On February 7 the 2014 Winter Olympics will kick off in Sochi, Russia, despite several hitches in the gait, if you will.
For starters, there's a bunch of security concerns and several American competitors have told their families to stay home for fear of a terrorist attack. In fact, Al-Qaeda (which has become the Westboro Baptist Church of terrorism and just can't let a single event go by without a terrorist threat) has already warned about possible attacks at the games.
This was only taken into concern when the first athlete arrived at the airport and said, "Oh shit, we're actually doing this in Russia?"
All kidding aside, outside of their prisons, security is pretty lax in Russia just because if you do something you're going to go to Russian prison and that normally is enough to have ne'er-do-wells rethink themselves. FUN FACT: Some Russian prisons have bear-dogs as guards. BEAR...DOGS. They're basically dogs the size of bears that also look and act like bears...so bears. Their line of defense is bears! How ridiculously crazy is that?!
Of course a symbol of peace and friendly competition would be a target for terrorism...of course. Look, potential terrorists of the world, leave the games alone. Isn't it enough that they have to be in Russia? Besides, bombing the Winter Olympics is like trying to assassinate the Vice President--what are you doing? I mean, our best Winter Olympian is Shaun White and he pretty much spends his time drinking Red Bulls and smoking marijuana...of course, you could say that about our best Summer Olympian too but that's not the point! Nobody thinks you're tough for beating up the smallest kid in school and that was the note that my mom always used to put in my lunch box just in case I got beat up that day.
Keep in mind, before we head to my next segment, that I have a large readership for some reason in Russia. I know I joked about it a couple of posts ago but it's actually true. I think they like my no-nonsense approach to hard-hitting topics. With that said...
The other major issue revolving around the Sochi games is that Russia doesn't seem to care for gay people all too much. Homosexuality, that's still a hot button issue? Huh. Weeeeirrrrd. Anyways, Russian President Vladimir Putin signed a law back in June that's basically a ban on propaganda of "nontraditional sexual relations" so no 'under the covers' or 'lights off' stuff, kids. Many people take this as discrimination against gays but I think Ol' Pooty just had a bad run in with a tranny at a Russian vodka bar. Grudges don't die easy!
But wait...there's more! Most of the countries that are attending the games aren't nearly as narrow-minded as our snow-blind friends to the East and have come out (zing) against the Russian law. The United States is even sending our own resident lesbian and sports icon, Billy Jean King, to represent us and act as an ambassador of sorts. And Ol' Pooty better watch out because the USA doesn't send in the Notorious B.J.K. unless we're ready for an all out knock 'em down, drag 'em out war! Not even bear-dogs will stop the Notorious B.J.K! FUN FACT: Billy Jean used to re-wire her tennis racket with the tendons of defeated opponents.
But wait...there's more! Facing the criticism and deciding to do a little damage control, Putin said that people of all walks of life, even gays, are welcome into his country for the games...so long as they don't talk to any children. It's funny because I have the same policy for Jehovah's Witnesses. Come on in, have some tea, but don't look my son in the eye, you propaganda spewing S.O.B.!
I guess Ol' Pooty thinks that for some reason that gay people are endowed with either hypnotism or mind-control or can just really sell another person's butt-hole. I have never seen this to be the case but, hey, you don't become the President of Russia without doing a little research, right? Why should world famous athletes get the chance to talk to children? It's not like anybody's ever had an impression on a youth before, especially people that children look up to.
Sigh...but wait...mere's thore! I guess Sochi has a mayor too and he's come out (zing) and said that his city is 100% gay-free, so no worries to anybody that suffers from a gay allergy. "We don't have them in our town," Anatoly Pakhomov told the BBC. Was that a box on the latest census or is it a simpler approach to just go door to door and pull your pants down and go "Huh?...huh?" If they take the bait then they are quickly whisked away in a train to some sort of camp where we can later...oh...my...god...
Quick question: When Sochi signed up for this did they know that men's figure skating was an event? There's nothing gay about men wearing tight, colorful clothing doing ballet on ice! Float on, you graceful swans!
Hey, I guess if anything, Russia sure is doing a helluva job getting people to tune into the Winter Olympics. I've always loved the Olympics and I think it's a wonderful concept. And if blogs, and myself, were around in 1936 you can guarantee that I would have been all over the Berlin Summer Olympics. Jesse Owens taught the world a valuable lesson: bigotry and prejudice never succeed. You can stand on a pedestal and yell as loud as you want, Putin, but nobody cares.
Well I gotta go lay down now because that last line just resonated with myself. Enjoy the games, kids. Peace and friendly competition and as always, float on, you graceful swans!
Monday, January 27, 2014
Saturday, January 18, 2014
The Tight Ends To A Mean
When I first started out with writing I was working for my college newspaper reporting on the women's basketball team and one of the constant problems I kept running into with my articles was, "How do I make this relevant considering they suck so bad every night?"
