There's Your Karma, Ripe As Peaches

Happy Belated Festivus

Wed, 24 Dec 2008 11:37:30 -0500

As most of you are aware, I've participated in the Festivus celebration over at Airing of Grievances for the last 4 or 5 years. Well this year, they held Festivus about 5 days early, which seemed to damper the enthusiasm a bit.. but well meh. Since this blog is one continuous aired grievance where I rarely say anything positive, you might find some of it a bit familiar :)

To Bernie Madoff: The world of finance was built on shameless, unapologetic thievery. But the rogue and the crooked have nothing on your shenanigans, you fraudulent, traitorous cunt. You are a rapacious, wild animal that preyed upon your own people under the guise of tzedakah. You've victimized countless charities and spiked another rise in anti-semitism yet you still have the audacity to walk the streets of Manhattan with that smug, shit-eating grin.

Is it because you know you should be in shackles? Is it because you squirreled away a large portion of the funds and confessed to provide cover? Or is it because you're wearing a bulletproof vest under that $5000 Burberry coat and you think no one can touch you? Something tells me it's all of the above.

If it were up to me, I'd take it to you Rikers-style with my strap-on of justice before dragging you to an alley, beating you with chains and bamboo shoots and throwing you into a lion's den. Let's see how smug you'd be then. Now, I'm not foolish enough to believe this will ever happen, so I'm going to pin my hopes on the goyim being right about the existence of Hell. Because if they are, I'm pretty sure you'll be immersed to your neck in the ice of Cocytus for the rest of eternity. When G-d shuffles you loose the mortal coil and dumps you in the 9th Circle, tell Cain that we all said hello.

To Madoff "Victims" (the individuals): You followed that Pied Piper down the primrose path and straight off the cliff and now you want someone to feel sorry for you? Why? Because now your kid has to go to Rutgers and you'll have to trade in the Bentley for a Jetta? Eat a fucking dick. When common sense advised that you look beneath the hood, you put greed on autopilot and bought another home in Montauk. And it's not like you battled with that decision. It was easy for you. Why? Because you were making money. Oh, and because Bernie was a member of the Tribe and your 98-year-old Zayde thought he was a nice guy. If there was any justice in this world, you'd be spending next Hanukkah working as greeters at Wal-Mart. Chumps.

To Congress: Shame on you. You had a real chance to not only help the people of Detroit but NFL fans at large by forcing the Ford family to give up ownership of the Lions and Ford Field before allowing them to visit Capital Hill. What'd you do instead? You bitched about private planes. I know you people get paid to drop the ball and piss your collective pants at the site of union officials but have a little sack. If I went to Detroit and ran a campaign called "Oust the Fords from Football" I'd be elected in a landslide and wouldn't be sweating the possibility of some backwoods schmuck like Ron Gettelfinger screwing me out of an election.

To Rod Blagojevich: Here's a tip: teabagging the constituency is a right reserved for charming, handsome men, not a man that allows his face to turn him into the margarine to John Travolta's cross-dressing butter. Know your place.

To Al Davis: I'm sick of this emotional abuse. Why do you treat me this way? Why do you make me think I don't deserve you? Am I not pretty enough? Is it my hips? I bet you didn't even know that I flirted with another team this year. Yeah, that's right. I had a date with the San Diego Chargers when you were out of town but then Norv Turner showed up and I had to run off to vomit... then I wept in shame :( I still can't believe I got so emotional about it but I guess that's what happens when you try to cheat on someone you love that doesn't love you back.

To PETA: Breast milk for ice cream? Is this some type of self-sabotage? It's like you've gotten on your knees to beg us to blow you off. Your primary mouthpieces are porn stars, C-list actresses and a woman whose vagina could've hidden Roger Clemens and his ego from the Senate and still had room to accommodate Tommy Lee's forearm-sized penis.

These women can't even string 8 words together. All they can do is lie in a sexy repose and remind us that they'd "rather go naked than wear fur" and we should feel that way too. I've got a message for you silly broads - we already do! Being naked is awesome. It's liberating. It's divine. And it's the best way to feel the breeze. Fuck off until you say something that we can take seriously. Breast milk in ice cream. Someone oughta knock you out.

To Cristina Ronaldo: Football has long fought for credibility in America, a pathalogically hypermasculine country where "real men" speak with "you-talkin'-ta-me" pugnacity and do pushups with their dicks. And yet here you are, the unofficial ambassador of our sport, prancing around Hollywood with shaved legs, booty shorts and a fauxhawk. Are you insane?

Look, the footballing world knows that you're a lothario with a penchant for hookers but Americans do not, soon they'll come off David Beckham's fraudulent sack to anoint you as the new role model for their little punters. And when they see you flaming out all over Europe with your self-tanner, crotch-hugging Pepe jeans and Louis Vuitton man purse, they will snatch their kids off the pitches and run for the hills.

You are the greatest talent of a generation; not one of Ricky Martin's dancers. Get your act together, you diving puss-in-boots.

To Beyonce Knowles: The crimes: -

(On having an alter-ego with a name like a bootleg drag queen) - "I have someone else that takes over when it's time for me to work and when I'm on stage, this alter ego that I've created that kind of protects me and who I really am. Sasha Fierce is the fun, more sensual, more aggressive, more outspoken side and more glamorous side that comes out when I'm working and when I'm on the stage."

- (On being a pop star) - "There is a time limit on being a pop star, yes. Being a legend, an icon? Absolutely not. I'm over being a pop star. I don't wanna be a hot girl. I wanna be iconic. And I feel like I've accomplished a lot. I feel like I'm highly respected, which is more important than any award or any amount of records. And I feel like there comes a point when being a pop star is not enough."

- (On the "B'Phone" by Samsung) - "When I was 10, I recorded a song called '632-5792' -- a phone number. It's a little embarrassing but it's cute. There's a recording of that song on the phone exclusively for my fans. I wanted to make sure people got a feel for who I really am. It's only through this phone that you can get this close to my life."

