating candy every day or downing continuous beers, I smoke some Kimbo Kush and think better of the world. That’s the beginning and end of it. If you made me choose, I’d take cannabis over alcohol. If you do blaze one tonight, take a puff or two for Mr. Slice, a true underdog story with a tragically too-soon end.
While beer addicts cry everywhere, let’s move onto Juan Soto and the Cardinals.
Let’s talk about this here, because I already did a long-form dive into the hot stove subject for KSDK News this week. It goes without saying but using a hammer here to pound in this nail: ANY team in the Major Leagues can use a Juan Soto. Generational talent. Already owns a zip code in Studville. A presence who is so powerful, another Arch will just rise up out of the ground. Yada, yada, boom, boom, boom, Soto is not the CarX man. Whatever the next blogger said already this week, fill in the blanks. He’s a legit game-changer.
Fun Fact: I always feel like my writing sounds like a nervous Ray Romano in traffic, begging and pleading with drivers and cars to let him through. That’s what I’m doing with the Soto talk. I am ready for it to be over, even if it is pretty fun. But when you may or may not get a big player-something Blues fans suffered with Matthew Tkachuk last week-the waiting game can become tedious.
Dreaming is free, but that doesn’t mean you will wake up without a headache. There’s no clear clue that tells us how close or far away the Cardinals are in on Soto, but they should also be looking at pitching during their trade deadline ruminating period. That is, if the Cards aren’t going to hit the snooze button, and then pick up an aged out Jon Lester and JA Happ. They did well, but tricks can’t be pulled in back-to-back seasons.
I’d look into Noah Syndergaard and Frankie Montas. Get one or both of them, regardless of the Soto pursuit. As my loyal good friend Paddy Houlihan pointed out, Juan could be headed to the birthplace of my wife. San Diego gets him and they are a legit World Series threat.
Confession: I love when actors improvise great lines of dialogue. With “Bullet Train” on the way to cinemas next week, Brad Pitt’s ad-libbed scene in “Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood” comes to mind. This film celebrated its three year anniversary yesterday, and stands as Quentin Tarantino’s best film since “Kill Bill: Volume 2” or on some days, 1994’s “Pulp Fiction.” The scene in question is where Pitt’s semi-retired stunt man, Cliff Booth, is dropping off his faded television star best friend Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio is sensational in the role) at the set.
Before DiCaprio’s jaded Dalton walks off, Booth leans over towards the passenger side and says, “Hey, you’re Rick fucking Dalton, and don’t you forget it!” Dalton shoots him a bullseye, and Cliff drives off. As it turns out, in an interview from Esquire Magazine, Pitt improvised that line. He did that because way back when he bypassed a journalism degree at the University of Missouri, Columbia, Pitt was told the exact same line, albeit with his name inserted into the fictional Rick’s place, when he arrived in Hollywood.
By the way, Pitt deserved that Oscar for the movie. It’s not all about prosthetics and accents; I completely believed the movie star Pitt was this down and almost out Hollywood lion who still had a taste for the stunt game. A loyal friend who treats Rick like a brother in arms and not his boss. Pitt rocked it, and some folks aren’t so sure. Those people know who they are too.
And finally, a word for St. Louis Blues fans. Matthew Tkachuk will not be a Blue, unless some warped fantasy plays out where the Florida Panthers decide to trade him far away to a distant Midwest city. He would have been an excellent addition, no doubt. A chip off the Walt block, as Jamie Rivers said, Tkachuk is a Craig Berube type player. A guy who will not just go to the dirty areas but exist in them for long stretches, unafraid to throw off the mitts and toss fists if it’s a must.
Losing that is like being semi-promised a mini gooey butter cake, and then receiving angel food cake instead. Like, what the fuck?