Well the answer to that question was that I had to search, and dig, and utilize every statistic that I had at my disposal to try and come up with something that would make people want to read about a bad women's basketball team. This was normally a futile attempt, obviously, but every now and again I would get handed what I considered a 'gem' where something would happen and the story would just snowball from there. It was rare but it did happen.
Now things are different because I have the luxury of sitting at home in the dark and waiting for some byproduct of the universe to just go ahead and fulfill his or her destiny. These are referred to the 'Golden Ages'.
Please, allow me to regale you all with a story of a man, a woman, and the search for a chicken restaurant, I present to you...The Tight Ends To A Mean.
Kellen Winslow was a great football player for the San Diego Chargers in the NFL and was made a Hall of Famer after his retirement. He is most famous for playing in one of the longest games in history against the Miami Dolphins, in which the Chargers were victorious, and delivered a tremendous performance. He even milked it further by pretending like he was so exhausted that his teammates had to carry him off the field. Alright, alright, maybe Winslow did have numerous things happen to him in that game. I mean, he did have to get treated for a pinched nerve, dehydration, severe cramps, and a cut lip but come on this is football, dammit! Alright, alright, he did say that "I've never been so close to death before" and even further adding "That's what Muhammad Ali said after Manila and that's how I felt out there at the end."
Now he's bringing Greatness into the conversation...fantastic. Look, anybody who's read this blog for four and a half years knows that my favorite sports/person ever is Muhammad Ali and while I don't agree with Winslow about the comparison 100%...I'd still give him about 80%. He did look like he was about to die. I don't like Winslow because he defeated my favorite team in a game that will never go away in NFL lore but I can't help but respect him. He's a good man and I hope he burns in Hell.
However, now it's clear that Winslow sold his soul to the Devil in that game and that's pretty much what Alanis Morissette could never get right and that's irony. By the way, the only thing ironic in that song is the part where the guy who never flies is about to die in a plane crash and says "Well isn't this nice!" but there's no way that she knew that, right? You can't tell me that she made a song entirely about irony and the only actual irony is this one subtle part and she knew that, right?!
Anyways, the reason why I now believe that Winslow sold his soul to the Devil was because after the epic game in Miami, the Chargers traveled to Cincinnati to play in one of the coldest playoff games of all-time in the Freezer Bowl. The temperature was -9 degrees and the wind chill made it -59 degrees. While -59 degrees is considered 'bikini weather' on Mars here on Earth it's basically the harbinger of death. This game took place in 1982 and a year later Kellen Winslow was the proud father of a beautiful, bouncing baby boy that he bestowed his own namesake upon creating Kellen Winslow: The Sequel.
Kellen 2.0 was a lot like his father--he was athletic, wanted to carry on the tradition of the Winslow name and become a tight end in the National Football League. So he followed his dreams, shot for the stars, and landed somewhere in the atmosphere that's being most affected by global warming and enrolled at the University of Miami. Being successful in college football is a double-edged sword because you have your moment in the sun and then you're immediately shuttled to one of the worst teams in the NFL and it's then you realized that maybe keeping yourself in the middle of the pack would have been an ideal situation. Thus, Kellen 2.0 became a member of the Cleveland Browns and the Devil chalked up another point on the scoreboard.
What largely happened afterwards is nothing but bad news bears. Winslow II broke his leg, crashed his motorcycle, got a staph infection, was traded, was traded, was released, was signed and then asked for his release, and then he found himself with America's Last Chance Before Another Remake of the Longest Yard: The New York Jets.
Sad story so far, I know, but it's about to take one of those classic M.Night.Shyamalan twists that really make you laugh so hard you piss your pants. It's kinda like The Happening where you find out that trees were making people kill themselves and if you're mad that I just spoiled that for you I'm just doing God's work here and keeping people from watching The Happening.
Now our story shifts to present day and I'm just like most Americans in that I love shopping at Target. I love the idea that I can shop somewhere and also eat hot dogs and drink Slurpees and not have people think I'm only here to see what I can get away with food stamps these days. I appreciate it when shoes are required. My current bedding is from Target and it's like sleeping in a Beyonce slow jam--it appeals to all the senses!
I love Target, and respect Target, and would never masturbate at Target. Masturbation is a tricky thing when dealing with the majority of the public. I would say that 70% of people that masturbate would prefer to have their own secret "Masturbation Lair" that only they knew about and could get to, kinda like the Bat Cave, and the other 30% want to use it as their platform for running for public office--they put it out there, people are informed of it, and they want to be voted for it.
Kellen Winslow II is in that 30%.
Some lady, in her late fifties, pulls into a Target parking lot. She's probably going for like three weirdly specific items but sometimes the sales just get her and maybe she'll just end up browsing for a while, who knows, things get crazy at Target! She parks her sensible, lovable, but mostly stupid Ford Focus in a decent spot in the large parking lot--not too close because she hates that rat race but not too far to where she has to remember G4 or E3 or A8 because that's too damn confusing. She collects her pocketbook, because that's what they call those things, shuts her door, hits the auto-lock twice because it gives you better piece of mind that way and notices that there's a man sitting in the vehicle next to her. It's a large, black, Cadillac Escalade, an impressively expensive car but if she had the money to afford it she would rather spend it on traveling to someplace exotic--not Mexico, I said exotic--how about Tahiti? Yeah, she would go to Tahiti.