Bitches like you make me wish I carried around a floppy dildo that I could pull out of a hip holster and smack people with whenever the need arose. I don't think I'm alone in saying that you are in serious need of a cock punch. A fierce cock punch. To the face. It's time you and your busted weaves got a little street justice.

To Madonna: It seems like an eternity since Guy Ritchie was a wunderkind whose films rocked us with brilliant pacing, outrageous humor and genius styling.

But then you came across the pond with your mysticism, faux English accent and desires to act. In no time, you had Guy's deflated balls locked in your roided-up vagina prison and a promising career was in shambles. I assumed that'd be the last impact you'd have on my life but then came reports that you'd used your crotch of destruction to trap Alex Rodriguez.

I'm sure it wasn't tough to lure him in, given his weakness for women with vaginas that flex like they're Mr. Olympia. But with the Yankees' hitting troubles, the last thing we need is an evil succubus like you turning A-Rod into the Guy Ritchie of baseball.

Both you and I know that your va-jay-jay is like The Ring and once chaps stare into that black hole, few are able to recover. If you leave A-Rod now, he may be able to recover by the All-Star break. CC and Teixeira can keep us in reach of the wild card until then.

And with that, I'm spent. Merry Chrismukkah, boys and girls. I've got 8 hours to start and finish all of my holiday shopping and do so without getting arrested for assault. Wish me luck.

Hey, Good Lookin' - That Means You, Teixeira!

Tue, 23 Dec 2008 20:58:54 -0500

I posted this image by mistake but since it's been up for a couple days, I'll add a little text -- not really for your amusement but because I hate the way the post formatted without it.

For Americans who don't know the identify of this modern day Venus, meet Camilla Parker-Bowles. She not only serves as the Duchess of Cornwall but also concrete proof that money, fame and blue-blood status have no bearing on one's taste in women.

---

In other news of pure awesomeness, the New York Yankees just signed Mark Teixeira to an 8-year, $170+ million deal.

Sabathia, ~~Burnett (meh)~~, Tex. Who are these mysterious chaps in the front office and what have they done with Brian Cashman?! It's as if someone wants the Yankees to win again!

Now, I'll be honest - I remain thorougly unhappy that we solve problems by dumping billions of dollars into the laps of high-flying free agents. $400+M are tied up in our 3 recent acquisitions but at least Sabathia and Teixieira don't require Metamucil and Flomax prescriptions. At least they aren't 8 years past their primes. If we're going to spend money like a drunken hillbilly in a whorehouse, the least we can do is spend it on the best tarts in the building. Two of our recent moves reflect such thinking.

You know, when Madonna's roided up vagina prison trapped Alex Rodriguez a few months ago, I knew the Yankees could be in serious trouble for years to come. With the Yankees' hitting troubles and complete lack of pitching, the last thing we needed was that evil succubus turning A-Rod into the Guy Ritchie of baseball.

But with Teixeira in the lineup, we might just be okay. All we need now is another starter or bullpen arm and a relationship shakeup and the New York Yankees are back in business... the business of winning championships (that was cheesy and I am ashamed. My apologies).

Huzzah!

Another Teacher Exposed as Mental Defective

Tue, 09 Dec 2008 13:34:12 -0500

Remember those three days in school (if you went to a mostly white school, that is) when you covered slavery in the United States?

If you're having trouble recalling, think back to that one week in US History or Social Studies where the 2 black kids sat in awkward agony as the teacher recounted the details of slavery to them instead of the whole class, and the 30 white kids in the room stared at them with awkward, apologetic expressions. After the bell rang, a couple classmates that were truly overcome with white guilt would track them down in the hall after class and verbally apologize for how "their people" were treated before expressing how awful it makes them feel.

All of this inevitably occurred during Black History Month - the only time it was seemingly acceptable for anything other than Crispus Attucks to arise as a topic of discussion during school. [However, Mr. Attucks certainly popped up again during these 28 days.]

So I guess we should see it as progress that a Elaine Bernstein, a 7th grade social studies teacher from White Plains, NY, recently covered slavery before the calendar mandated. Trouble was, she tried to enliven the discussion (as if the subject needs it) by binding the hands and feet of two black girls with tape and then putting them under a desk... because.. you know.. the students needed to visualize what it was like to be an African captive on a slave ship. The only thing this tragic scene was missing was Ms. Bernstein's Act 2, where a white student comes up and helps act out a scene from Roots.

Sadly, a mother raised hell only to have the teacher and the school authorities completely miss the boat (no pun intended):

"We encourage our teachers to deliver the curriculum in a variety of ways, to go beyond just reading the textbook," said Superintendent Brian Monahan of the North Rockland School District in New York City's northern suburbs. "We don't want to discourage creativity. But this obviously went wrong because the student was upset."

In no other place than the bedroom is bondage creative and even there it's a bit old hat. But turning students into the gimp? Come on. Now you can argue that if she'd tied up white kids, there'd be no problem but the real issue here is that binding children of any color is a BAD IDEA. And being stupid enough to bind black kids during an already touchy discussion ought to result in you being taken to an alley and beaten with reeds. It's not like she didn't have other visualization options. How about measuring off the space slaves had on ships and try to fit the class into it? Is that not hands on enough?

I doubt the school will punish this woman for being a mental defective. So when her class reaches the Holocaust section of the book, I hope the school holds a convocation in the gym where Ms. Bernstein is stuffed in a covered Radio Flyer and wheeled to a gas chamber at faux Auschwitz. Hopefully, she won't get upset.

Tyson Makes Room for de la Hoya in Bolivian

Sun, 07 Dec 2008 13:34:11 -0500

This sad image is what happens when you're only in it for the money.. and when you're too ~~blinded by your 2,500-watt smile and million dollar paydays~~ arrogant to see that you're time has long since passed.

It's easy to say that Oscar de la Hoya should have called it a day after Floyd Mayweather took his boot of justice to him in the final rounds last May, but even with hindsight being what it is, was there ever any doubt?

