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Saturday, November 14, 2015

The City Of Love

Man, I'm on no sleep.  I was up all night putting each of the unicorns to bed, one by one.

They were very upset.

Their usual regimen of chamomile tea and old episodes of I Love Lucy usually put them right out (they're weirdos, I understand this) but last night they weren't having any of it.  You see, unicorns are mystical creatures and they're very tuned to the state of the world and little things like genocide tend to give them fits.  I had to pull out the whole 'warm washcloth and read portions of the farmer's almanac' routine to finally get them to calm down and get to sleep.  I already told you that they're weirdos.

For me?  A fifth of whiskey usually puts me down for the count but I like to refer to it as 'time-traveling'.  It's more fun to joke about alcoholism than it is to actually confront demons.

I'm kidding.  I don't drink a handle of whiskey every night before bed...that's disgusting.  I drink the handle of whiskey during breakfast because nutritionists say that's the most important meal of the day and who the Hell would I be to argue with a nutritionist?  A jerk, that's whom.  Only jerks argue with nutritionists. 

So I finally get all the horned bastards to sleep, finish off my second handle of whiskey that I just told you I don't do...aaaaaand just stare at the ceiling.  By the way, in the old days, I'm pretty sure that counting sheep would be the most tedious and mind-numbing task that could be given to someone that would also double as a sleep agent but with today's job market I'm too worried about missing a sheep and turning in the wrong numbers to the sheep foreman.  I really need this job and falling asleep is a huge detriment to counting.  The more modern way to help fall asleep is to get elected into congress.  Hah!  Buuuuuurrrrn.  I sure showed those guys.

I couldn't sleep.  Not even a wink.  I blinked a few times but none of those were long enough to be classified into winks.  It was odd, all things considered, because I love sleeping.  It has all the great qualities of life.  You get to relax, recharge, and even pretend that you're doing something completely different from the Hellish facade that you're living.  It's great!

Something kept nagging at me though and wouldn't let me fall asleep and let me escape my life as a unicorn stable master but maybe something exotic like working in a restaurant or the Department of Motor Vehicles.  That's when it occurred to me, dammit, genocide bothers me too!  I guess I spend too much time with the unicorns!

Yesterday, during the friendly match between France and Germany, two very loud and very close explosions were heard on the television broadcast.  By the way, in soccer, a 'friendly' is very much like it sounds.  The match doesn't matter and is used as a way to judge talent, maybe raise money for a cause, or just give the human population entertainment.  It's supposed to be fun.

The explosions were suicide bombers, in a coordinated attack, killing the citizens of Paris.  The bombers didn't make it into the stadium thanks in large part to security but also because if you're a suicide bomber in the first place then your guidance system has already failed you and you probably couldn't find the goddamn entrance.  I'm not going to speculate on what would have happened had they managed to make it inside and instead will just thank the brave security guards for preventing more death and destruction.

At the same time, presumably members of the same terrorist group or the world's biggest coincidence ever, began shooting more citizens of Paris.

They targeted people at restaurants, people at a concert, and people at a sporting event, also known as every regular day people.  I might be a bit off base here but I like to consider myself semi-intelligent.  I know that it's a lot easier to put my pants on before my shoes.  So, tell me, why is it supposed to inflict fear on us because you shot somebody eating a croissant?  Was your message that you can get us at any time and anywhere?  Because you fell waaaaaay, waaaay short of that message.

In the name of whatever it is they were trying to achieve all they managed to do was get a lot of really big powers pissed as all Hell at them.  This isn't even about Obama.  This is about Eisenhower and De Gaulle.  We need to call up Great Britain, tell them we're picking up Canada on the way, ask them to call Germany, tell France we're coming, and we're all going to roll up together and figure out who did this and blast them into a very large crater in the ground.  China?  Japan?  You guys want in on this?  You know the Aussies are coming.  Russia...now's your chance to get back in the cool club!

Shit, call it World War III for all I care.  The third movie is always one where the former enemies come together and fight the new evil anyways.

And it is evil.  They targeted restaurants, music, and sports.  Fairly obvious what they were trying to achieve there.


Wednesday, October 21, 2015

The Highest Bidder

The unicorns and I usually find ourselves having a lot of free time on our hands/hooves this time of year.  October usually means that most of my favorite sports teams have shit the bed and because of this we usually spend a lot of time trying to preoccupy ourselves with mundane activities.  Myself?  I like the booze so that helps but the damn unicorns might as well be Mormons because they don't drink.  They like puzzles. 

What kind of puzzles?  Any.  kind.  of.  puzzle.  The house is chock full of sudoku, crosswords, Rubiks cubes, straight jackets, mazes, riddles, algebra books, health care forms, things that rhyme with orange, and just regular puzzles.  While this makes Christmas shopping for me easy as pie I can't stand that they insist on never getting rid of the finished puzzles.  It's a puzzle.  You solved it.  It's done.

Nope.  Not them.  They like to hold onto them like little trophies of vindication that they really are that smart.  It's pathetic!  They sleep standing up and let their bowel movements fall wherever they happen to be at that particular time.  Sure, they can do magic and cause rainbows, but they're pretty fucking far from majestic.  They don't see themselves that way, obviously, and that's why the house is filled with finished puzzles.  Every now and then the unicorns will go around and hoist one up and start to bask in all it's glory and I'll walk by and take it from them.  It's not very hard, they have hooves, they can't grip anything.




Speaking of puzzles and holding up bullshit, I think it's time to talk about the NCAA and college basketball.

So a hooker has come out and said that Louisville is trying to recruit basketball players by having sex parties in the athletic dorms and I find that absurd because the sale should be made on making baseball bats and fried chicken.  All kidding aside, has anyone ever done anything with a hooker and been completely mind at ease over the whole thing?  I said 'all kidding aside' but what I really meant was this whole thing is a joke and how the Hell can we take it seriously?

Let me put it this way:  In our nation we have a institution put in place for higher learning called colleges and universities.  It's our way to cultivate and nurture our bright young minds so we can usher in a better quality of life for our children and that's really what we're all here for.  I truly believe all that.  I do.

But the kids, they need to get out and play, and so play we let them.  Sports was introduced into higher learning and things were just dandy until other people were like, "Hey!  Those guys are doing things that might be entertaining to other people!  How do we profit off of this?"  They started out modest enough but they would soon refer to themselves as the National Collection of Assholes Anonymous and their main objective would not be to protect the young, vulnerable minds that our very country depends on but to make sure they made every possible penny they could at any expense of human sacrifice.

You see, what happens when you start thinking about the dolla dolla bills is that you start thinking that all those things that you used to think were important really aren't anymore because it's hindering your ability to get those dolla dolla bills.  You start to look the other way, you encourage competition against those that really shouldn't be competing against each other, and you take any edge you can against everybody else.  Your recruiting pitch goes from "We have a well established institution of learning" to "Go in that room and enjoy the sex party".  What the Hell?  Money is only important as we make it and we've made it higher than our values and our future.  We're recruiting our young, bright minds on the pretense of sex parties.

The NCAA is a pimp, not a professor.  The American youth is vulnerable to the hands of an organization that demands satisfaction now, not later.  This isn't just Louisville.  This is everywhere.  UCF is one of the biggest schools in country...God only knows what closed doors hide there.

So a hooker has come out and said that Louisville is trying to recruit basketball players by having sex parties...and we only know this because she called the NCAA looking for someone to foot the bill and they hung up on her.

By the way, I keep using the term 'hooker' and I mean no disrespect, it's just what the NCAA likes us to refer to ourselves as.

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

Ding Dong

I woke up this morning in a San Juan prison wearing nothing but a sombrero and several new tattoos.  The taste of scorpion liquor was still on my breath as I rolled myself to the bars and yelled out,  "He's gone!  He's really gone!"

Miami mercifully released Joe Philbin from his duties as head coach and I immediately went on a bender to Puerto Rico to celebrate aaaaaaaand things got out of hand.  There was chickens, guns, I don't know...it got weird.  The unicorns bailed me out this morning and I slept for most of the plane ride so I can't tell you what in-flight movie was playing but I opted for the kosher meal.

One of the unicorns, I call him Biscuits, just pointed out that 'scorpion liquor' is traditionally Mexican and I slapped him across the face and told him to never correct me.  It's embarrassing.  By the way, his name isn't really 'Biscuits', I just call him that to be a jerk.  His name is Charles.

If I haven't been abundantly clear by this point that I don't care to talk about Joe Philbin anymore--that's exactly what I'm doing.  He's done.  It's done.  Let's move on.

Let's move right along to...baseball!  Yay, baseball!  That's so much more interesting than any other sport!  Did you know that baseball is considered America's past time?  Yeah, I don't know what it means either but it's got America in the title so you know you have to clap along or else you get the hook from the Sandman.  The same day that Joe Philbin was fired so was Matt Williams, the manager of the Washington Nationals.  He was promptly replaced by Will Matthews, announced by general manager Mitt Wilhelm, accompanied by owner Walt Mayhew.  In all seriousness, you probably can't have a member of your bullpen choke out your best star player on television and expect everything to just blow over like it was no big deal.  Also, you lost thirteen more games than you did last year and you added more firepower!  That's almost like the Dolphins not being able to stop the run despite giving a defensive tackle over a gazillion dollars.  People lose their jobs over that.  It happens.