She also notices that in this black Cadillac Escalade, because the windows are down, a man is sitting in the driver's seat. Being raised the right way, and realizing that they've both noticed each other, she feels compelled to say something and casually mentions the weather. That's when she sees the erect penis of the man sticking outside his pants. Horrified, and curiously aroused perhaps, she has no choice but to do what any person her age does for any matter and that's involve the police.
The police show up and approach the black Cadillac Escalade and notice that the male sitting in the driver's seat is fidgeting around and kind of slumped over but when they get up to the window his pants are securely on and any erect penises have since faded away or are now tucked into the waistband of said pants. The police ask what the man is doing and he identifies himself as Kellen Winslow II and that he was looking for a Boston Market but couldn't find it. Because this isn't a filming of the Naked Gun, the cop then starts to inspect the vehicle and finds a large tub of Vaseline on the center console and several empty bags marked 'Mr. Happy' and 'Funky Monkey.' These are apparently synthetic forms of marijuana, which even though the bags were empty, Mr. Winslow II made sure that they were labeled to be admitted as evidence.
The M.Night.Shyamalan twist? The only things I made up were the intricate details about the woman. I know nothing about her other than she saw Kellen Winslow: The Sequel's erect penis sticking out of his pants. The rest is sadly true and really, really strange.
First of all, like Boston Market needs the bad publicity? Or is it good publicity? "I was out looking for a Boston Market and couldn't find one so I just decided to pull over and start masturbating because all hope was lost!" On one hand, if the chicken was delicious enough you think you could take a couple more steps than just aimlessly driving around and check a GPS or even stick you head out of the damn window and yell, "Hey, where's the closest Boston Market?" On the other, you couldn't find a Boston Market so you just pulled over and started masturbating? Damn. Second of all, a Target parking lot? You might as well have picked Grand Central Station because you're just asking to get caught. And you had a tub of Vaseline in your possession?! I'm almost starting to believe that the woman was made up and you called the police yourself!
He was smoking synthetic marijuana because he thought the NFL would be okay with that even though the NFL isn't okay with players wearing different colored shoes. I've never once thought to myself, "Hey, that Kellen Winslow II is one smart guy!" but it's almost getting to the point where he's trying to make a new category for himself.
I guess I'm jaded because I always knew at some point in my life that I would have to link the words 'Boston Market', 'Vaseline', and 'Mr.Happy' together but I didn't expect to have to include the New York Jets as well, that's just an added bonus.
It's painfully obvious that Winslow 2.0 needs some help with a lot of things in his life and one of the least of his problems is finding the nearest rotisserie chicken place. I hope he gets that help before I have to write another one of these fantastically awful pieces.
With all that said, happy birthday mom. Your baby boy is making you proud despite all the penis jokes and I love you for that. Sorry.
Well the answer to that question was that I had to search, and dig, and utilize every statistic that I had at my disposal to try and come up with something that would make people want to read about a bad women's basketball team. This was normally a futile attempt, obviously, but every now and again I would get handed what I considered a 'gem' where something would happen and the story would just snowball from there. It was rare but it did happen.
Now things are different because I have the luxury of sitting at home in the dark and waiting for some byproduct of the universe to just go ahead and fulfill his or her destiny. These are referred to the 'Golden Ages'.
Please, allow me to regale you all with a story of a man, a woman, and the search for a chicken restaurant, I present to you...The Tight Ends To A Mean.
Kellen Winslow was a great football player for the San Diego Chargers in the NFL and was made a Hall of Famer after his retirement. He is most famous for playing in one of the longest games in history against the Miami Dolphins, in which the Chargers were victorious, and delivered a tremendous performance. He even milked it further by pretending like he was so exhausted that his teammates had to carry him off the field. Alright, alright, maybe Winslow did have numerous things happen to him in that game. I mean, he did have to get treated for a pinched nerve, dehydration, severe cramps, and a cut lip but come on this is football, dammit! Alright, alright, he did say that "I've never been so close to death before" and even further adding "That's what Muhammad Ali said after Manila and that's how I felt out there at the end."
Now he's bringing Greatness into the conversation...fantastic. Look, anybody who's read this blog for four and a half years knows that my favorite sports/person ever is Muhammad Ali and while I don't agree with Winslow about the comparison 100%...I'd still give him about 80%. He did look like he was about to die. I don't like Winslow because he defeated my favorite team in a game that will never go away in NFL lore but I can't help but respect him. He's a good man and I hope he burns in Hell.