In rounds 9 - 12, Pretty Boy taxed the gold finish off de la Hoya with 71 connects (vs. 27) and 27 power shots (vs. 23). And what was so disheartening about it all wasn't that Mayweather's slick counterpunching was suddenly too much to handle; it was that Oscar didn't have anything left for a proper response. He had no legs, no power and a connection rate that you'd expect of a tomato can on Friday Night Fights. Still, he managed a respectable split decision that allowed him to leave the ring with his head held high. And with Mayweather's retirement scuttling the possibilities of a rematch, it was the perfect opportunity to walk into that quiet good night.

But no, de la Hoya went looking for trouble because as much as he loves making money, he clearly loves blowing big fights even more. What's worse is this time, he not only blew the fight but also had to sit idly by while his corner threw in the towel. It was a shameful moment for boxing that never should have happened.

Sure, de la Hoya v. Pacquiao seemed like a waste of time what with ODLH sporting 4-inch height and 6-inch reach advantages against an undersized guy with a suspect jaw that jumped 2 weight classes to fight him. But Manny Pacquiao isn't The Contender's Steve Forbes and he isn't a smoking, boozing and slightly insane Ricardo Mayorga either. Manny Pacquaio is a tenacious, ferocious pugilist. And while that wouldn't have mattered against Oscar even three years ago, it certainly does and did in a year when a guy that couldn't even win a boxing reality show easily took him the distance.

Oscar de la Hoya should have been doing the rumba with one of those oversexed broads on Dancing with the Stars. He should have been buying a Grammy for another one of his lame Latin Pop "records." He should have been making a bajillion dollars promoting young, talented fighters through Golden Boy Promotions. He should have been anywhere but the ring and now his legacy will pay dearly for it.

It's pretty sad. But let me take a selfish angle here and tell you what else will suffer - any affection I ever had for Oscar de la Hoya. And no, it's not because he and his old balls went down like a one-eyed bitch. Or because he's been a weak 3 - 3 since his failed rematch with Shane Mosley. It's because now, Manny Pacquiao will fight and beat Ricky Hatton and do you know what that will do? It will pull Floyd Mayweather Jr. out of retirement to counterpunch Pacquaio back to the Philippines and take official ownership of the mythical pound-for-pound title. Don't get me wrong, Pretty Boy is a joy to watch but I've had enough of his "I'm an insufferable, ungrateful, preening douchebag that leaves my house just to wave around hundred dollar bills" to last a lifetime. We get it, Floyd. You're the best. You're the greatest. You're rich. And even more, you hang out with 50 Cent.

Thanks to Oscar de la Hoya, we're about to hear more about it. Times ten.

Great work, Oscar. Ass.

Cristina Ronaldo Destroys Progress

Wed, 23 Jul 2008 12:53:38 -0500

As an Arsenal Gooner and believer in the triumph of good over evil, I loathe Cristiano Ronaldo. He's a diving puss-in-boots that deserves a solid kick to the neck. As such, I'd like to think that if he ever crossed my path, I'd choke him out and break his knees but the truth is - he's a mesmerizing talent and the best footballer on the planet. It's not enough that his body is capable of doing things that others cannot; he pulls off moves that others can barely conceive of, let alone attempt. No one is as fast and agile, nor is anyone more inventive or cunning, and it's for that reason that he's rapidly becoming the face of football.

But when you become the unofficial ambassador of a sport, it's important to remember that you're not just catering to over-tanned Euros who know that beneath the crotch-hugging Pepe jeans and Louis Vuitton man purse is a man that frequently has orgies with hookers. You're also serving Americans - Americans that are finally realizing how lame and fraudulent David Beckham actually is.. Americans that will snatch their kids off youth pitches and run for the hills upon noticing that their little boys are wearing the kit of a preening Mediterranean gigolo:

Come on, Cristina - we have to do better than this! You represent a sport that has long fought for credibility in a pathalogically hypermasculine country where "real men" speak with "you-talkin'-ta-me" pugnacity and do pushups with their dicks. And yet here you are, prancing around Hollywood with shaved legs, booty shorts and a fauxhawk. You are the greatest talent of a generation; not one of Ricky Martin's dancers. Do the game a favor and put on some cargo shorts and grab your crotch every once in a while. There are Americans to impress!

HT: Just Jared

Look Out Fellas, We Got Next!

Wed, 25 Jun 2008 07:31:59 -0500

On Sunday, Candace Parker of the Los Angeles Sparks became the 2nd woman in the history of the WNBA to guide the ball into the hoop without losing it on the way. This display of ridiculous athleticism made June 22nd a true red-letter day, as yet another woman showed the big boys that we can do it just like they can... with a smaller ball... on a fast break... once every 6 years.

The league and media are blowing this up as if the girl jumped out of the gym and shat diamonds upon the masses. I got an email from a WNBA-loving friend on Monday morning claiming, "It's only a matter of time until we're huge now!" Oh really? Tell that to the league's collective 18-inch vertical leap.

If anything, Parker's dunk (and the overreaction to it) proves that she's as much a freak of nature now as she was when she embarrassed a group of boys in the 2004 McDonald's All-America High School Slam Dunk Contest. But according to Parker, we need to brace ourselves for the slam revolution:

"I do know that more and more women are going to do it and it's something that people are going to have to accept."

Accept? Who's going to object? Step right up, ladies. The only problem people have with women playing basketball is that they're totally unwatchable.

Dunk for us. Sky for us. Jump 2 feet in the air without falling down like a sniper tagged you from the rafters. We've been waiting on some legit output since you started telling us you got next in that totally misleading ad campaign where Dawn Staley, Lisa Leslie and Sheryl Swoopes rolled up on the playground to challenge the men.

Those commercials left 14 year old me thinking I'd see women playing organized playground ball - slick moves, smooth shots, a little trickery. Got next, indeed. They couldn't play at the rim, let alone above it. But I shouldn't have been surprised then and I suppose I shouldn't be now. Of the thousands of women that have played D-1 ball in the last 25 years, only 4 have registered dunks in games. And before Lisa Leslie showed out for the Sparks in 2002, the professional dunking woman was a myth like Bigfoot, wish-granting fairies and unicorns that dance under rainbows. There were always sightings at playgrounds and closed practices but when cameras appeared for documentation, hops would scatter like cockroaches in the light.

