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.
Sunday, July 26, 2015
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.
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.
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!
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!
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