Around this same time, in the Bermuda Triangle of sports, CC Sabathia announced that he was leaving the New York Yankees, who play in the wild card game against the Houston Astros tonight, because he had to check himself into alcohol rehab.  CC said he had to do right by his family and he was sorry for the timing and abandoning his teammates in this crucial moment.  While I will, with one hand, applaud a man for getting help I will simultaneously await the tell-all story from the hooker.  It's got to be a hooker right?  It was several hookers for Tiger Woods and he's just a golfer!  I can only imagine the amount of hookers being thrown at the feet of a New York Yankee, especially one with a drinking problem...and I'm looking at you, Ruth and Mantle.  I applaud CC's wife for putting the heel to the throat and making him get his shit together and realizing that he's actually not the hot, hot shit he thinks he is and would be nothing but a moldy cardboard box without his family.  I wonder if he had a drinking problem in Cleveland?


Okay, I guess that's enough baseball to fill the quota established by the government.  What's left?  Siiiiiggggghhhhhh.  Okay, okay...football.

I don't know exactly what's happened to the Indianapolis Colts and Andrew Luck but damned if I'm not wearing a dark cloak and saying, "Good....gooooooooood."  This is the price you pay when you make deals with the devil, Indy.  In the bridge between Peyton Manning and Andrew Luck you made blood sacrifices and chalk pentagrams and tried to make last year your year but ol' Bill "I'd kill my own wife to win a football game" Belichick and Tom "I'm just a puppet in a corrupt organization but I'm going to ride it because I get to bang models despite my upbringing" Brady decided to deflate some balls on you.  AND EVERYTHING WENT TO SHIT!

It's unfortunate that people are putting the blame on Andrew Luck when really the blame should be on every other single member of the team.  If your team is losing it's never Andrew Luck's fault.  He's Andrew Luck.  He's from Stanford.  They love trees.


Okay...I think that's it.  Yeah...we've covered just about everything...

Told ya.

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

The State Of Affairs

Jeeeeesus Christ!  Why do I even bother looking forward to the start of the NFL season again?  Is this early on-set Alzheimer's?  Because if it is just take me out to pasture and end it now because I do NOT want to toil on this way!

Seriously though...Miami barely scrapes by a Washington team in complete turmoil and I laugh nervously but shrug it off because it's a win and I'll setup some elaborate Keyser Soze shit just for a shot at a Dolphins win.  But then they drop a huge steaming shit against the Jacksonville Jaguars?!  What the Hell?!

First of all, the fact that the city of Jacksonville has a professional football team is humorous in itself but then you factor in that they are the jaguars?  If the city of Jacksonville has that many rampant wild cats running through it's limits I think it's time to rethink their infrastructure.

I make fun because I'm bitter and also the greatest joke the Twilight Zone ever pulled was making you think you were out of the Twilight Zone aaaaaaand clearly I'm not.

It's the same!  It's the same again after spending muellliiiioooonns and muelllliiiiiioooons of dollars and...and...it's the same!  Money CAN buy you happiness but you have to have half a brain first and clearly that's lacking in this situation.  This is one of those 'throw some rouge on that pig and put it in a dress' situations.  Miami was adequate last season, like they have been for the last three or four years, and adequacy doesn't exactly exemplify a word I like to call 'winning'.  The Jets and Bills haven't been the best of the best either but I see more effort from them than I do from the Dolphins and that makes me want to throw up out of my ass!

Miami looks like they are playing in pudding and that's never a place you want to be unless you really fucking love pudding.



And on top of all that good news is that the Rays are currently in a dog-fight with the Red Sox to see who finishes in LAST PLACE.  That's odd, because all things considered, the Rays were in prime position to at least challenge a wild card sport no more than a month ago.  What, in the holy Hell, could have transpired that the team would fall so far?  Hmmmmm...maybe, just maybe, that our manager is a rookie manager and he was only ever a backup catcher in the league and WHAT THE THE HELL DOES HE KNOW ABOUT THE STRETCH?!  This, kids, is where you tighten your boots and your belt and you go to work.  If you want to be a big boy in this league now is the time you bring your stuff.  Apparently, and unfortunately, we have no stuff.

We have no stuff to bring.  We're going to a party and we're the weird ones standing on the outskirts not really talking to anybody because WE HAVE NOTHING TO CONTRIBUTE TO THE CONVERSATION!!!

And it's sad...it really is.  I would not be surprised at this point that the Rays final record is 81-81.  Dead even.  Hell, that's pretty adequate.



And on top of all that good news is that the UCF Knights are 0-TBD.  This normally wouldn't be such a huge issue for me because they've always been the little brother that has had some sort of deficiency so you root for them nevertheless...but they just lost to Furman.

Look, I don't even know what Furman is.  Is that just one person?!  Is that a technical school?  I honestly have no idea and don't care to look it up because whatever the answer is doesn't matter.  We should have beaten them.  Correction:  we should have destroyed their integrity.  They shouldn't exist anymore.  They should have been so disheartened by the beating that they say, "Well, that's it guys, pack it in.  Furman is no more."

Instead I'm telling you that UCF lost to Furman.  I can't even believe I just said that.



I'm 30 now and I think it's time to start getting my priorities in order.  My mother once referred to me as the 'Charlie Brown' of sports fans in that I never get the satisfaction of kicking that goddamn ball just once.  And she's right.

How weird is it that where my greatest passions lie are completely out of my hands and always a complete letdown?

Go ahead and marinate on that a little bit, kids, I'll be back.

Saturday, August 1, 2015

Water Cooler, Asseeeeemblllleeeeeee!

Ah, August, the herald of my fleeting mortality!

The unicorns are whispering to each other and I can only assume it's because they're planning some sort of special hullabaloo for my birthday and it's frustrating because they think they're so damn sneaky but they can't whisper for shit.  Plus, whatever they end up doing, they'll just muck it up anyways.  They have hooves for Christ sakes.

The unicorns have magical powers but they insist on wrapping the gifts themselves and it just ends up looking like a box that's been bludgeoned by a bunch of hammers.  Then I have to put on this big production about how 'surprised' I am and it's...it's just awful.  They mean well though and I do appreciate the effort...you know...considering the hooves.

In essence I think August is my time for reflection.  What better way to reflect...than a water cooler!



WHAT THE HELL?: Today's 'What the Hell?' is brought to you in large part by Canada.  Kids, David Price is now Canadian.  In the latest twist in the Twilight Zone, David is back in the AL East and he's playing for the godforsaken Blue Jays.  Look, Toronto is a storied franchise with a long history of success and...oh who the Hell am I kidding...this is just ridiculous.  I'm almost positive that most casual baseball fans had no idea that there was even a MLB team in Canada and now one of the premier pitchers in baseball is playing there.

I'm sure Toronto is a nice enough place for anybody born there and doesn't know anything different but let's cut the shit here.  David Price isn't a Blue Jay.  John Olerud was a Blue Jay and he would wear his batting helmet on the base path.  That's a Blue Jay.  David Price has style...he has finesse...and he's also a free agent after this season.  We already ripped my heart out last year when the Rays traded him to Detroit in the Zero Hour of the trade deadline so why not finish the job?  Why must we prolong the inevitable?  Canada might think that they are sparing me with this trade but the fact is that I've been on borrowed time since last year.  Just put him in pinstripes already.

After this season, and free agency begins, and David inevitably and officially becomes a Yankee I'll probably vomit multiple times.  And it's not exactly a picnic right now.  Having this fear in the pit of my bowels (I didn't put it there, it just sort of happened) is like knowing ahead of time that Anakin is about to take his talents to South Beach and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.

I'm getting all jumbled here...you see what this shit does to me?!  Do you see?!!



HAH!: Today's 'Hah!' is brought to you in large part by the great state of Texas.  Texas, what can I say, you really know how to mix things up at a singles party.  When the rumors were flying around that Cole Hamels was headed to Los Angeles, Texas swooped in and said "Hey! We're in.  How much?"

Now I don't know the GM of the Philadelphia Phillies but he's probably a sad sonuvabitch and he probably wakes up each morning saying to himself, "I gave up the family hotdog cart for this?"  But not even he could contain his laughter when he picked up the phone and it was Texas on the other end.  In fact I'm pretty sure he answered, "Texas, whom?"

Sometimes in the world of baseball, especially at the trade deadline, lines get muddled and teams aren't exactly sure if they should be buyers or sellers.  The Rangers took a page from the book of their previous owner, George W. Bush, and decided that they would do the exact opposite of what they should.  So they traded for Cole Hamels, a guy that's just gonna smoke all their weed and eat all of their chips.  When Arlington burns to the ground at least now we'll know it's because Hamels tried to drunkenly light all of his farts on fire.

Be forewarned, Texas, you are now in the rough, manicured hands of the Devil.  Well, you probably were before, but now you definitely are.



THAT'S ENOUGH BASEBALL: Today's 'That's Enough Baseball' is brought to you in large part by the disillusioned states that make up New England.

Arrogance.  Entitlement.  Extraction from reality.  God syndrome.  Douchebags.  These are just a handful of terms that can be used to describe the New England Patriots, specifically their owner, coach, and quarterback... or as they are colloquially known, "The Holy Trinity of Smug Assholes".

Roger Goodell recently upheld Tom Brady's suspension of four games for deliberately deflating footballs in the AFC Championship game and it was in large part due to Brady destroying evidence, a move that Brady picked up from his old pal, Aaron Hernandez.  The guilty party then went on the offensive and Tom Brady posted to Facebook to confirm that's how big of a douchebag he is.  He thought that the best way to proclaim his innocence was to make a Facebook post.  I'd like to think that right after he posted it, he liked it, shared it, and then went and stared at himself in the mirror for six hours.