I've long held that this game is the last refuge for girls that want to be athletes but aren't agile, flexible or fast enough to hack it anywhere else, and Parker's dunk reinforces that belief. You can turn a soccer or volleyball player into a basketball player but you'd have more luck catching a naked, Vaseline-covered crackhead than trying to go the other way.

While the best female athletes tear up tracks, soccer pitches and tennis courts; spike balls over volleyball nets and hit 110 mph pitches out of softball fields, hoops continues to offer up a few talented athletes and a horde of slow-as-molasses girls with pointy elbows and skinned knees that can barely walk and chew gum at the same time. If the league was made up of 150 Diana Taurasis, Candace Parkers, Sue Birds, Tamika Catchings and Lisa Leslies, you wouldn't hear me say a word. But it's not even close. You've got these 5 ladies and 145 female Luc Longleys. And while it's fantastic that Parker went up one-handed and sent the ball home, the gratuitous coverage is not only patently absurd but it is also pretty sad.

Wake me up when a couple women start abusing league centers like they're Shawn Bradley. Contact me when players stop shooting ugly rockets off their hips. Give me a tap when watching a matchup that isn't the championship game no longer means 40 minutes of underhanded layups and cramps. Christ - just let me know when something consistently entertaining sets up shop instead of pimping what you don't have. When the league can pull that off, I might watch more than 6 minutes without falling asleep or passing out from shame.

Is PETA the Leon Spinks or James Dolan of Activism?

Thu, 08 May 2008 18:45:22 -0500

I got in my office around 6 am today, hoping that with a diligent morning, I could wrap things up and skip town for 6 or 8 weeks. My diligence only lasted 17 minutes before I hit hulu.com. In the 12 hours since, I have watched 5 episodes of Lost, 3 - 30 Rocks, 3 runs of Arrested Development, left once for a sausage egg mcmuffin, again for lunch and had a nap. But lucky for you, I remembered that I have a blog about 10 minutes ago, so I'm going to take a break from sucking at life to negatively contribute to your day.

Today's question: Does PETA actually hate animals or are they brain dead?

I'm not a serial killer, which means I have a fondness for animals and think that they have an inherent worth. And while I don't believe an animal's life has more value than yours or mine, I wholeheartedly believe that groups should exist to advocate for their protection from cruelty, increase social awareness and expose abuses. So in that vein, I'm glad that watchdog organizations like PETA exist. But while PETA's heart always SEEMS to be in the right place - or, at least, the general area, its unabashed stupidity has done more damage to its cause than any other rights group in history. And by the looks of their activity since Eight Belles' death, they have no intention of changing course.

Tangent - am I the only one that thinks this prefer to go naked over fur campaign of theirs is ridiculous? Being naked is awesome. Being naked under something warm and cuddly like a mink on a crisp winter day is even better. Stupid PETA.

Since horse racing is a sport fueled by greed, the tragedies that have befallen it of late should come as no surprise. To say that the horses aren't as sturdy as they used to be is like saying David Beckham has a voice like a pre-teen girl. Bred for speed and strength, today's animals are majestic, tremendous athletes whose bodies have become too strong and heavy for a skeleton that is still too light and fragile. To put it simply, they have chicken legs like Babe Ruth. And when you have 2 - 4 year old animals with that frame that are mad to compete, mad to win and bred to burn like roman candles that explode like spiders across the stars, career ending injuries and euthanasia are going to be the nature of the beast.

But with racing suffering two casualties in as many years on its biggest stage, this should have been an animal activist's wet dream. With true backing from the public, they could have made a legitimate push toward changes and improvements in breeding rules, track safety and veterinary medicine. What's more, they could have burrowed deep in the ear of the Jockey Club to demand that they spearhead initiatives on changing the nature of an overpriced breeding market. Though it's true that plenty of level-headed groups have been spurred to action, the largest, most influential one of all has only proven itself to be operated by mentally defective, exploitative pods. Again.

In the last 5 days, PETA has done everything from claiming that the jockey whipped the filly so mercilessly that he didn't know she was injured until after the finish to raking Hillary and Chelsea Clinton across the coals for giving a rah-rah in support. Now, don't get me wrong, the Clintons need to be bashed on - and even kicked in the face - but when you go so far off the deep end that even they seem like innocent victims, something in the plan has gone horribly awry.

At this point, I have to wonder - is PETA really an animal rights group? Is it possible that they're actually against animals?

There are really only two choices here -- its people have shoe size IQs like Leon Spinks or PETA is intentionally trying to do harm to animals by operating on a level of self-sabotage previously reserved for James Dolan. But unlike Dolan, these tools aren't just destroying a franchise; they're causing millions to turn a blind eye to the true problems of horse racing with their reprehensible, outrageous behavior. By this Saturday, the reaction to the Eight Belles tragedy won't be "Horse racing needs better policies and regulations." It will be "Meh. PETA sucks. They won't rest until the animals rule us."

Truth be told, I really don't know what I should have expected from an organization whose primary activists are porn stars, bad actresses and a woman whose vagina could've hidden Roger Clemens and his ego from the Senate and still had room to accommodate Tommy Lee's forearm-sized penis.

But whether it's stupidity or sabotage, these people should find a large sword on which to throw themselves.

It's the humane thing to do.

CNN Has Completely Given Up on Journalism

Tue, 22 Apr 2008 15:41:07 -0500

Sometime last year, I was astonished to learn that in a time that sees the masses growing dumber by the minute, CNN added bullet-point summaries to their articles, effectively throwing in the towel on the effort to keep us moderately literate.

But since we all have ADD these days, I suppose that was inevitable. What I could not (and should not) have anticipated, however, was the possibility that CNN would completely forgo journalistic integrity in order to boost revenue and give The Onion a run for its money. Granted, you don't get gems like "Why Do All These Homosexuals Keep Sucking on my Cock" at CNN but it's fair to say that the level of news at this once venerable site has strayed well beyond the ridiculous and into the shameful. And now, they've taken things a step further by selling t-shirts that feature their own nonsensical headlines from articles and video posts.