However, now it's clear that Winslow sold his soul to the Devil in that game and that's pretty much what Alanis Morissette could never get right and that's irony. By the way, the only thing ironic in that song is the part where the guy who never flies is about to die in a plane crash and says "Well isn't this nice!" but there's no way that she knew that, right? You can't tell me that she made a song entirely about irony and the only actual irony is this one subtle part and she knew that, right?!
Anyways, the reason why I now believe that Winslow sold his soul to the Devil was because after the epic game in Miami, the Chargers traveled to Cincinnati to play in one of the coldest playoff games of all-time in the Freezer Bowl. The temperature was -9 degrees and the wind chill made it -59 degrees. While -59 degrees is considered 'bikini weather' on Mars here on Earth it's basically the harbinger of death. This game took place in 1982 and a year later Kellen Winslow was the proud father of a beautiful, bouncing baby boy that he bestowed his own namesake upon creating Kellen Winslow: The Sequel.
Kellen 2.0 was a lot like his father--he was athletic, wanted to carry on the tradition of the Winslow name and become a tight end in the National Football League. So he followed his dreams, shot for the stars, and landed somewhere in the atmosphere that's being most affected by global warming and enrolled at the University of Miami. Being successful in college football is a double-edged sword because you have your moment in the sun and then you're immediately shuttled to one of the worst teams in the NFL and it's then you realized that maybe keeping yourself in the middle of the pack would have been an ideal situation. Thus, Kellen 2.0 became a member of the Cleveland Browns and the Devil chalked up another point on the scoreboard.
What largely happened afterwards is nothing but bad news bears. Winslow II broke his leg, crashed his motorcycle, got a staph infection, was traded, was traded, was released, was signed and then asked for his release, and then he found himself with America's Last Chance Before Another Remake of the Longest Yard: The New York Jets.
Sad story so far, I know, but it's about to take one of those classic M.Night.Shyamalan twists that really make you laugh so hard you piss your pants. It's kinda like The Happening where you find out that trees were making people kill themselves and if you're mad that I just spoiled that for you I'm just doing God's work here and keeping people from watching The Happening.
Now our story shifts to present day and I'm just like most Americans in that I love shopping at Target. I love the idea that I can shop somewhere and also eat hot dogs and drink Slurpees and not have people think I'm only here to see what I can get away with food stamps these days. I appreciate it when shoes are required. My current bedding is from Target and it's like sleeping in a Beyonce slow jam--it appeals to all the senses!
I love Target, and respect Target, and would never masturbate at Target. Masturbation is a tricky thing when dealing with the majority of the public. I would say that 70% of people that masturbate would prefer to have their own secret "Masturbation Lair" that only they knew about and could get to, kinda like the Bat Cave, and the other 30% want to use it as their platform for running for public office--they put it out there, people are informed of it, and they want to be voted for it.
Kellen Winslow II is in that 30%.
Some lady, in her late fifties, pulls into a Target parking lot. She's probably going for like three weirdly specific items but sometimes the sales just get her and maybe she'll just end up browsing for a while, who knows, things get crazy at Target! She parks her sensible, lovable, but mostly stupid Ford Focus in a decent spot in the large parking lot--not too close because she hates that rat race but not too far to where she has to remember G4 or E3 or A8 because that's too damn confusing. She collects her pocketbook, because that's what they call those things, shuts her door, hits the auto-lock twice because it gives you better piece of mind that way and notices that there's a man sitting in the vehicle next to her. It's a large, black, Cadillac Escalade, an impressively expensive car but if she had the money to afford it she would rather spend it on traveling to someplace exotic--not Mexico, I said exotic--how about Tahiti? Yeah, she would go to Tahiti.
She also notices that in this black Cadillac Escalade, because the windows are down, a man is sitting in the driver's seat. Being raised the right way, and realizing that they've both noticed each other, she feels compelled to say something and casually mentions the weather. That's when she sees the erect penis of the man sticking outside his pants. Horrified, and curiously aroused perhaps, she has no choice but to do what any person her age does for any matter and that's involve the police.
The police show up and approach the black Cadillac Escalade and notice that the male sitting in the driver's seat is fidgeting around and kind of slumped over but when they get up to the window his pants are securely on and any erect penises have since faded away or are now tucked into the waistband of said pants. The police ask what the man is doing and he identifies himself as Kellen Winslow II and that he was looking for a Boston Market but couldn't find it. Because this isn't a filming of the Naked Gun, the cop then starts to inspect the vehicle and finds a large tub of Vaseline on the center console and several empty bags marked 'Mr. Happy' and 'Funky Monkey.' These are apparently synthetic forms of marijuana, which even though the bags were empty, Mr. Winslow II made sure that they were labeled to be admitted as evidence.
The M.Night.Shyamalan twist? The only things I made up were the intricate details about the woman. I know nothing about her other than she saw Kellen Winslow: The Sequel's erect penis sticking out of his pants. The rest is sadly true and really, really strange.