Instead, Tom said that he switches phones every four months (because those FBI taps are ruthless on the drug trade) and that he gave the NFLPA permission to seek a federal court ruling on the decision to uphold the appeal of the initial four game suspension.  I agree, wholeheartedly with this, because if there's one thing that tax money needs to go to it's proving whether or not some air was released from some footballs and whether or not a man is lying about it.  Weak infrastructure?  Not in the good ol' US of A!

FEDERAL COURT to determine the air pressure of footballs.  Tom Brady has become the quintessential 'It's the principal that matters to me' when really he's become the guy that's guilty in the public court.  Tom said that neither he nor the Patriots did no wrong.  So why the suspension of the two ball boys that Tom was texting?  Why the sudden destroyed cell phone on the day that he was to meet the investigator?  I know cell phone contracts can be a bitch but there's easier ways around that, Tom.

At least some things never change in the Twilight Zone.  New England has no chance to turn back now.  They've lied, they've been caught in the lie, and have lied to cover up being caught in the lie.  The only logical choice from here is to keep lying.  Deny till you die.

By the way, the unicorns say you aren't invited to my birthday party, so take that, Tom Brady.

Float on, graceful swans.

21.

Sunday, July 26, 2015

Tricking The Devil

After I posted my last piece to the Studly Pastures, my girlfriend promptly came downstairs and pointed out all the mistakes that I made, including the most glaring that I repeatedly (and by repeatedly I mean each and every time) misspelled Caitlyn Jenner's name.  I spelled it with a K because I went ahead and assumed that like EVERYBODY else in the family whose name starts with K that she would follow suit.

Well, kids, just like the old saying goes "When you assume you make an ass out of yourself for misspelling a transgender's name over and over again throughout a blog post."

An hour later she asked me if I had any intentions of changing it and I sat there and thought about it for about three seconds and then promptly said, "Nahhhhhh."  Let it be.  Maybe the good people will think it's some sort of weird intentional joke.  It could be funny...right?  Besides...what's the worst that could happen?

WHAT'S THE WORST THAT COULD HAPPEN?!

I must be losing it in my old age because I forgot for just a split second that I lived in the Twilight Zone and there would be consequences and repercussions to my actions.  I had upset the balance of the force and tilted it ever so slightly in favor of the Dark Side.  I never thought that an old foe, long cast into obscurity, would take the small window of opportunity to rise to power yet again.

I've become as power blind as Yoda.

If you've read this blog, on at least the two occasions I've mentioned it prior, then you are already privy to this information:  I despise Cole Hamels.  Back in 2008 he sold his soul to the Devil to rise up and smite my Tampa Bay Rays in their one and only World Series visit.  I slunk back into the darkness and began my elaborate plans to make sure Hamels lost his arms in a tragic wheat-thresher 'accident' but then I remembered...you don't sell your soul to the Devil without him collecting payment at some point.

Sure enough, enter 2015, and Cole Hamels is still toiling away with the Philadelphia Phillies only now they're phucking terrible and the worst team in baseball.  Before yesterday, Hamels was 0-4 in his last 9...9! starts and had an ERA over five!  The writing powers that be said that Hamels looked "disinterested" on the mound.  Hah!  It was done.  Back in 2008 I really really wanted Hamels' career in baseball to end with an Arby's franchise that he would have to eventually work at to keep it from going bankrupt.  I guess I really wanted to one day be in the position to say to Cole Hamels, "I said Horsey sauce, you moron!  How hard is your job really?"  I feel like that would crush him.

But I guess the next best thing would be for him to have to be stuck with his beloved Phillies only no matter what he did--no matter how he pitched--he would always lose.  You lose!  You get nothing!  GOOD DAY SIR!

Then the whispers started and wouldn't fate have it...Cole Hamels popped up as a trade deadline name.

What?  Cole Hamels?  Don't these people know you can only sell your soul once to the Devil?  How in the Hell is his name popping up as a hot commodity at the trade deadline SEVEN years after he was last relevant?  There are baseball players that disappear into obscurity every single day and it's only years later that we ask ourselves in passing "Hey, whatever happened to so and so?" and why can't that happen to Cole Hamels?  The ONE guy (other than Alex Rodriguez) who I want to disappear and he's the chosen one to be resurrected

Then I thought about it and realized it wasn't that big of a deal.  So what if he gets traded?  He's still Cole Hamels.  If the Phillies want to release him from perdition and get a ham sandwich in return, who I am to deny them?  That's roughly what I equate his worth to anyways...a ham sandwich.  And not even a good ham sandwich.  So there.

Then yesterday happened and Cole Hamels threw a no-hitter against the Cubs.  You know what probably raises your stock a helluva lot right before the trade deadline?  A goddamned no-hitter.

The best part, the quintessential moment that really makes you remember where you are, came in the ninth with two outs.  Hamels was one out away from his no-hitter when rookie phenom Kris Bryant blasted a pitch to dead center.  The Phillies center fielder, whose name will not sully my unicorn stables, misplayed the ball horribly.  It was as if he was expecting the ball to just clear the fence and he was going to go for a heroic jump-up-the-wall and save the day maneuver.  The only problem was that the ball was not going to clear the fence and would fall feet short on the warning track.  He realized this about a fraction of a second before the inevitable, went to make the adjustment, and slipped on the dirt that makes up the warning track.  When he slipped, he fell forward, and just managed to get his glove out in time to snag the ball before it hit the ground and Cole Hamels secured his legacy as the only man to sell his soul to the Devil twice.

Damn you, Twilight Zone...damn you to Hell.

Don't think it's lost on me that he did it against the Cubs.  My favorite player to hate no-hit my favorite team to hate and that's such a weird flux of emotions that I'm not sure what to do.  Cry and pee?

All those years when Tampa was the worst team in baseball and the best thing we got to celebrate was losing to Cole Hamels in the World Series.

Sigggghhhhhhhhh.

The only solace I can take is that maybe this is a blessing in disguise.  Maybe his once again fame will lead him to a lady of the night and they will spend the night together only the lady is really three raccoons in disguise and they'll chew his face off in the morning.  At least Hamels can never take my dreams!

Float on, graceful swans...except you Hamels...stop floating.

27.

Saturday, July 18, 2015

The Sticker King

When I was a kid, during the 90's, I walked that fine line of children actually achieving things instead of adults just handing out 'congratulations' and 'great win' like free samples of shitty ice cream.  It was a weird time to be alive because I'm pretty sure I was competitive against my fellow fifth graders in just about anything.  In fact, I remember specifically this really sadistic game that only children of the 90's could get away with.  The premise was simple:  Two teams lined up ten bowling pins on opposite sides of a court with a line, that could not be passed, in the middle of the court.  Playground balls were given to both sides and melee ensued as the winner was simply whoever knocked over the other side's pins first.  I laid out for a ball that was surely headed for a pin on my side and came skin to concrete and just chucked it up as that these are the scars that we earn in battle when we go for the win!  That was the fifth grade.

Then things took a turn for the worst...also in the fifth grade.  My essay, which I wrote for the D.A.R.E. program did NOT get picked as the winner of the one that would be read at 'fifth grade graduation', which confounds the Hell out of me considering I can write and I DON'T DO DRUGS but hey maybe that committee can be bought...

But the absolute worst thing, the thing that I still think back and shake my head about was that I had a first year teacher.  She was great, probably the nicest woman in the world at that time to deal with us and she made sure that each and every day was the best it could be for us.  Well, when it came time to 'graduate' she made sure that no student was left behind and everybody got a certificate.  Here's where the lines get a little hazy and even the morons got recognized for something.  Basically my teacher went to a store like, say, probably Party City and bought a bunch of mock certificates and filled them out herself to encourage the spirit in all of us as we ventured into the vast, unknown world...of middle school.  It was a sweet thing to do, and she was a first year so she gets even more credit, and we were probably assholes anyways and didn't deserve such a nice notion.

Only my certificate read, "The Sticker King."  That's what I was credited with.  I collected the most stickers.  We had 'Show and Tell' every week for the entire year and eventually I ran out of things to show these douche bags and brought my sticker collection just as a filler and now I'm the goddamn Sticker King?  I wrote a musical based on the songs of Meatloaf but you want to see the stupid ass stickers in my notebook?!  Unbelievable.  Obviously that certificate isn't hanging about my mantle but it's probably mostly because I don't have a mantle.


Then the collective people went up in arms about the ESPY choice of the Arthur Ashe award for courage.  The award went to Kaitlyn Jenner, formally Bruce Jenner, and current transgender.  I've heard all the jokes, I've listened to them and I probably laughed at a few good ones.  That's all in the past because what's important is getting the message across.

What's the message?  I feel like that's lost because a lot of people don't exactly know who Arthur Ashe was and most people fear the unknown.

Ashe was a champion tennis player, let alone a champion American tennis player, but a black American tennis champion.  Chew on that for a bit.

He died from AIDS-related pneumonia and he got the HIV from a blood transfusion, which at the time, just a little before I was deemed the Sticker King, was one of those scary terms we were dealing with.  The HIV?!  Only homosexuals get the HIV...right?!  See, the world didn't know, so Arthur went to work and made them aware.  He spent his dying years teaching the world about something they were all petrified to get but they didn't know how and they weren't exactly sure why.  He was the embodiment of courage in that he couldn't save himself from it...but maybe he could save you.