Head over to CNN.com and take a gander at the headlines area. You see that t-shirt icon next to the video headlines? Yeah, that's what I'm talking about. For $15.99 plus shipping and handling, you can get t-shirts that say things like:

Pacing man stuck 41 hours in elevator
Synchronized swimmers faint in unison
'Hips Don't Lie' singer pushes education
Rep calls workers 'illiterate peasants'
Prince drops copter in gal pal's yard
Russian missile obliterates spy plane

You know, it'd be one thing if these headlines were actually funny. At least then you could give CNN some credit for being creative as they continue their descent into becoming the American version of News of the World. But like The Simpsons these days, these efforts don't even elicit a smile, let alone laughter, and after the link cycles off the page, no one will ever know why (or how) it was supposed to be amusing.

"Oh my shirt? Well that was a craaaaaazy headline that I saw on CNN 4 months ago! ... What? ... No wait, seriously! It's hilarious! Just let me explain -- there was this guy that paced all the time - you know those nervous types right? Well, he ended up stuck on an elevator for FORTY-ONE HOURS! Can you imagine? I mean, don't you see the irony of it? Totally nuts!"

By the looks of things, people are already buying into this crap.

Clowns like the ones seen above make me wish I carried around a floppy dildo that I could pull out of a hip holster and smack people with whenever the need arose. I don't think I'm alone in saying that the witless clowns shelling out cash for these shirts and the sad sack jokers in Atlanta that thought them up are in need of a cock punch. A fierce cock punch. To the face.

South African Hookers Jinx The Three Lions

Mon, 14 Apr 2008 07:35:45 -0500

While having my senses abused by Joe Morgan during the Yankees/BoSux game last night, I noticed that Peter Gammons' teeth are an amazing shade of butter. I know he's this legend and all but he's not so big that someone at ESPN - or maybe even his bloody wife - can't force him to put a tube of Crest and maybe even some of those fancy White Strips to use. Being a Hall of Famer shouldn't mean that you can get away with having teefuses that, if pulled out and sold, can put Parkay out of business. Unacceptable.

---

But to the story at hand. It's well known that huge sporting events like the World Cup, Olympics and Super Bowl are boons for the skin trade. After the host site is announced, girls from far and wide grab their chinchilla coats, head to the destination like birds flocking south and get prepared for the influx of indiscriminating, drunken chumps with money to burn on cheap ass. You'd think they'd be unbiased about the fans coming in to cheer on their teams but it seems that when you're in the game of blowing and blanking as many men in possible, the nationality of your punters can be an important factor. At least, that's what these South African hookers believe.

Meet Levola, Yolanda and Samantha [Note: moments before the interview, the trio was fined by police for exposing themselves to drivers] - three prostitutes from a South African shanty town that link England's success in World Cup qualifications to the prospects of escaping prostitution. According to them, the Army of the Three Lions (that's really what we should be called, you know) will bring in a wealth of cash:

“We just can’t wait. We only get paid about £10 for sex when drivers stop for us here. English men will pay a lot more...
~~Why, because they can't do better at home?~~
"We’ll probably have to fight over them with the girls who already have pitches in that area, but it will be worth it." - Yolanda Lorika

Now, a part of me thinks, "Hey! Maybe it's time you raise your games, you filthy mingers! Work harder, blow faster, incorporate something new. There are three of you - maybe you can put on a show! If you get creative over the next two years, you may not have to worry about having the jackhammer taken to you 1,800 times over by insane Englishmen and getting your hips broken. Besides, if that happens, then how will you make money??" But then I realize I'm just being a a foul asshole. So let's look at this realistically:

Assuming England actually reaches the World Cup, we'll most assuredly have two uninspired, nauseating showings before going down 2-1 to some sad sack side like Poland. One of these matches will feature a controversial performance by David Beckham that not only reflects how talentless we are as a nation but also shows that he's 8 years past his prime, remains the source of too much agony and must die. Under the circumstances, it's only good manners to be looking forward to servicing thousands of drunken reprobates for a tenner apiece, right? Ease the pain? A little salve, so to speak, for the perennial wound?

But when those good feelings come with a side of HIV, that's no good for anybody. You see, one in every two South African hookers is dogged with that pesky, fatal occupational hazard and no matter how much bad I wish upon our stupid hools, all that will happen is that these diseased bints will infect them and they'll bring the bug back to the Isles. How delightful.

Our only hope is that every single one of them chooses to forgo the hordes of toothless women lining the dirt roads and opts instead for 3 or 4 minutes with the chicks in this interview - modern marvels that have beaten the odds thus far by stealing heaps of condoms from the free clinic.

“They would give us some for free, but not enough for our work,” said Lavola, who spurned paid sex with a Somalian man because a Nigerian man was willing to have sex in the comfort of his own home (and give her £7).
How very classy of the Nigerian man.

It's fantastic that these chicks are eager to get drilled into oblivion by the debauched nutters in our fanbase but let's be real here --- The Three Lions have left England in a state of perpetual pain and heartache since the 1960s, with each year more shameful than the last. The more people depending on this team's success, the worse they fail. So why these dumb bitches really think England is going to come through and help them get off the mean dirt streets is beyond me. If anything, we're more jinxed now than ever.

Thanks, South Africa!

Yankees Smoked by the Royals -- Again

Thu, 10 Apr 2008 12:46:25 -0500

I leave XM Radio's MLB Home Plate on in my office most of the day and when I came back in yesterday afternoon, Rob Dibble was busy fellating himself over being so fearsome on the mound from about 1990 - 1992. This is a pretty run of the mill occurrence on The Show, a shitefest hosted by Dibble and Kevin Kennedy - a couple of assclown braintrusts with no opinions that make any sense. When they aren't congratulating each other on careers well done or getting unnecessarily furious about this topic or that, they attempt to answer questions from hapless callers.