First of all, like Boston Market needs the bad publicity? Or is it good publicity? "I was out looking for a Boston Market and couldn't find one so I just decided to pull over and start masturbating because all hope was lost!" On one hand, if the chicken was delicious enough you think you could take a couple more steps than just aimlessly driving around and check a GPS or even stick you head out of the damn window and yell, "Hey, where's the closest Boston Market?" On the other, you couldn't find a Boston Market so you just pulled over and started masturbating? Damn. Second of all, a Target parking lot? You might as well have picked Grand Central Station because you're just asking to get caught. And you had a tub of Vaseline in your possession?! I'm almost starting to believe that the woman was made up and you called the police yourself!
He was smoking synthetic marijuana because he thought the NFL would be okay with that even though the NFL isn't okay with players wearing different colored shoes. I've never once thought to myself, "Hey, that Kellen Winslow II is one smart guy!" but it's almost getting to the point where he's trying to make a new category for himself.
I guess I'm jaded because I always knew at some point in my life that I would have to link the words 'Boston Market', 'Vaseline', and 'Mr.Happy' together but I didn't expect to have to include the New York Jets as well, that's just an added bonus.
It's painfully obvious that Winslow 2.0 needs some help with a lot of things in his life and one of the least of his problems is finding the nearest rotisserie chicken place. I hope he gets that help before I have to write another one of these fantastically awful pieces.
With all that said, happy birthday mom. Your baby boy is making you proud despite all the penis jokes and I love you for that. Sorry.
Monday, January 13, 2014
Champions? Pssh...
We're back in action, so soon after a posting because I couldn't help but think "Jesus, what the Hell are we doing?" How are we barreling towards Year Five and we've almost reached the hundredth post of the Studly Pastures. Which, by the way, keep your kids at home that night because we're going to have ourselves a disgusting/leave your inhibitions at the door, type of party that night. Just sayin'.
I'd hang my head in shame if I knew how to properly describe that through text to faceless entities.
I mean what kind of churn out is that? A post every 60 days?*
*That statistic was based off of the fact that I don't do statistics. This isn't the Wall Street Journal where we track those brain-hurtin' types of things. I consider my day successful if I can fry my egg properly at breakfast. This is more like Fox News where the louder I scream the harder I get.
I'm still sitting here surprised that I got 'hundredth' right on the first go-around. Just kidding, I speak pretty all day.
Kids, we live in a world where I was finally proven wrong. I used to think that Vegas controlled Sports. I capitalized Sports because I am including everything that may be considered a sport, so sit this one out: cheerleaders, interpretive dancers, chess enthusiasts, ribbon dancers, power walkers, competitive eaters, fat people that think it's the same as being a sumo wrestler, and hot yoga only because it violates the Geneva Convention.
I learned today that Sports is controlled by Big Television. The final NFL teams that are matched up in the conference championship games that will determine who goes to the Super Bowl are: San Francisco vs. Seattle and New England vs. Denver.
Are you absolutely kidding me? I like to sleep in to avoid this kind of daytime television drama. RATINGS, BABY!!!?!!!!
These are the story-lines that were 'destined' from the start, right?
"Two division rivals face each other a third time in a do or die situation to make it to the Super Bowl!" - every journalist on the West Coast right now. I might have gotten the exclamation points wrong because there's probably more.
And don't even get me started with the AFC...Brady vs. Manning? Brady vs. Manning?! And it's the good Manning?! Oh lord, why must you tempt me with such frivolities? I'd like to consider the rivalry between Brady and Manning a lot like the relationship of Clint Eastwood and the Vietnamese boy in "Gran Torino."
Manning dies and leaves everything meaningful to Brady who just shits all over it by letting a dog sit in the front seat who also just shits all over it. END SCENE.
Of course this game is the bane of my existence but the general public is a bunch of fodder-sucking, brainless shells that are told to go absolutely ape-shit over this match-up. And so they shall, and many a vomit-stifling shall be had that day by yours truly.
Best case scenario for me? Denver defeats New England and we're treated to another post-game interview with Manning with that red mark on his forehead because it's too big for his helmet...and another post-game interview of Brady blaming himself but secretly hating everybody on his team but the secret isn't so secret once you see his face because he's a terrible actor.
And then Seattle defeats Denver in whatever Roman Numeral Super Bowl this year is because Peyton deserves to be the new Dan Marino. Congratulations, you have records that are impressive now but this is a progressive game...who's to say that anything you've done will be meaningful/remembered give or take thirty years? You have a title, I'll give you that Manning, but people talk about Marino now as if he was the martyr of good but never great.
I bestow that crown on you, Peyton Manning, current holder of all that is holy except for anything that really counts and I challenge you to prove me wrong!
And usually when I do that on this blog I am caught with my pants down and stammering over my own words. Peyton is, after all, my arch-nemesis. I guess I'm just the same as the rest of you and we'll see what Big Television demands...
I'd hang my head in shame if I knew how to properly describe that through text to faceless entities.