I personally do not know why a sports-centered empire needs an award show.  They've gotten increasingly sentimental over the years and have incorporated several celebrities because I feel like even they don't know why they have an awards show.  But they do, and it's called the ESPY's, and they named an award after Arthur Ashe and they called it courage...and I agree with that.  Then this year they gave that same award to Kaitlyn Jenner, formally Bruce, and she went up there and said the exact same heartbreaking speech that so many before her have had to say.

She knew that she would be the target of ridicule, of jokes, and of criticism of why she got that award but she stood up there and said that it wasn't it about her...it was about all of the people that felt afraid that they were living in their wrong bodies and took everyday in fear.  All of those that were unsure of themselves that night finally had a role model.  If you can stand there on national television as a former male and say that you are finally free as a female and that there is hope for the others that feel the same..and also win an award at the same time...well then I'd say that's pretty goddamn courageous.

Was the right platform a sports awards ceremony?  Sure, as long as the cameras are on, because who the Hell is watching that crap anyways?  They already get awards...they're called million dollar paychecks and trophies.  Use whatever platform you have to get people to listen.  Kaitlyn Jenner used her voice with the ESPY's and that's all I hear about these days so you know she did something right and apparently people are watching the ESPY's...

Must be that star power!

Float on, graceful swans...and also geese.  You're more than welcome to share the pond.

Saturday, July 11, 2015

The Dust Bowl

I'm about to be one of those jerks that wasn't there at the time but is going to tell you about it anyways.  Listen, all history is just somebody telling you that this is what happened and you can take their word for it and believe it or just make up some random shit and all of a sudden you're a cult leader.  I've seen it tens and tens of times...

In the 1920's, the United States of America decided to ruin everybody's good time and made the buying and selling of booze illegal.  It went over about as well as you would think and the infrastructure crumbled.  All Prohibition managed to do was bring about rampant organized crime, usher in an era known as the Great Depression, and still allow people to buy and sell booze but be more quiet about it.  I'm no historian but if there's a place called the 'Dust Bowl' I'm probably getting the Hell out of there.  It's the same thing for 'Tornado Alley', 'Ring of Fire', and 'Chipotle'.  Their very names illicit fear!

The fact that you could have lived in the Dust Bowl during the Great Depression while under Prohibition and didn't immediately off yourself proves to me that people are generally very, very stupid.  Dust Bowl?  Sounds exotic!

Look I know that I didn't live through those times and I'm basically mocking our family history but...come on!  The mentality of "Well, we're poor and on the brink of annihilation...let's settle in this barren wasteland that is completely void of any natural resources that is constantly pounded by storms...made...of...dust.  That oughta cheer us up!"

We come from a long line of stupid and that much is very obvious even in today's standards.


Which brings me to today's NBA and the saga of DeAndre Jordan.

You know what, screw that, this story isn't about DeAndre Jordan it's about the stupidity of the NBA and how their failure to recognize the sign of the times brings about things of this nature.  DeAndre Jordan was set to be a free agent, meaning he could sign with any team.  The NBA sets aside a period of time before free agency begins where all potential free agents can talk with other teams and negotiate deals but not allowed to sign any contracts...meaning anything decided during this time is strictly based upon the faith of a man's word.

Jordan gave his word to the Dallas Mavericks that he was headed there and then they proceeded to do nothing else in this pre-free agency period except party and high-five each other.  Well it turns out that the Dallas Mavericks don't watch Game of Thrones where basically 'giving your word' means 'I'm about to stab you'.

Before we continue we have to visit our little history lesson real quick.  The NBA refers to this pre-gaming practice as the 'Moratorium Period' which turns out to be the 'temporary prohibition of an activity'.  Uh oh...there's that scary word again.  That didn't turn out so well the first time...

The NBA thinks that it can operate under the 'word' of man.  The 'word' of man died as soon as we started throwing millions of dollars around and kept a harem of lawyers on speed dial.  You can't even go smoke a cigarette without leaving a credit card with the bartender!  The Dallas Mavericks were stupid.  The NBA is stupid.  And now DeAndre Jordan looks like a jerk because he wasn't sure he was making the right decision as a 26-year old facing a career defining moment and ended up going back to the place he felt the safest.

People will say he should have called Mark Cuban, the owner of the Mavericks, and explained it all to him and I'm pretty sure those are the same people that let their significant other know that they are broken up by Facebook status.  Have you ever applied to two jobs, got them both, and then called the lesser paying of the two and thanked them for considering you but you have a better option?  If you answered 'yes' then you are definitely a Dust Bowl descendant.  Does Mark Cuban call all the players he doesn't sign and says, "thanks but no thanks?"  Did Al Capone ever call up the cops before Eliot Ness and thank them for being close but not close enough?

I'm not calling DeAndre Jordan a scumbag but there's been too many scumbags in the past for the NBA to still operate a system where men just give their 'word'.  It leaves too many loopholes.  Whenever we throw around words like 'honor' with multi-billion dollar companies, agents, lawyers, and the media...well...now we're just asking for Great Depression.


Who's the bad guy in this whole affair, kids?  History and the human inability to recognize and learn from it.  The 'Moratorium Period' is as good as dead and I can only imagine what they come up with next.

I'd like to think that my ancestor during this time was sitting in a speak-easy drinking a probably awful tasting scotch and just thinking to himself, "Yep, it's all the same."

Float on, graceful swans.

Thursday, July 2, 2015

Six!

Kids!  Faceless entities!  It's July and it's time to celebrate yet another Studly Pastures anniversary!  Yep, this July we're kicking off our sixth year and I couldn't...wait...where the Hell is everybody?!

I just walked into the break room expecting a huge surprise party and there wasn't anything in there except an old moldy sandwich that might have been turkey at one point and time.  The unicorns are acting malaise at best and that's the word of the day that I just taught you.

Okay, okay, I get it.  This year has felt more like a retirement party than any other has.  I've pretty much gathered up all my laurels, molded them into a nice little pile, and rested on those bitches for the better part of 2015.  The problem with laurels is, that once you are upon them, it's mighty hard to get your fat ass up again.  My apologies to anybody named Laurel by the way, but you shouldn't be mad at me, it's your parents' fault.  I know none of this is making any sense, especially the part where I'm talking about sitting on a bunch of plants as if it's comfortable or something, but hang with me for just a moment...I'm bound to end up somewhere.

I haven't been writing, not for the SP (that much is obvious), but it's more than that.  I haven't been writing at all.  Nothing.  The only creative thing that I've been producing lately is quickly flushed down so it doesn't stink up the joint.  By the way, how many bloody wipes is officially worrisome?

You see?  Poop jokes!  I've been at it for six freakin' years and I'm doing shtick on poop jokes!  Shameful.

I've made it no secret that this is the year that I turn 30 and I'm not one of those bratty asshole 22-year olds that complain that they're getting old because 30 will only be old in the future when we have to governmentally control the population by executing people once they reach a certain age.  Luckily for me, that's not now, and I know all this but shit...why does it have to be such a nice round number?  29?  Break out the cigars and call up the hookers.  30?  Reservations for one at the mausoleum, please.

The problem with 30 is that it's the first actual checkpoint in your life where society expects you to be able to answer them with something and if you don't have any answers, well then, you really sound like a jackass.  And invariably, the question they ask, has something to do along the lines of "What have you done with your life the last 30 years?"  I'm currently going with the answer of "Uhhhhhhhhh".

Not exactly toe to toe with "I have a dream" or the Gettysburg Address.

When I was 18 I thought to myself, "This is it, you're an adult now."  And then I turned 21 and I thought to myself, "Adult?  What the Hell is that?  Can I drink it?"   And now I have to worry about silly things like blood pressure, and keeping my hair, and WHY IS MY STOOL SO BLOODY!  (Note: my stool isn't really bloody, don't worry, I just think it's a good writing technique to badger you to death with the same joke over and over again.)

Life is funny because I don't fear real and scary things like inevitability but I do fear being too high off the ground and sharks.  Ridiculous.  Sharks?  They can't leave the ocean, and me, a land-dweller, fears those smooth skinned bastards.  Yet I don't blink at the face of the inevitable end of existence that hinges on whether or not you've been here too long or eaten too many cheeseburgers but those damn sharks though...

It's been six years since I first sat down at the computer and wondered if people would like the idea of a sports blog that is somehow related to a unicorn stud farm.  It was a bold concept that I was asking of faceless entities that I would never meet and yet somehow it worked out really well.  I guess that's my answer.  What did I do with the last 30 years?  I tried my damn hardest to make people laugh and if they learned something along the way then that's even better.  I command the Studly Pastures, dammit, and we're still here!  Still here!  So let's get going...


THE BAD: We're gonna start with the bad, up in Canada, at the Women's World Cup and the semifinals match between Japan and England.  The match ended 2-1 in favor of Japan when Laura Bassett, of the English team, scored an own goal with a minute left in stoppage time.  She immediately defected to Cuba but she boarded the wrong plane and ended up in Wales.

I feel bad for this woman because this is the Social Media age and schmucks (like me) who think the internet offers immortal power are going to be ruthless and evil towards her when all she did was make a bad mistake that had the worst possible outcome.  She was obviously distraught after the match and I can only hope her teammates consoled her and took the weight off her shoulders.

With that said, what the flying shit were you thinking?!  Whenever you could have done nothing and it would have turned out better than you doing something means that you really screwed the pooch on that one.  Kids, I don't condone breaking the rules, but I'll do it to help myself win all the time.  Laura tried to play things fair and when she found herself outmatched one-on-one on defense she tried to clear the ball...by sending it right into her own goal.  What she should have done, and listen closely when I tell you this, is KNOCK THAT BITCH DOWN!  Knock her down.  If you get the card, then screw it, she still has to make the penalty kick.  But there's still the chance that they won't even card you.  I mean, it's FIFA, after all.  Those corrupt bastards would probably appreciate the bloodlust and not even blow the whistle.

