Jays are favorites to win the World Series: I think they know just a bit more about which team is going to be winning…

You say the beaver is “cowardly”?? Can your national carrion bird chew his way through a whole fricken’ tree? No, huh?

Can your high-and-mighty two-toned crow stop the flow of a river? Didn’t think so?

Does your hairless hawk have a delectable pastry named after his posterior appendage? I thought not!

The defense rests. I am damn proud to have the Beav as my national symbol. (Can’t say the same about the “Bieb” , though.)

Come baseball season, beware the Beav!

“I am sad. And I think it’s important for me to grieve that. I think it’s important for me to grieve leaving New York. I had a proverbial home there. I had a home among fans. I had a home in an organization. I had a lot of success there. And I think it’s important for me to be sad about that for a moment before I go on to the next feeling.And that next feeling has already arrived for me. So I’ve grieved what I need to grieve.”

Put into this context, that comment about an organization committed to winning sounds more like a way to balance out the emotions expressed in the preceding sentence above.

Furthermore, I have seen a pack of wolves and some bears in the city.

Of course, the wolves and bears were at the zoo.

http://www.google.com/imgres?q=pictures+of+giant+pleistocene+beaver&hl=en&sa=X&tbo=d&biw=1024&bih=667&tbm=isch&tbnid=lXCkAi0JVvVLjM:&imgrefurl=http://powip.com/2011/05/giant-beavers-a-fossil-memory-from-1972/&docid=U1cfMrLNZkOZ6M&imgurl=http://powip.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/Giant-Beaver.jpg&w=500&h=375&ei=8gvRUIPJJqj1ygG_woGABg&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=724&vpy=123&dur=9242&hovh=194&hovw=259&tx=198&ty=112&sig=110745869430647069817&page=1&tbnh=132&tbnw=171&start=0&ndsp=20&ved=1t:429,r:4,s:0,i:102

In the timbers of Fennario
The wolves are runnin’ round.
The beavers were so big and mean
Not a single tree was found

Don’t gnaw on me….

Gator: it just goes to show, Wally Cleaver learned a lot from The Beav.

@’philliac: WHAT???? How dare you disparage our Brave & Noble Beast!! For the record (and the win, I might add) our giant rat is so badass (especially as compared to Sam The Carrion Eater) that one member of the species made a credible and spirited attempt at taking out a person:

http://www.thestar.com/news/world/article/1251992–rabid-beaver-attacks-virginia-woman-83-as-she-finishes-swim

Admittedly she was an octogenarian and the Beav had the rabies cooties but DAMN, that’s one BIG, Badazz Beaver.

No Bald Eagle ever did anything near as cool.

Yeah, you can read in that if you want to, but as a guy with no dog in the fight – and no knock on the Mets whatsoever – he very clearly sounded like a guy who feels like he’s not gotten his due and still has to prove himself. In a way he wasn’t even six months ago or even at the close of the season.

Again, I really have no dog in the fight here (I’m a Toronto fan but root for the Mets as the non-despicable NYC team and who thought they made a smart baseball move here), but it was very hard to come away from that presser not under the impression that he was a bit charged up from his experience the last few weeks.

http://washington.nationals.mlb.com/was/fan_forum/mascot.jsp

Oh, and Sam the Bald Eagle can take him.

I’m from up Nort’ in the land of American Indians, Norwegian and German farmers, and most recently retirees from both coasts trying to escape state income tax and high cost of living.

Straight south of eastern Saskatchewan for you.

As it concerns the BJs – unfortunate abbreviation unless your on the receiving end – can I suggest using The Beavz or Beavz, as the situation may warrant? It’s a slight nod to grammar and a big nod to coolness.

You do?

Okay, pull that couch a little closer to the fire. Good. Here, stick this hot andiron in your mulled cider. That’ll warm it up. Okay, we’re ready now.

Once upon a time I had a good pal who was in the rock and roll biz, and found himself road managing the Jan and Dean comeback tour that followed the inexplicable success of the awful TV movie Dead Man’s Curve. Jan Barry still had all the stage presence of a malfunctioning android….

No, I”m not making this up….

…and his behavior in general was still as inconsiderate and obnoxious as it had been before he skateboarded at high speed into the back of a parked truck while being towed by a another car. Anyway, he kinda wore down the road crew with his tantrums (Per diem! P-p-per diem!) – which were difficult to interpret because he was intermittently aphaisic – so one night, when they were playing at a summer stock theater during an orf night for its revival of South Pacific (or something equally insipid), the kind of show that inevitably features washed up stage and television stars angling, not unlike R A Dickey four years ago, for their big comeback, their Waiting for Guffman moment somewhere in the vicinity of Dacron, Ohio, the burned out road crew headed for the local bar for some serious quaffing. I mean, serious quaffing.

My pal staggered back from the bar to his motel room with a copy of the Dacron Republican-Democrat rolled up under his arm. When he got to his room, he began the laborious process of transferring the newspaper to his opposite armpit so he could free up his hand to dig his keys out of his pocket without permitting the paper to unroll. You know these rules, right? Well, as he dug the keys out, the little slot in the ring holding the key to the ungainly plastic fob with the room number on one side and the “If Found Drop in Any Mailbox” invitation on the other (a lost relic of a more elegant age, along with things like Speedy Alka-Seltzer, the little round swastika-shaped plastic 45 RPM spinners in the crackerjack box and the Desitin cod) snagged on a herniated loop of thread inside his pocket as he was taking it out and the newspaper unrolled, fell to the floor, and as he fumbled to catch it the keys fell to the floor too.

Well. You all know how tomorrow morning’s hangover amplifies the weird grains and demented faux fleur-de-lis patterns in the industrial carpet in a motel hallway and makes them swim up at your eyes when you bend over, right? So my pal is semi-standing there, semi-jacknifed, one hand bracing him against his hotel room door, the other one hanging – not quite purposefully yet – above the key he has not yet quite figured out how to reach without more blood rushing to his marinated brain and making yet worse the spinning sensation and the pulsations of the patterns in the carpet, and worse, whether actually to gather up the Dacron Republican-Democrat or just kick the whole thing into his room once he gets the door open and deal with it tomorrow. Mentile (a more appropriate term than “mental”) paralysis sets in. What to do, and how to do it?

Suddenly, a pair of wingtips intrude themselves into his field of vision, such as it is. A shadow falls across the discollated fronds of Dacron Republican Democrat. A well manicured hand reaches down, picks up the key, and presses it into his own dangling digits. He grips the key and slowly, slowly, applying friction against the door with his other hand to maintain his purchase, rises up – not quickly enough to give himself the bends, of course – and prepares to face his benefactor. His gaze transits the gaberdines, the modest belt buckle, the light blue pinstriped sportshirt with the beige unfastened sportjacket and its lower and then its upper button….

And he finds himself looking directly into the face of Wally Cleaver.

The Beaver Wrestlers have a great chance to make the playoffs and possibly win the World Series.