I mean what kind of churn out is that? A post every 60 days?*
*That statistic was based off of the fact that I don't do statistics. This isn't the Wall Street Journal where we track those brain-hurtin' types of things. I consider my day successful if I can fry my egg properly at breakfast. This is more like Fox News where the louder I scream the harder I get.
I'm still sitting here surprised that I got 'hundredth' right on the first go-around. Just kidding, I speak pretty all day.
Kids, we live in a world where I was finally proven wrong. I used to think that Vegas controlled Sports. I capitalized Sports because I am including everything that may be considered a sport, so sit this one out: cheerleaders, interpretive dancers, chess enthusiasts, ribbon dancers, power walkers, competitive eaters, fat people that think it's the same as being a sumo wrestler, and hot yoga only because it violates the Geneva Convention.
I learned today that Sports is controlled by Big Television. The final NFL teams that are matched up in the conference championship games that will determine who goes to the Super Bowl are: San Francisco vs. Seattle and New England vs. Denver.
Are you absolutely kidding me? I like to sleep in to avoid this kind of daytime television drama. RATINGS, BABY!!!?!!!!
These are the story-lines that were 'destined' from the start, right?
"Two division rivals face each other a third time in a do or die situation to make it to the Super Bowl!" - every journalist on the West Coast right now. I might have gotten the exclamation points wrong because there's probably more.
And don't even get me started with the AFC...Brady vs. Manning? Brady vs. Manning?! And it's the good Manning?! Oh lord, why must you tempt me with such frivolities? I'd like to consider the rivalry between Brady and Manning a lot like the relationship of Clint Eastwood and the Vietnamese boy in "Gran Torino."
Manning dies and leaves everything meaningful to Brady who just shits all over it by letting a dog sit in the front seat who also just shits all over it. END SCENE.
Of course this game is the bane of my existence but the general public is a bunch of fodder-sucking, brainless shells that are told to go absolutely ape-shit over this match-up. And so they shall, and many a vomit-stifling shall be had that day by yours truly.
Best case scenario for me? Denver defeats New England and we're treated to another post-game interview with Manning with that red mark on his forehead because it's too big for his helmet...and another post-game interview of Brady blaming himself but secretly hating everybody on his team but the secret isn't so secret once you see his face because he's a terrible actor.
And then Seattle defeats Denver in whatever Roman Numeral Super Bowl this year is because Peyton deserves to be the new Dan Marino. Congratulations, you have records that are impressive now but this is a progressive game...who's to say that anything you've done will be meaningful/remembered give or take thirty years? You have a title, I'll give you that Manning, but people talk about Marino now as if he was the martyr of good but never great.
I bestow that crown on you, Peyton Manning, current holder of all that is holy except for anything that really counts and I challenge you to prove me wrong!
And usually when I do that on this blog I am caught with my pants down and stammering over my own words. Peyton is, after all, my arch-nemesis. I guess I'm just the same as the rest of you and we'll see what Big Television demands...
Thursday, January 9, 2014
New Year Water Coolings
Greetings faceless entities and welcome to the year of two-ought-fourteen! Fingers crossed, this will finally be the year that the 'I just rolled out of bed' look will be socially accepted. Please note that just because scumbags have adopted this look for years previous that it has still not been socially accepted as the norm and if you have personally rocked this look at any given time prior to this posting you are most likely a dirty hippie or just a world-weary sonuvabitch.
If it's the latter, welcome brother!
This is the type of post that I'm trying to make a 'regular' but just can't seem to post with any relevant sequential posting technique so it's just coming off as a 'shove it down your throats' type of thing. Eh. Whatever. I stopped getting paid for this a long time ago, isn't that right LATVIA?!
It's almost like Latvia doesn't even care anymore. Remember, Latvia, when I used to get mad because all you wanted to do in bed was cuddle and now I can't I even get you to look me in the eyes and treat me like an actual human being! You've changed, Latvia...you've changed.
In fact, you've changed so much that my most subscribed readership (outside of the United States) is now...wait for it...Russia!
Wait. What? Russia? In fact the top three non-US readers of the Studly Pastures are Russia, Germany, and Canada. That's fantastic. I might as well pull the plug now. I can't even be cool ON MY OWN BLOG THAT I DESIGN FOR MYSELF!
In fact, the French, my own goddamn people, read me less than Latvia does! I can't take this anymore...what's next?
THE GOOD: Normally a grown man sobbing on the sidelines at a game would get lambasted here. Crying in sports is only acceptable for two things: the first is if Tonya Harding hired some thugs to break your leg and the second is a great win after a death in the immediate family.
Before we get to the point of where I was going with this I need to talk about Tonya Harding some more because who doesn't, right? One of the guys that Harding got to bash Nancy Kerrigan's leg in was her current husband. After all the shenanigans went down a sex tape came out of Harding and that same guy. That's right, not even one of the biggest sports scandals in recent history was enough to propel Harding into fame that she still had to release a sex tape. What a supreme loser.