I can only hope that Laura learned an important lesson here and that it's simply too hard to compete in professional level sports without getting your hands a little dirty.  Save the manners for the tea party, Laura, and next time knock that bitch down.



THE UGLY: I move on to the American side of things and the Shakespearean downfall of Tiger Woods.  I guess Othello would be the best comparison?  Is that racist?  But Iago would have to just be another personality of Othello because Tiger's downfall was caused by himself and...wait...is Othello and Iago one person?  I think I just stumbled upon my own Da Vinci code.

Tiger and Lindsey Vonn have decided to not be America's best hobby-sport couple anymore and it's probably because Tiger cheated on her.  This really takes me back to the glory days when Tiger used to cheat on his super model wife with random bar floozies...ahhhhhhhh...fresh mountain air!  What a colossal jackass.  Tiger has officially become more relevant on TMZ than he is on the PGA Tour.  What a time to be alive!  Our once and true great king turned out to be a horny playboy and I'm not surprised.  The dam walls broke.  That's not a typo, I really mean dam.  Think about it: He was a golf player...at Stanford...he didn't get laid until he was well under the cozy and warm wings of Nike.  Once you get a taste of the good life...it's all downhill from there.

If Tiger wants to mow down two or three skanks a weekend, that's fine, that's his thing.  But I used to think he did because that's where he drew his life force from and now he clearly sucks at golf so that can't be it.  He's just a jackass.  One of the greatest athletes of my time is a terrible human being and that's incredibly sad.




THE GOOD: Kids, for the last five years I've stood on my soap box and judged humanity from my own twisted view of things and for some reason you've let me.  I've opened Year Six with a crisis of faith, a berating of a poor English woman, and the worst thing to happen to American sports since Tom Brady's chin...and yet, you're still here.  The unicorns appreciate it, as do I, and we'll be here until we're court ordered to stop.

Float on, graceful swans!  Six!

Saturday, May 23, 2015

May Flowers

Dear God, it's the end of May, and that means that the dawn of my fourth decade of life is just barreling towards me like some sort of weird barrel based weapon.  Time sucks because it's always time to do something.  It's time to get up, it's time to go to work, it's time for your state approved execution...blah blah blah.  There's never any time for anything besides all the shit we don't want to happen.  Time is literally the harbinger of my doom, your doom, and the doom of all carbon based life forms.  Watches and clocks are morbid ways of checking the time that you have left and also when that meeting starts.  Time rolls on and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it.

I once believed that if I just stayed in bed all day then that day would never occur and time would stop.  That's how I lost my first job.

In three months time I'll be thirty years old and it's time to highlight some positives of that because I'm already depressed and we're not even there yet.  I'm like Queen Elizabeth to hamsters, goldfish, most insects, and celebrity marriages.  I'm a true testament of time in the very sense that it hasn't killed me yet, dammit, and it's time we get going.



The Miami Dolphins have inked Ryan Tannehill, my little Fuzzby, to a big contract that will keep him in South Florida and potentially pay him ninety six muellllllliiiioooon buckaroos.  Several of my friends have come up to me and asked me what I thought about this and every single time my mind kept going back to the Vietnam War for some reason but I think I'm ready to settle down and talk about it now.

It's dumb.  It's a dumb move.  Just because it's after the divorce and you run through a bunch of scumbags for a number of years doesn't mean you have to marry the first guy that's wearing slacks and has his hair combed.  You can probably, gee I don't know, LET HIM PROVE HIS WORTH FIRST!

Ryan's a great guy and I'm sure he's nice to children, old people, and dogs.  He could even go on to mesh so well with the tools the Dolphins have provided him this offseason and just wreck shit.  He could lead his team to the playoffs and be in title contention come the end of the year.  He could be an MVP candidate and hoist up the Lombardi trophy in South Florida for the first time in longer than I've lived on this planet...but...it's all hope and hope is absolutely dog shit in professional football.  If you are signing people to your team in the NFL based on hope then you better prepare yourself for a good old fashioned cry session in your bathroom while pretending to take a shower because that's where you are headed.

We now live in a world where Andrew Luck, who has been further into the playoffs each year he's been in the league, and Russell Wilson, who has won a Super Bowl and been to two, and were both drafted the same year as Ryan Tannehill and yet they remain on their rookie contracts.  And Robert Griffin Part III!  He was there too!

It's weird.  It's gotta be a great tool for when the time comes that I become a parent because every Sunday I'm cheering him on but in my head I'm praying to whoever answers that he just doesn't completely blow it.  But for better or for worse, in sickness or in health, in wins or in complete mediocrity each and every season, I am now stricken with a Fuzzby for the next FIVE freakin' years.

That's a lot of time.  And if every season that I've witnessed is some sort of barometer for how the next five will go...let's just say I'm not quitting the blog any time soon.


And now...NOW...it's finally time that I make my way to you, Mr. Thomas Gladys Brady, you cheating son of a bitch!  (His middle name comes from his father's favorite lunch lady in school)

When the time comes that I'm dead and gone from this Earth and you are too, and so are our children, and so on and so forth...but yet the SP remains for some reason...the time capsule of the NFL would be the period of time that the New England Patriots decided, "Hell, we aren't winning, maybe we should start cheating?"  And that would be for the last thirteen or so years. 

It was all an elaborate set up, from top to bottom, and it was undeniably brilliant but it was also the worst thing to happen to American sports.  Bill Belichick was a horrible failure as a head coach but as soon as he landed in New England he had one bad year and then was the best ever.  Tom Brady knitted wool caps for the rest of the Michigan Wolverines and wasn't drafted until the sixth round, pick 199, meaning that one hundred and ninety-eight people were considered better than him by people that spend their entire lives by evaluating talent and potential and yet now he is considered the best ever?!  How in the holy Hell did they accomplish this amazing feat?!  BY CHEATING!  The whole time.  We caught them with Spygate.  We have now caught them with Deflategate.  How many other gates did they get past us?  I'm now struck with a myriad of questions, questions like, 'Did they lose some games on purpose to not look suspicious?',  'Did the Tuck Rule start the flood and they started wondering how far they could press the stupidity of the rules of the NFL?', and 'Isn't this the fitting answer as to why Tom Brady, the most popular NFL player, and Gisele Bundchen, the most popular super model, never did a reality show?'  It's because he didn't want to be caught!

The thing that I don't get, the thing that bothers me, is how did the whole operation get exposed over a few underinflated footballs?  Incriminating texts between two lackeys, Brady's denial, Kraft's infuriation, Belichick's inevitable betrayal...it's not adding up for me.  Thanks to all the lawyers and media Deflategate has become a joke.  One of the guys that Brady had taking the air out of footballs called himself 'The Deflator' and now Brady's lawyer is saying that he called himself that because he was trying to lose weight.  Riiiiiight.  I think I can remember that being the pinnacle of the pyramid in the Jenny Craig plan to lose weight.  You start out as The Defiler, next is The Diarrheal, then The Defenestrator, and finally, The Deflator. 

I think it's time that Brady answers for his crimes.  Belichick has left him to the pyre.  Kraft puffed up his chest and then slowly backed away.  Brady is all alone now.



It's also time for this post to wrap up.  Hopefully, in time, we'll know the full story but if I were you I wouldn't hold my breath.  The NFL is very good at being dumb or they're very good at playing dumb.  I'm not sure which is worst.

Friday, April 17, 2015

Isn't It About Time You Got Going?

The subscribers to the Studly Pastures know that there are a few folks in the realm of the universe that I am not quite fond of.

Peyton Manning.  Cole Hamels.  And the rest...

I hate those guys because I've always felt like they had a personal vendetta against me which, in turn, led me to have a personal vendetta against them.  Thus the cycle repeats itself and I never confront my weird hatred for random athletes.

But there's always one...alwaaaaaays one that can only be explained as the feeling you get when you meet your daughter's boyfriend for the first time and he's a total douche bag...but he also knows that he's a douche bag and he's so far gone into Doucheland that he's trying his damndest to get into your house and bang your daughter while also showing you how much of a douche bag he is.

I'm talking about Alex Rodriguez, kids.  The guy just doesn't take a hint unless it's something you can liquefy and inject into your ass and have your cousin and dealer take the fall.

He's so far gone that he came back to baseball.  HE CAME BACK.  That's like being told by the chess club, and you're the guy that beat Bobby Fischer (Google it before you judge), that we're good and we don't need you anymore because you took brain pills or some shit like that.  They annexed you and you decided, "Eh, I'll come back next year and everything will be just fine."  Everything you've done has been done in vain.  It doesn't matter.

That was your unvite, dipshit.  We don't want you here anymore and apparently a simple YEAR LONG BAN isn't enough to get through your chemically improved thick-skull.  The New York Yankees make press conferences about how 'he has to prove himself" and how they're 'taking it day by day'and it makes me want to vomit because they should have been rid of him a loooooong time ago.

I get it.  I scale over the Yankees current lineup and there's not a single person listed there that scares me and that's not exactly Bronx Bomber fashion.  So for good business we kiss and makeup with Rodriguez and plug him in at first base or DH because we need the money...er...the power.  Wait.  Do either of those nouns matter?  I'm starting to feel that they are interchangeable.

We were at 656 with Rodriguez.  He hit 657 tonight.  Does it matter?  Is anybody going to think he really passes Willie Mays at 660?  Really?!