Yesterday featured a call from a panicked Tigers fan that was concerned over the (then) 0 - 7 squad's chances of making the post-season. No really - I'm serious. And I don't mean that he was worried. He was in an absolute fright. How could that hack Jim Leyland engineer such a catastrophe? How can the 2nd highest payroll in the league not make the post-season? So much for hope.

And he's right. Looks like it's time for that paper bag, Tigers Fan.

Though no team has ever gotten to the post-season after losing its first 7 games, you don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that there are 154 games left to play and these are the Detroit Tigers, not the Texas Rangers. [I can't believe I just said that.] Hell, you shouldn't even have to be a Rob Dibble.

But rather than talk about a week's worth of games full of flukes, aberrations and mishaps or the fact that the Tigers are a good ball club with good hitters making mental errors and pressing a bit too much, the Nasty Boy took up the torch and pitchfork. After excoriating the organization for being such a colossal waste of talent, he and Kennedy then tried to calculate the number of games Detroit would need to beat the odds, eventually deciding that going .500 in April MIGHT leave Detroit with a chance but even then - who knows because other teams are good too - like the Royals and the Cubs!

Seriously? Is this where my subscription money is going? To keep this mindless dickbag employed? They can't find anybody better than this? The reality is that at 1-7, the Tigers are 3 games behind the Indians - their true competition come September. And with their lineup, this team should be able to sleepwalk through April and still be able to hit their way into the wild card. Christ, the Yankees don't even get out of the rocking chairs to participate in the league schedule until it gets warm in mid-June.

Case in point, here's where we are now:

.244 BA (.167 RISP), 21 walks and 25 runs (Detroit has 22 runs)
Errors in seven games in a row and no steals
Like Torre, Girardi seems unaware that Kyle Farnswacker sucks balls
Posada has a dead arm and Jeter has some flaws in his nether region.

And honestly, I can deal with all of that for now. Even being outscored 19 - 7 in two losses to Tampa Bay, which is pathetic, can be taken in stride... I think. But something that cannot be tolerated - and something even the Tigers wouldn't allow - is scoring just 2 runs in 2 games against the Kansas City Royals.

We're missing Jeter and Posada, sure, but that's no excuse for getting pwned by the dregs. Zach Greinke shut us down and shut us out, allowing 6 weak sauce hits over 8 innings.

Have we no pride? Is there no line that is drawn where the team agrees to not be bent over and rogered by every perennial bottom dweller in the league? Now, I know that the Royals are all new and improved but they're still the Royals and managing 2 runs with Rodriguez, Matsui, Abreu, Damon and Cano in the lineup is nothing short of foul. That said, at least we're not the Tigers. If you haven't heard - they're not gonna make the playoffs. Chumps.

Time Began On Opening Day - Last Week

Sun, 30 Mar 2008 12:20:47 -0500

I'm sure I'm late on this but am I the only one that didn't realize that with Opening Day just 24 hours away (not that hyped up bullshit on ESPN), the true Opening Day has already come and gone?

Last Tuesday, I caught all of the news about the Red Sox trip to Japan to take on the A's and what a magical event it was. Hell, I even caught a small portion of the game before flipping on MTV to watch that horrific yet oddly captivating America's Best Dance Crew (Go Kaba Modern!!).

As it turns out, the entire country of Japan showed up for this spring training nonsense. Highlights included Daisuke Matsuzaka being treated like the Second Coming of Jesus and Manny Ramirez jacking a couple homers so monstrous another Godzilla was likely awakened in the Pacific. Now, I paid this news no mind because, like I said a moment ago, this was spring training nonsense.

But alas - this was actually Opening Day. The Opening Day. The only day of the spring so holy and glorious (and non-denominational even) that it deserves to be revered and celebrated at least on the same level as Thanksgiving. This a day that brought us Hank Aaron's 714th and Bob Feller's no-hitter. It's a day so woven into the fabric of the national consciousness that it has become the only true symbol of rebirth - not just a sign that the despair of winter is long gone but of your team's hopes and your ability to bump gums all year about your chances. Not only that, it brings millions together - all playing hooky from their respective life situations - in the joy and anxiety of knowing that if your team wins that day, you're not gonna lose em all and maybe, just maybe that "next year" you're always crowing about, has finally arrived.

But no. Leave it to the federal government to thumb its nose at a nation and celebrate President's Day instead. Where does that get us? A day off to hit that big sale at Kohl's and pick up a piece of cherry pie down at the senior center? Please. But leave it up to Bud Selig to take advantage and shit all over our special moment by shipping Opening Day off to Tokyo and then having the nerve to brag about it:

"Not only do you feel that you're watching history in the making, but we're doing what we really set out to do.... "The game has never been more popular than it is in the United States today. Our goal is to take that popularity and make it worldwide."

Hey dummy, here's a tip - THE JAPANESE ALREADY LIKE BASEBALL! This is about like the English Premier League shipping its opener to Brazil to drum up international support and then sucking each other's dicks over the success once a frenzied riot breaks out in the stands and the stadium catches fire.

Yet again, it's time for someone to kick Bud Selig in the sodding face... GO YANKEES!

Women's Hoops, the NIT or The History Channel

Tue, 25 Mar 2008 06:04:57 -0500

I'm so sodding depressed.

As has been abundantly evident on this blog, I had to check out for a while, which included more than simply not posting. In the process, I completely lost track of sports. So when I finally decided it was time to permanently emerge from the ether and plug back in to world, I couldn't have been more excited. You see, spring is always the most exciting season in sports. What better time could there be to throw myself back into the fray?

Spring is the season that makes the world go round, as the Super Bowl leads into March Madness, which rolls right into fantasy baseball drafts and Opening Day. Soon after, the EPL and Champions League are rolling to their conclusions, Roger Federer is spiraling out of the French Open, I’m lamenting the Yankees’ early gaffes and missteps, Phil Mickelson is choking away another major and even the NBA starts getting interesting. Every day, there is something new to behold and though basketball is something like my 8th favorite sport these days, I live and breathe hoops when the tournament comes round. A self-admitted neurotic, I usually study, research and waste hours of my life on box scores, articles, team pages, stat sheets, and pictures (I don't know why pictures, actually). And at the completion of these fruitless efforts, I fill out my brackets, run my mouth, put some money on the line, down a sixer to ease the nerves and tune into CBS and CSTV when it all begins. Not a moment is missed and I suck in basketball like crack from the pipe from Thursday at 1230 until Sunday around 10.