Mark Fox is the current men's basketball coach for the University of Georgia and last night, with his team on the verge of an upset victory at Missouri, broke down in tears. Fox succumbed to emotion late in overtime when it was clear that his team was going to win and it all finally crashed down on him. His father died last Saturday and when you couple that devastating blow with the fact that Georgia hadn't won on the road all year long it looked like the Bulldogs were in for a long night. But the team rallied behind their coach, and it wasn't exactly "win just one for the one for the Gipper", but Georgia defeated No. 21 ranked Mizzou 70-64. Fox was crying because he got to experience the best part of sports--the whole reason why we do the damn thing--and that's the human aspect of it all. Fox is a father-figure to his players, he lost his father, so they play to honor him. So it goes. I love sports.
THE BAD: Did I just say I love sports? Sigggghhhhhh. Liking sports is having a girlfriend that's totally into S&M and you're ambivalent towards it. Just when you're starting to get on the same page you get whipped just a little too hard and it's back to square one from there. This will all be relevant once I tell you I'm about to talk about Bobby Petrino.
It looks like Louisville is about to hire Bobby "The Shark" Petrino as their head football coach and I'm just sitting here wondering why Louisville doesn't have that friend to convince them to just turn the damn phone off. For those at home that need the Cliff notes: Petrino was head coach of the Louisville Cardinals, then went to coach the Atlanta Falcons and he quickly lost the locker room and bolted back to the NCAA (mid-season mind you), to the Arkansas Razorbacks where the married man and father of four was caught sleeping with a female staffer.
He was caught when the two were in a motorcycle accident together. "Hey baby, watch this sick wheelie I'm about to pull--OH GOD MY CAREER!"
The press conference with him in the neck brace was an instant classic. I watch it every Christmas Eve while drinking hot cocoa.
Then I see that Western Kentucky Coach Bobby Petrino is a strong candidate for Louisville Coaching job. My initial thought was "clearly Western Kentucky is a whore" and after that I really felt bad for Louisville. Louisville had themselves a nice, gentle man in Charlie Strong but Louisville was too damaged and he left for self-confident Texas. So what does Louisville do? They open a few photo albums, remember the time they said, 'wouldn't it be cute if we got matching tattoos?', and they pick up the phone--hesitant at first--because they also start remembering the black eyes, the 'falling down the stairs', and all the other girls he used to 'just be friends with.' In the end, loneliness and heartbreak are the victors and before you know it Bobby Petrino's dirty Duffel bag is on the floor of your bedroom and all your orange juice is gone. I've seen it a million times.
Look I'm not saying that putting Bobby Petrino in charge of college kids is bad business practice I'm saying that it's a stain on the human race and I'm utterly disgusted. How is he going to be the head coach at Louisville and not the guy that picks up roadkill on the side of the interstate? You're better than that, Louisville. Please be better than that, Louisville?
THE UGLY: I've just sat here for ten minutes trying to come up with a J.R. Smith and a Three Stooges reference but I just keep getting so mad at J.R. Smith that it's impacting my funny.
The following statement is true: Twice, in the past week, J.R. Smith tried to untie an opponent's shoelaces during a free-throw attempt. Let that soak in. A professional basketball player tried to untie shoes to give himself an advantage, on television, and in front of everybody. His punishment was a $50,000 fine.
This is another reason why I hate David Stern, I mean besides being the entity of evil. Instead of pulling this guy aside, smacking him upside the head, and telling him that Space Jam was just a movie he just issues a fine. Are you kidding me? Clearly, Mr. J.R. Smith has some mental imbalance that allows him to think that pre-school tactics are okie-dokie in professional settings. David Stern lacks anything that allows him to appear human. J.R. Smith is a wayward sheep that should probably not find it's way home. Why isn't relegation to the D-league a suitable punishment? "Oh you think untying shoes is funny? Here, play for nothing."
Maybe J.R. Smith is pulling these kinds of antics so he'll be traded away from the awful New York Knicks and maybe he's just an asshole. I'm voting asshole and hope he'll get elected soon.
Enjoy going back to work, kids. Remember, you probably won't be able to afford retirement at a reasonable age!
If it's the latter, welcome brother!
This is the type of post that I'm trying to make a 'regular' but just can't seem to post with any relevant sequential posting technique so it's just coming off as a 'shove it down your throats' type of thing. Eh. Whatever. I stopped getting paid for this a long time ago, isn't that right LATVIA?!
It's almost like Latvia doesn't even care anymore. Remember, Latvia, when I used to get mad because all you wanted to do in bed was cuddle and now I can't I even get you to look me in the eyes and treat me like an actual human being! You've changed, Latvia...you've changed.
In fact, you've changed so much that my most subscribed readership (outside of the United States) is now...wait for it...Russia!
Wait. What? Russia? In fact the top three non-US readers of the Studly Pastures are Russia, Germany, and Canada. That's fantastic. I might as well pull the plug now. I can't even be cool ON MY OWN BLOG THAT I DESIGN FOR MYSELF!