Alex Rodriguez has felt, for the entirety of his career, that his personal gain is much more important than keeping intact the integrity of the game.  He made a choice, was called out on it, paid his punishment, and is now in the starting lineup of the New York Yankees.  Was that enough?  Absolutely not.  His reputation is beyond repair.  He'll never see the light of day of the Hall of Fame because the writers that vote for it are old school and they HATE anybody who tampers with the integrity of the game.

He's playing for a paycheck at this point.  There's nothing else he can accomplish.  The rhetoric he spits out about loving baseball and setting a good example for his children is what we call in the waking world utter bullshit.  He's a con artist.  I feel bad for his kids.

If he loves baseball so much why does he try his best to manipulate it's rules?  Or bend them?  Or cheat them?!

Mariano Rivera and Derek Jeter deserved their send-offs.  Rodriguez deserves to be sent away and never thought of again.



Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Deep South Beach

I woke up today and looked over the immediate transactions at the start of the new NFL year (that's right, it starts in March) and had a couple of thoughts right off the bat.

The Seahawks actually agree with the rest of the world and believe that Russell Wilson has an arm as well and decided to get him somebody that's very good at catching the football--at long last and also just a couple months too late.  Also this tells me that 7-9 last year for the Saints wasn't an aberration, it was a premonition.  They got rid of Drew Brees' favorite target and let Drew Brees find out how the rest of us found out?!  You're in the worst division in football and you just got rid of your best weapon for which reason?  Oh, because you guys clashed over the fact that he thought he deserved more money and you were too busy counting your own dollars to pay him the time of day, I get it now.  Last month, Tom Benson, the owner of the Saints, was ordered to undergo evaluations under different doctors to determine whether or not he was still competent enough to be the man in charge.  Now I wonder if we should deem the same thing for the rest of the Saints' organization.

Jimmy Graham is a tight end, that plays like a wide receiver, and has size advantage over everybody in the secondary.  Are you kidding me?  You don't trade that.  You DON'T trade that!  There's only one other one of those in football but he's got mush-brain and is probably something that scientists chiseled out of an iceberg from the Neolithic age.  Sure, the Seahawks gave up a first round pick, but that means that they essentially drafted Jimmy Graham which is what I would do given the choice a hundred times over.

Benson's not the only one slipping these days.  Chip Kelly has been given full reigns of the Eagles and he's driving the stagecoach right off the cliff.  Chip has decided that he's going to kick off Year Three by getting rid of everybody and bringing in people that were revising their resumes for jobs at insurance companies.  Trading McCoy for a linebacker doesn't surprise me because today's NFL hates running backs that much that it makes perfect sense to swap a dynamic play-maker for a guy coming off of reconstructive knee surgery.  Then he let his best receiver walk out the door but that didn't really surprise me because he traded one away a year ago.  But then he traded his quarterback for Sam Bradford and I really had a moment where I just kind of drifted away from reality and went somewhere dark for a bit.

Sam Bradford?  What happened to Marcus Mariota?  I thought you were gonna pull some weird David Copperfield shit to move from pick 20 to top ten and pair next year's number one to get your boy.  That's your boy!  Instead you've opted to go with a guy coming off BACK TO BACK reconstructive knee surgeries and have relegated your boy to the likes of the New Jersey Jets.  Will somebody take his keys away please?  Let me be clear about something:  the St.Louis Rams should never, ever be able to hang up the phone and start laughing their asses off for pulling a fast one on somebody.  This is the very team that took the Greatest Show on Turf and made it just A Show about Turf.

Maybe Sam Bradford will pull a...uh...shit...I don't know...a Chad Pennington?!  There's no precedent so I don't know what end result there is other than writing about the Philadelphia Riots seven months from now.



NOW.  I can dish it but I most certainly can take it.  If you were going to retaliate by talking about how dumb the Miami Dolphins were/are than you must be new around here because not only am I the president of the Jesus Christ, I Can't Believe We Just Did That, We Would Be Better Off Burning The Stadium Down club...I'm also a member.

Ndamukong Suh is currently working with his agent to go over the fine print in the record-breaking contract that the Miami Dolphins are negotiating with him and I'm just sitting here staring at a white wall and rocking myself back and forth while gently humming random old-timey tunes.

It's official kids, Stephen Ross has the smallest penis in the world.  You see, he has a deep psychological void that he has to fill with trinkets like Ferrari's and private jets, and whatever the most expensive free agent is each off-season.  He's Mediocre Gatsby.

Congratulations to the Miami Dolphins, off-season champions for three years in a row.

Now hear me out because this might be a wild and crazy off the charts idea but what if instead of crippling the cap room for the next five years (each and every year so it's more like seven or eight years now) by throwing piles of cash at a single person we evenly distribute that money across the whole team, because, you know, it's a team game.  I only bring this up because it seems to me that every time we recognize a problem or a weakness we just seem to throw piles of cash at it to make it go away.

Pipe busted?  Screw it, replace the whole plumbing system.  Old refrigerator is making a noise we don't like?  Screw it, get the biggest and shiniest on the market.  Infrastructure is crumbling?  Throw a new coat of paint on it.  That new fridge isn't what they promised us at the store?  We're gonna need a new house.

I've obviously been referencing the whole money aspect of this situation to this point (because that's all these morons seem to hear) but there's a whooooooole 'nother side to this story and that's the human aspect.  The NFL refers to this as 'consequence of life' in their tax return form.

Joe Philbin is still the head coach of the Miami Dolphins and he couldn't handle Richie Incognito verbally abusing a teammate without it becoming the biggest scandal to rock the NFL since that time we all forgot that football players all talk shit to each other.  Suh stomps and kicks on people.  How's that fairy tale gonna end?

Three years ago, on this day, Peyton said no thanks to Miami.  A year ago, on this day, they traded Jonathan Martin to the 49ers.  Today they welcome Ndamukong Suh.

Circle of failure, kids.

Thursday, February 26, 2015

Passions and Punishments

I've been giving a lot of thought lately, given that this year I'll be rounding out the first 30 of my life, to what it is I'm really doing here.

I mean commanding a stud farm for unicorns while I jot down my thoughts isn't exactly the answer I gave to my teacher in fifth grade when she asked me what I wanted to do with my life.  In fact I think I told her I wanted to design the new White House, which is a weird thing too because if you think about it most people would have just said architect.  Apparently I was only invested in that one project.  The even weirder part is that since that time I have never had any desire whatsoever to become an architect.  The designing of buildings fit for human in-habitation is not something that should be put into my hands.  Except maybe tee-pees.  I could probably build a tee-pee.

I have passion for running the stud farm, I really do.  But there's a roadblock and I can't for the life of me figure out what that is.  I'm a lot like Derrick Rose I think, except he's black and incredibly gifted in the art of basketball.  Hear me out: Derrick has tremendous passion for basketball but it keeps betraying him and his body and he keeps sustaining horrific injuries.  I think that's incredibly unfair but I also understand that, 'hey that's life', and I hope he does too but I'm sure he sits at home late at night wondering what the Hell he's supposed to do.  What if he had passion for basketball and it didn't work out for one way or the other and he decided the best way to care for his family was to make pizzas?  Would he live a life content or would he just spend the rest of his days wondering what the Hell he's supposed to do?

Then I think to myself, "No, you have to run this stud farm.  Nobody else knows where the rakes get put back or where we keep the fresh hay and et cetera, et cetera, et cetera...  That's latin, doll.  Is that selfish or foolish?  I can't decide.  I guess I'm a lot like Kobe Bryant I think, except he's black and incredibly gifted in the art of basketball.  Hear me out:  Kobe has been to the mountaintop--several times.  To put it lightly he makes you question who the best Laker of all-time was.  His last few years haven't been very kind to him as his body is breaking down after all this time of wear and tear and he should probably be done but his mind won't let him.  He's going to come back for more punishment because 'he just can't go out this way.'  This happens from time to time to all great champions.  Your entire career has been a fairy tale so how could there not be a happy ending?  Do you think Kobe sits at home at night and asks himself what the Hell he's supposed to do?  If he hung it up right now and got some cushy TV analyst job do you think he would live a life content or would he just spend the rest of his days wondering what the Hell he's supposed to do?

If the Studly Pastures ended tomorrow I think my overall demeanor would be that I was generally pleased but felt like we could have done so much more.  And, hey, I've already told you that the two parameters for the ending of the SP are either the Miami Dolphins winning the Super Bowl or my untimely demise--whichever occurs first.  But the Zombie Apocalypse could happen and I'm pretty sure the internet would shut down and that would end the SP and if that happened, like I said, I would have mixed feelings...and hopefully a shotgun.  I guess I'm a lot like Peyton Manning, except he's under the Mendoza Line for Intelligence Quotient and extremely gifted at the art of football.  Peyton has no reason to come back next year--absolutely none--and it looks like he's coming back.  He's old, he's worn down, and his neck is fused together with technology they talked about in the original Terminator.  He's completely insane but he knows no other way.  Peyton Manning sits at home and says, 'Neck or football?  Ehhh...football."  Because what the Hell else would he do?!

I wonder, way back in the fifth grade that day, if I told the teacher I wanted to design the new White House because I panicked under the weight of the question.  Who the Hell at ten years old knows what they want to devote the rest of their life to?  The ironic part is that it's probably athletes and it's ironic because they never last.  They know from Day One what they want to be and they're the first ones to not be able to do that anymore or surrender their necks.