This year, it was a slightly different process. I'd been mentally checked out for so long that I didn't catch much college basketball. So I filled out my picks the night before and transferred my neuroses for other exercises in futility like finding a man that will make me fluffy pancakes with crispy edges after a long night of getting down (Is that really so much to ask? It's not like I'm high maintenance - it's just one prerequisite, dammit. COME ON).

But after receiving an injection of what amounted to a 96-hour speedball, I’m now left with no reasonable form of entertainment. I didn’t have enough sense to DVR real sports over the weekend and came home around 8 all ready to enjoy an athletic event - something, anything. National Championship of Darts, Pinochle, whatever. It wasn't gonna take much to feed my need. So I tuned into CBS fully expecting to see more basketball. Logically, I knew it wouldn't be on but that didn't stop me from watching The Big Bang Theory and How I Met Your Mother in some "maybe the Sweet Sixteen will magically pop on!" fog. Eventually, I snapped out of it and hit ESPN, only to find the also-rans of the Not In Tournament. So I moved on to ESPN2 and caught a disappointment larger than having my bracket destroyed by Stephan Curry and Davidson: women's basketball - the last refuge for girls that want to be athletes but aren't agile, flexible or fast enough to hack it anywhere else.

Why doesn’t ESPN just send Dick Vitale and Jay Bilas to my house to my house to take turns slapping me around and kicking me in the ass while we watch JJ Redick highlight films. It’d hurt less. Watching the women's tournament during the Final Four is one thing, as UConn, Tennessee, LSU and Rutgers/Duke/No Chance University might actually produce 7 - 10 athletes on the floor at one time. But not this Monday night bullshit. Not these first and second round shenanigans where a girl getting fouled on a "drive" to the hoop looks like a slo-mo video with crash test dummies.

But enough on that. What I actually want to know is what jerk is sitting in an office saying, "Scheduling? Well, how about we follow up the greatest weekend in American amateur sports with women's basketball. That'll keep the fires burning in the hearts of Joe and Jane Sports Fan!"

No, corporate suit! It does not keep my fire burning! It is destroying my spirit! I don't appreciate getting all manic over 32 games of basketball only to be punched in the mouth by 3 days of the great shooter with an ugly stroke that wouldn't know true agility if it goosed her; the tall, semi-mobile forward that uses her elbows to free up space for her 4-foot banked shots; and the girl that's slow as molasses but has a great body for collecting ticky tack fouls and turning the ball over.

A sport that opts for fundamentals over a base level of athleticism found in every other women's sport is NOT okay with me. I get that the women's game is basketball in its purest form but damn. I don't want to spend 2+ hours seeing which team can make the most consecutive layups, fall down the least and seal it off with a 1-and-1 at the line with 8 seconds to go!

If you're going to advertise this tournament as March Madness, then that's what you need to give us - straight up madness where we get all basketball all the time until the last team standing needs a crane to hitch them up to cut down the nets. No more of this three week wanked schedule that is supplemented on the weekdays with a "tournament" that fields 56 teams too many. Eventually something has to give. Being driven away from sports to watch countless episodes of "Walking with the Dinosaurs" on Discovery is an absolute shame.

Hey Al, Is Keyshawn Next?

Mon, 10 Mar 2008 10:02:40 -0500

After the Raiders signed safety Gibril Wilson a few weeks ago, I had a glimmer of hope that this off-season just might go well. This was a fantastic FA get. Sure, we massively overpaid (7 years, $39M) but it's reasonable to believe that Wilson - one of the most consistent safeties in the league - will turn out to be worth the cash. At least, he will be until he realizes he plays in the Bay and completely flakes out a la Charles Woodson.

But then we signed DT Tommy Kelly for an insane $50M dollars and then Kwame Brown - a middling OL that didn't start a game last season - for $16M over three years. And now, Al Davis has emerged from his oxygen chamber to cock things up yet again.

I'm sure most of you saw the news last week that the Raiders signed malcontent Javon Walker and his irreparably shredded knees. Even in Walker's diminished condition, I'll take him because we have a wide receiving corps that consists of Ronald Curry, To Be Determined and To Be Determined. In a situation like this, it's hard to be picky.

But in his infinite wisdom, Al Davis has somehow found a way to make this the worst move of all time. Instead of paying beaten up, broken down, waiting on a new hip Javon Walker what he's worth, the Crypt Keeper is giving him $55M for 6 years. My first reaction was, "Well, I'm sure it's totally backloaded, so no big deal." And while that is somewhat true, Walker still gets $16M in guaranteed money and $27M for the first three years. Hell, if he gets cut this season, he still gets $11M and if he's cut in 2 seasons, he's got $16M!

What's next, Al? Gonna pull Keyshawn Johnson out the ESPN-abyss with a guaranteed 1-year, $25M deal? I assure you that he's a lot more functional right now than Walker, he of the 28 catches, 287 yards (200 of which came in the first 2 games), 0 touchdowns and 8 games in 2007. Former Pro Bowl, 1000 yard receiver or not, this is pure madness. The only thing I can see explaining this mentally defective contract is if the price of bribing formerly capable players to waste their careers on our shores has ballooned to an additional 85% of market value.

Speaking of ballooned, there are rumors that Stay-Puft, also known as Jamarcus Russell, is currently weighing in around 300 pounds. Now, if that's true, what does it matter who we sign when we've got a heifer for a quarterback that might be tempted to eat the damn ball?!

2 thumbs down!

What Jerk is Pushing the Dollar Coin?

Wed, 20 Feb 2008 17:11:07 -0500

So I stopped at the post office over the weekend to mail a card. For some unknown reason, the last time I mailed anything, the cost of stamps was something like 29 cents, so I was woefully lacking in metal funds at the vending machine. Not wanting to walk the 40 feet back to my car for a dime, I popped in a $20.