In fact, the French, my own goddamn people, read me less than Latvia does! I can't take this anymore...what's next?
THE GOOD: Normally a grown man sobbing on the sidelines at a game would get lambasted here. Crying in sports is only acceptable for two things: the first is if Tonya Harding hired some thugs to break your leg and the second is a great win after a death in the immediate family.
Before we get to the point of where I was going with this I need to talk about Tonya Harding some more because who doesn't, right? One of the guys that Harding got to bash Nancy Kerrigan's leg in was her current husband. After all the shenanigans went down a sex tape came out of Harding and that same guy. That's right, not even one of the biggest sports scandals in recent history was enough to propel Harding into fame that she still had to release a sex tape. What a supreme loser.
Mark Fox is the current men's basketball coach for the University of Georgia and last night, with his team on the verge of an upset victory at Missouri, broke down in tears. Fox succumbed to emotion late in overtime when it was clear that his team was going to win and it all finally crashed down on him. His father died last Saturday and when you couple that devastating blow with the fact that Georgia hadn't won on the road all year long it looked like the Bulldogs were in for a long night. But the team rallied behind their coach, and it wasn't exactly "win just one for the one for the Gipper", but Georgia defeated No. 21 ranked Mizzou 70-64. Fox was crying because he got to experience the best part of sports--the whole reason why we do the damn thing--and that's the human aspect of it all. Fox is a father-figure to his players, he lost his father, so they play to honor him. So it goes. I love sports.
THE BAD: Did I just say I love sports? Sigggghhhhhh. Liking sports is having a girlfriend that's totally into S&M and you're ambivalent towards it. Just when you're starting to get on the same page you get whipped just a little too hard and it's back to square one from there. This will all be relevant once I tell you I'm about to talk about Bobby Petrino.
It looks like Louisville is about to hire Bobby "The Shark" Petrino as their head football coach and I'm just sitting here wondering why Louisville doesn't have that friend to convince them to just turn the damn phone off. For those at home that need the Cliff notes: Petrino was head coach of the Louisville Cardinals, then went to coach the Atlanta Falcons and he quickly lost the locker room and bolted back to the NCAA (mid-season mind you), to the Arkansas Razorbacks where the married man and father of four was caught sleeping with a female staffer.
He was caught when the two were in a motorcycle accident together. "Hey baby, watch this sick wheelie I'm about to pull--OH GOD MY CAREER!"
The press conference with him in the neck brace was an instant classic. I watch it every Christmas Eve while drinking hot cocoa.
Then I see that Western Kentucky Coach Bobby Petrino is a strong candidate for Louisville Coaching job. My initial thought was "clearly Western Kentucky is a whore" and after that I really felt bad for Louisville. Louisville had themselves a nice, gentle man in Charlie Strong but Louisville was too damaged and he left for self-confident Texas. So what does Louisville do? They open a few photo albums, remember the time they said, 'wouldn't it be cute if we got matching tattoos?', and they pick up the phone--hesitant at first--because they also start remembering the black eyes, the 'falling down the stairs', and all the other girls he used to 'just be friends with.' In the end, loneliness and heartbreak are the victors and before you know it Bobby Petrino's dirty Duffel bag is on the floor of your bedroom and all your orange juice is gone. I've seen it a million times.
Look I'm not saying that putting Bobby Petrino in charge of college kids is bad business practice I'm saying that it's a stain on the human race and I'm utterly disgusted. How is he going to be the head coach at Louisville and not the guy that picks up roadkill on the side of the interstate? You're better than that, Louisville. Please be better than that, Louisville?
THE UGLY: I've just sat here for ten minutes trying to come up with a J.R. Smith and a Three Stooges reference but I just keep getting so mad at J.R. Smith that it's impacting my funny.
The following statement is true: Twice, in the past week, J.R. Smith tried to untie an opponent's shoelaces during a free-throw attempt. Let that soak in. A professional basketball player tried to untie shoes to give himself an advantage, on television, and in front of everybody. His punishment was a $50,000 fine.
This is another reason why I hate David Stern, I mean besides being the entity of evil. Instead of pulling this guy aside, smacking him upside the head, and telling him that Space Jam was just a movie he just issues a fine. Are you kidding me? Clearly, Mr. J.R. Smith has some mental imbalance that allows him to think that pre-school tactics are okie-dokie in professional settings. David Stern lacks anything that allows him to appear human. J.R. Smith is a wayward sheep that should probably not find it's way home. Why isn't relegation to the D-league a suitable punishment? "Oh you think untying shoes is funny? Here, play for nothing."
Maybe J.R. Smith is pulling these kinds of antics so he'll be traded away from the awful New York Knicks and maybe he's just an asshole. I'm voting asshole and hope he'll get elected soon.
Enjoy going back to work, kids. Remember, you probably won't be able to afford retirement at a reasonable age!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)