As for me, I like my neck.  I think it's pretty clear what my calling is.  It's still not too late to have Jimmy Carter teach me to build houses.

Float on, graceful swans.

Saturday, February 21, 2015

The Fight of OUR Century

Kids, I'm a big fan of boxing and it's widely known (through my tens of supporters) that Muhammad Ali is my favorite athlete of all-time.  He was the mixture of talk and walk that just appeals to smug jerks like me.

Greatness hasn't boxed in a long time (but they still play his fights on ESPN Classic so you should watch them...except the Thrilla in Manila because he almost dies...but other than that...watch them) and with his departure boxing hasn't been all that popular.  The best boxer since him has probably been Mike Tyson but he's balls crazy and that distracts us from his brilliance.

Then for years since we've had the running battle between Manny Pacquiao and Floyd Mayweather about which of them is the best boxer of this generation but the funny thing was that they never fought each other.  I've been dying for this fight because of, well, a few reasons really.

First off, boxing is playing second fiddle to UFC these days and that makes me sad because I really hate UFC.  Two Cro-Magnons in thongs groping at each other for five minutes at a time is only sport in really weird gay mansions.  Don't get me wrong, UFC has entertainment value just like the Coliseum used to have for ancient Romans.  If there's one common vein throughout humanity it's that we like to see gorillas try to tear their heads off each other.  Boxing is different.  They tend to do things like, you know, defense.  The Sport of Kings is horse racing but if there's a Hobby of Kings it has to be boxing.  It's regal and brutal at the same time.

Second of all, there's bad blood between these two.  Mayweather has gone on drunken racist Vegas rants about Pacquiao and has questioned his integrity of the sport by demanding blood tests.  These two veritably hate each other and that always makes for a great fight.  The last time I can remember a great fight when the two fighters hated each other so much was probably...sigh...the Thrilla in Manila.  The Fight of Last Century took place between the same two men that fought in Manila but what if this is the Fight of OUR Century?!  Which leads me to my next point...

Don't we deserve to know?  Who is it?  Is it Pacquiao or Mayweather?  Which one do I get to gloat to my children about witnessing as the best of THIS generation?  This is the only way--they HAVE to fight each other.  Boxing, like most great sports, has become heavily commercialized and there's a lot of money involved these days.  This bout is going to be the biggest money maker of them all but I'm asking you to put aside all those trivial dollars.  At the end of the day it's two men in the ring and one of them will win and that will finally answer a question we've asked for a long time.

Sure, they're older, but great boxers don't age like you and me.  Great boxers have a fire that dies out long after their bodies should.  Without question this will be a great fight.  Mayweather is undefeated, a perfect 47-0!  Not one slip up in almost fifty bouts?  Come on.  Pacquiao is considered the best poud-for-pound fighter right now and that's just a nice way of saying he's a tough little guy.  I'm just kidding.  He could punch through my chest.

May 2nd.  I'm clearing my calendar and I suggest you do the same.

Tuesday, January 27, 2015

Farts and Kraft

As New England stares down the barrel of a Nor'easter they decide that the best tactic to absolve the storm is through their own hot air.  That's all that seems to be coming out of New England these days.

Since Deflategate has gained speed, Belichick, Brady, and now even the Pats' owner Robert Kraft has taken the podium.  While each man has taken their own approach to questions about why they felt the need to cheat when it was so obvious that they didn't have to I found that Kraft provided the most insight.

I was actually kinda shocked that Senator Palpatine even took the podium in the first place but then I remembered that cameras would be there and hubris is pretty tough to have just by yourself aaaaaaaaand now we're here!

Bob (that's right I'm calling him Bob) shuffled up there in his million dollar loafers made from the souls of the forgotten, took off his lacy white glove and slapped it in the face of the collective media and or world.  That's right, kids, Bobby Kraft demands satisfaction!

An apology?!  An APOLOGY!?  What freakin' planet are these morons living on?  Hey, asshole, maybe you shouldn't demand an apology while there is an ongoing investigation on how your team cheated!

And if by some miracle of God, or however much you have to pay people to make things go away these days, that you aren't found culpable of removing air from footballs---well then sir---YOU STILL GET NOTHING!

You get nothing.

Tom Brady says his feelings were hurt.  Robert Kraft says that it bothers him that their reputations and integrity have been called into question and I'm over here playing the world's smallest violin because absolutely nobody should feel bad for the New England Patriots.

Did anybody feel bad for Michael Jackson when the second kid showed up in his bed covered in glitter and banana peels?  No!  You know why nobody is going to apologize to Robert Kraft and the New England Patriots?  Because they're mocking us.

I find it fitting that Ted Wells, the guy who investigated the great Dolphins' bullying scandal last year, is now investigating the Patriots deflategate controversy because the Patriots have been bullying the entire rest of the league for the last fifteen years.  There are 32 teams in the NFL and only one of them sees themselves in a higher light than the rest of them.  There is only one team's name that keeps popping up when we bring up the term "cheating".  Go buy yourself some compassion, Mr. Kraft, because we're fresh out over here.

An apology.  Hah!  Sure.  I'm sorry that you guys are such pompous assholes that you think you can literally get away with murder.  I'm sorry that we have to listen to you pompous assholes crying about how you're being targeted because you're the New England Patriots.  I'm sorry that you've developed some sort of weird 'us against the world' mentality when it was you, in fact, that separated from the rest of the world.  "They all hate us because we hated them so we're going to hate them for hating us!" - The New England mantra, also known as the Yosemite Sam defense.

After the press conference, Robert Kraft left in his melancholy limousine and went back to his less-than-fortunate mansion.  He then took off his blase suit and climbed into his huge bed covered in tiger skins--from a indigenous part of "Bad Asia".  There, he patiently waited, while drifting off into Billionaire Dreamland, for the apologies of all the people much, much less than him.

I'm so confused by all of this because I've never met people so unlawfully willing to cheat--and then still care about their public persona at the same time.  Are they insane?  I'm starting to think that they are insane.

Look, the end result of the Wells' investigation doesn't mean anything.  I've already seen all the stuff I needed to see.  The Patriots did something to their footballs.  Bill Belichick shifted the focus to Tom Brady.  Tom Brady stood up there and acted like he wouldn't know the touch of a football from a glazed ham.  Bill Belichick stood up there again and tried to blow us away with his vast knowledge of Joe Pesci movies.  Then Robert Kraft stood up there and demanded an apology for something that hasn't even been concluded yet.  This all makes perfect sense to the criminally insane.

But what does it all mean, Basil?

It means that the Patriots are legitimately shocked that the NFL would follow protocol and investigate a method of cheating that they would do for the other 31 teams.  It means that the New England Patriots are so far gone past the realm of actual humanization that they think they are owed some sort of apology for even being brought down to our measly level.  Robert Kraft wants to be apologized to for being treated like everyone else.

Float on, graceful swans, but stay the hell away from New England.  A bad storm is hitting them today.

Monday, January 19, 2015

New England's Taint

I sit here now, in the wake of the latest scandal from the New England Patriots, and I finally have them figured out.

They're the goddamn Cobra Kai Dojo.  They cheat even when they don't have to!

For those keeping score at home, the Patriots are now being investigated into deflating footballs during the AFC championship game last night against the Indianapolis Colts--which they didn't have to do at all to win the game--they're just assholes.  Bill Belichick, the capo of the underworld, has employed some unsavory tactics in the past and he's showing no signs of slowing down.

Although deflating footballs is something I would have expected to see in the script for Little Giants.

Really?  You were at home, in the rain, against a team you always beat anyways, and you thought, "Hell, let's take some of the air out of the footballs."  Cowards.

What's the point here?  A deflated football makes it easier to grip and catch.  Cool.  The Patriots ran down the throat of the Colts and also broke them down defensively.  A deflated football doesn't help in either of these situations.  That's the point.  New England is getting revenge for being caught for Spygate.

The maximum penalty for being caught with tampering with a game ball is $25,000 which is laughable and also shows how absolutely nobody does that shit.  The New England Patriots are now cheating for sport.  This is a new level of douchebaggery that was previously unknown to me.  Most cheaters cheat to gain some sort of advantage.  These assholes are now cheating to BRAG!  What the hell?!

Spygate was legitimate because it gained them a tactical advantage on game day.  Ideally, in football, you would like to know what the other team is going to do so you would guess to your best proximity and plan around that.  The Patriots knew what the other team was going to do because they sent spies to the other teams' training facilities and videotaped their game plan.  They were punished, as much as the favorite child could be, and life moved on and they haven't won a Super Bowl since.

Hmm.  That's weird.  It's almost as if one would think that Spygate was the integral reason behind New England's success only it was never reported that way because they're the media darlings of ESPN and HOW COULD TOM BRADY DO ANY WRONG IN THE WORLD WHATSOEVER!!!!???  It's almost like one would think that.

Then the Patriots drafted Aaron Hernandez, a goon that was specifically used for his size and intimidation factors.  These are known as "enforcers" in the criminal underground.  He's now sitting in a jail cell awaiting TWO separate trials for TWO separate murder investigations.  I wonder how many times he had brunch at Tom Brady's house.  Do you think Tom Brady ever had to hide a gun for him?  That'd be cool.  Giselle loves danger.

And now, once again, on the eve of yet another Super Bowl appearance (the sixth for both Brady and Belichick) there are whispers in the wind of another unsavory tactic.  Deflating footballs.  At my very core I wish this was like Al Capone getting nabbed for tax evasion but at least we still get an answer to a very important question.  What beats the New England Patriots?  Themselves.