This was a huge mistake.

The machine spat out 1 stamp and then blew up like I'd hit 3 cherries on the nickel slots on the senior gambling boat. At first, it didn't seem so bad. I saw a couple quarters, a nickel, a few pennies. But then came the gold coins and more gold coins and even more gold coins. 19 Thomas Jefferson dollars in all.

A little pissed that the post office had the nerve to give back gold doubloons as change, I tried to exchange them for dollar bills at the window. The woman all but put her hand in my face. So I stuffed them into my white trash, mini-Crown Royal bag that I use for change (I'm a classy broad, I know) and forgot about them until this morning when I went into the BP for some milk. While fishing a couple $1 coins out of my bag, the illiterate, illegal alien behind the counter stopped me:

"Miss we don't take no old coins."
"Oh no, these aren't old," I responded. "They say 2007."

I grabbed 2 Thomas Jefferson dollars and a quarter and handed them to BP Clerk, who then had the nerve to scoff at me. "Pfft. Miss, we don't take treasure."

"Excuse me?"
"No treasure alright?"
"This is legal US tender! Sanctioned by the government! It's MONEY! It says $1 on the back!"
"Credit card or dollars or coins please."

I asked for the manager. He scoffed again and then stared at me like I was the one with the problem. We had a non-lethal Mexican stand-off until some hilljack with hairs on his balls older than my parents told me to "run along to school." After I shouted at him, I was asked to leave.

Perhaps it had to be thus.

But what kind of bullshit is this?? First of all, if I thought somebody had a sack of treasure and I worked at the BP gas station, I'd smack them with a roll of lottery tickets, thieve the coins and try to buy my own island. I wouldn't stand around with my hands on my hips having melodramatic breathing fits behind the counter. That said, I'm still giving Paco a pass for our interaction. Though the experience left me a little heated, I did keep strange looking coins in a purple and yellow bag that looks like something pirates throw at the ruffians as payment for a kidnapping well done. That's my fault. But what dickbag clowns are pushing these things at the U.S. Mint? There is no logical reason for the government to issue money that looks like you can unwrap it and eat the chocolate inside. Something has to be done!

Massholes Petition Final Ticks of Super Bowl XLII

Mon, 18 Feb 2008 18:56:00 -0500

So check this out - a throng of ~~Massholes~~ Patriots fans have united in petition over the outcome of the Super Bowl. Unhappy with three Super Bowls and an undefeated season, these spoiled gits now "demand that the National Football League and Commissioner Roger Goodell review the last 1:40 minutes of the Super Bowl held February 3rd 2008. At 1:22 in the fourth quarter, after Jacobs attained a first down the clock was stopped." They then go on to list all of the rules of game time clock management, as if the NFL was unaware of how that all worked. After that comes the rationale that only a bitter rotter liquored up on Samuel Adams could provide:

"Nowhere in the above rules does it state that in the conditions of what was happening on the clock should be stopped. Also in addition to this six seconds were added to the game clock. Had this illegal clock stoppage not occurred there would have been 40 seconds less time on the clock, 46 seconds less if you consider the six seconds added on after the play. This means that after that play, if the clock was running the way it is supposed to by the rulebook, there would only be 42 seconds left on the clock. Furthermore if this was not enough on the subsequent play time was not taken off during the play followed by a random flashing of numbers on the clock.

What?

"The following drive took the Giants a total of 52 seconds on the game clock from the point that six seconds were added to the clock. However if the time was managed the way it was supposed to be there would have been no time left on the clock after Eli Manning was tackled at :50 seconds on the game clock. This irrefutable proof demands that Super Bowl XLII be reviewed from the point of the first illegal stoppage."

The petitioners then provide the commissioner ways in which he is permitted to respond - again - as if he does not know.

All in all, the petition has been signed by 24,611 people thus far... Brilliant, reputable chaps like Dave Rosenthal, who "can't believe this isn't a big story. I mean, we should be 19-0, but the NFL hates that Pats, so instead we have to go through this the rest of our lives knowing we got jipped." And others like "Number One Pats Fan," whose intelligence serves as a true beacon of light with, "Good job Giants, you cheated and won a SB. Try to win one on an even playing field. Also, why don't you try to win a game by more than 3 points once, then we'll talk."

Am I alone in thinking the sporting world would be better off if somebody dropped a strong sedative over New England? When the Pats started winning Super Bowls, that was one thing. But when the BoSox sent my Yankees to Hell on a shutter in 2004, these people became completely insufferable and about 180 miles past out of control. And year after year, they suck more innocents into the fray, transforming them into obnoxious, irrational fanboys without a lick of sense.

But please understand, I don't say this out of bitterness forged from rivalries in other sports and situations. Victors are entitled to bump their gums for as long as they see fit. It's one of the perks of winning. But when you lose, gripe for a day or two and then shut the fuck up. It's as simple as that. Trust me, I know. I'm a Yankee fan that went to Notre Dame. From birth through three diplomas, I have been trained in the art of self-righteous, obnoxious, irrational fangirl-ery. Hell, my sense of entitlement alone is bigger than your house. But even I understand that when defeat comes - and it comes far too often these days - there's a grace period for sulking and then you need to admit defeat, shut your mouth and go home. And New England, that's where you are now. You haven't just cornered the market on post-season assholery, you've gone off the deep-end. It's time to recognize that the Patriots lost, not because of a clock snafu in the final minutes but because Justin Tuck, Osi Umenyiora and Michael Strahan had Tom Brady on his back more than Giselle and Bridget Moynihan combined. If he could have completed more than 3 passes in a row, maybe you wouldn't have lost by the skin of your teeth. But he couldn't and now the world has to spend another season being reminded that Mercury Morris is still alive.

So instead of wasting your time with this, maybe you ought to petition the Giants' speed rushing corps for turning Tom into a bitch. Better yet - why don't you put together a petition requesting an explanation for why Richard Seymour, Adalius Thomas, Jarvis Green and the entire secondary were all but holding their dicks while Eli Manning was pulling a Joe Montana with David Tyree?

Might be fruitful.