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!