The way something bad happens always starts the same way.  They'll suggest something that you've previously held to be outrageous so you laugh it off to see if they laugh too but they don't.  After they don't laugh you start actually thinking about it and coming up with varying means to an end.  Not after long you have a plan and like all plans it all hinges on whether you're caught or not but you can only be caught by people in power, and lo and behold, you have one on your side.  If I'm going into a fight I'm bringing a white billionaire too, Patriots, I get it.  And now all of a sudden the penalties decrease a little bit, the eyes of the power that be wane a little bit, and now we can put our plan into action.

Now we have the crown, the media, and are free to rule at our will.  Kids, might I remind you that the Commissioner works for the owners of the NFL and is not some free-standing entity that regulates dominion between the owners and players.  Robert Kraft always seemed like a nice enough guy but so did Senator Palpatine.

Like I told you earlier, it was raining.  The one thing that gets harder to do in the rain is catch a football.  Even with Tom Brady at quarterback, even with Gronkowski in the field, even with a superior running game...they still deflated the footballs.  They still used pre-cut boards.  Unbelievable.

Cold and unforgiving--the weather and attitude of New England.

If Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens can be vilified over things we think happened why aren't Bill Belichick and Tom Brady in the same light when we know they did things that aren't allowed?  Damn double standards!  I'm sure it's great to be a Patriot's fan but I'm also sure it has to feel a lot like being in the Nazi Party prior to D-Day.  Sure, things are roses now, but there's definitely a blot on the horizon.

Look, I'm obviously not trying to compare New England Patriot fans to Nazi's, that would be absurd.  I know that most of you are just blind followers of success anyways..

Friday, January 16, 2015

Coach Carousel

This marks another new landmark for the Studly Pastures as we've managed to go a full calendar month without anybody overseas reading a post.

While I'd like to think that maybe the East has finally taken what they've needed from me and are now better for it the more likely reason is that those spam bots have left me alone due to inactivity.  Eh.  The herald of the times can only do so much and he's probably not going about it by writing in an obscure blog every here and there.

I believe in self-employment.  You're the boss and what you say goes.  It's also got great job security because the only way you lose your job is when the whole company goes under and--come on--how often does that happen?

That's probably why I'm not an NFL head coach.  While it might seem like you hold some semblance of power you're really just the guy whose got the puppeteer's hand up his ass the furthest.  And when he tires of you he throws you out and gets another puppet.  Your life is basically Toy Story, except like I said, his hand is up your ass.  The life of a NFL head coach is cruel, wearing, and you better know it before you get into it or else it will swallow you up.  Unless you employ tactics, oh let's say such as spying on the other teams, your shelf-life as a NFL head coach is a little longer than that lactose-free milk which just confuses me to no end.  What's in the container?  Sand?

There's been a number of coaching changes as of late and most of them have left me wondering what the person making the hire is doing to convince themselves of such a move.  Why did this person out of ALLLLLLL others stand out to you as the one that would lead you to the promised land?  Why?!



BUFFALO: I start with you because, let's face it, we know each other the best.  You're the barren wasteland of my birth--the place that God constantly tries to warn humanity not to form a habitat in by burying it for months at a time under pounds and pounds of ice!  Yet, there you stand, as some weird testament to human resiliency or just pure ignorance.  Nevertheless, your old coach abandoned you (and granted he has a history of doing that) but you couldn't really blame him because maybe he wanted to remember what the sun looked like.  It appears now that Doug Marrone would rather not be a head coach in the NFL so that he didn't have to live in Buffalo any longer.  That's a tough pill to swallow and you washed it down with a big, heaping glass of Rex Ryan.

I know you're not the Grand Vizier of Great Decision Making but...come on...Rex Ryan?!  I wouldn't even want that guy to show up to the same bar I'm at--let alone coach my football team.  Has it come down to this, Buffalo?  You're now just willingly raising your hand for Jersey's seconds?

Rex Ryan is a defensive minded coach, something they have the footholds established for in Buffalo but their offense is a huge train-wreck.  Enter Rex Ryan, one-track mind, one-track coach, one lap-band surgery.  Buffalo has basically signed up to become Jersey 2.0.  I expected better from Canadians.



OAKLAND: I must say I like the moves that the Oakland Raiders make because as a sibling I can basically smoke crack and still be a more favored offspring.  They just don't get it, do they?  It's either they all collectively don't get it or Al Davis died so he could become more powerful than we could ever imagine.  To go through their timeline of events in just the last six months would require about five Studly's so we're just going to skip ahead and tell you that they've tapped Jack Del Rio as the 479th head coach of the Oakland Raiders.

I don't like Jack Del Rio because he thinks he looks good in leather jackets and that kind of pompous attitude makes me hate you.  He previously coached the Jaguars for far too long because they're trying to sabotage themselves but for the last couple of years he was Defensive Coordinator for the Denver Peyton Mannings.  There was much ballyhoo last offseason for the attention the Broncos were paying to the defensive side of the ball with acquisitions like Demarcus Ware and Aqib Talib.  And then Andrew Luck came along, marched right into Mile High, and now Peyton has plenty of time to peddle pizzas. (Boom).  Oakland, being in the same division as Denver, has kept close tabs on the Broncos for the last couple of years and has decided to hire the man in charge of the weakest link on the team.  The chain of failure isn't a straight line, dumbasses, it's a circle.

I like Jack Del Rio for a character name on Law and Order but as far as a head coach I'm going to have to question why the Davis family has so much money to burn for such trivial reasons such as hiring and firing a guy two years later.



NEW JERSEY: You know why I saved you for last.  The Twilight Zone is very cruel and unforgiving.  Back in the Suck for Luck year in 2011 when the Dolphins fired Tony Sparano in December, Todd Bowles became our interim head coach.  The Dolphins subsequently went 2-1 under his stead and far missed out on a lottery we were in prime position to get from the start of the season--Andrew Luck.  The Colts sucked a little bit more that year and now they're in the AFC Championship.  I knew that we weren't getting Andrew Luck that year but at least there was potential in Todd Bowles.  He had coached with us for several years prior, the team loved him and responded to him, and he seemed like a bright young mind.  Then Stephen Ross went and hired Joe Philbin as head coach and there was no place for Todd Bowles anymore and I slunk even further into the Twilight Zone.

Now Rex Ryan is in Buffalo, Todd Bowles is in New Jersey, Andrew Luck is in Indianapolis and I'm stuck with Joe "I need to do a better job coaching" Philbin and Ryan "Fuzzby" Tannehill.

The gang's all here.

As much as I bashed Buffalo for hiring a guy that was defensive-minded on an already defensive heavy team I simply can't do the same for the New Jersey Jets.  Yes, Todd Bowles is a defensive-minded coach--but if anybody can juggle with one hand while learning the other I gotta go with him.  Buffalo hired a sideshow, Jersey hired a prodigy.

I'm just glad he went to Jersey because not even they can take advantage of his raw power.

You better be floatin' on, graceful swans.

Monday, January 5, 2015

Death In The Family

Happy new year, kids.  I know I've been away for some time but I return to you now.

I'm back and the reason why I was away for so long...is complicated.  You see, I'm an emotional writer.  I sat here for the last couple of months and started to write for the SP and got about two paragraphs in and decided it was garbage and scrapped the whole thing.  I did this roughly about five times on five different occasions.  It's my roots.  I never wanted to open the paper the next day and absolutely hate what I wrote.  I don't really care if you hate it or not--I just don't want to.

So because of this weird neurosis of mine the Pastures gathered some cobwebs and then more cobwebs and we almost got to the point where we would all be sitting around wondering what ever happened to that thing we used to read all the time.

Then today happened and Stuart Scott passed away and the world got that much smaller.

I haven't been proud of ESPN in a long time.  I feel like they've become too corporate and basically use the Twitter trending list to schedule their news stories.  SportsCenter was my security blanket as I was growing up and aspiring to do something sports and writing related.  I would go to bed with it on and wake up to it in the morning.  I knew which anchors were on which days and times just like people would do with the regular news--but this was the regular news to me.

I went to journalism school, specifically for sports journalism, because I felt that a lot of people just didn't get it.  Sports does so much for so many different kinds of people that saying that you don't like sports is like cutting yourself off from humanity.  I wanted to write about what inspires humanity.

I never knew Stuart Scott personally so I can't tell you any tales of our adventures but I can tell you that he was an inspiration to me and plenty of other sports journalists.  The thing that strikes me the most about his passing--other than him being gone--is how his colleagues reacted.  They were absolutely wrecked...every single one of them.  The man had fought cancer three times and they were still floored when he passed.  The emotional outpouring from basically all of ESPN got me going and suddenly they were human again.  I was proud of ESPN.  They reminded me of my upbringing and what I wanted to be.  They reminded me that good men don't go quietly into the night.  They reminded me that even heroes cry and even heroes die.

The world shrunk because I suddenly felt like I knew all of them.  I felt like a grieving friend.  I wanted to be there in Bristol and console them and talk about Stuart's incredible life and I don't even know any of them!

I know there's plenty of journalists out there that were influenced by Stuart and they will in turn influence new generations but it's hard to put that into perspective when such a bright light has gone out.

I will say this:  Stuart Scott would undergo a chemotherapy session, go workout, and then walk into work for the next SportsCenter.  That's incredible and an attribute to how much this all meant to him and how much he wanted it to mean to you.

Sports matter because of the reasons why people engage in sports.  It's all incredibly beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time.

All hope is not lost, graceful swans.  Float on for Stuart.