Gay Olympics

On February 7 the 2014 Winter Olympics will kick off in Sochi, Russia, despite several hitches in the gait, if you will.

For starters, there's a bunch of security concerns and several American competitors have told their families to stay home for fear of a terrorist attack.  In fact, Al-Qaeda (which has become the Westboro Baptist Church of terrorism and just can't let a single event go by without a terrorist threat) has already warned about possible attacks at the games.

This was only taken into concern when the first athlete arrived at the airport and said, "Oh shit, we're actually doing this in Russia?"

All kidding aside, outside of their prisons, security is pretty lax in Russia just because if you do something you're going to go to Russian prison and that normally is enough to have ne'er-do-wells rethink themselves.  FUN FACT: Some Russian prisons have bear-dogs as guards.  BEAR...DOGS.  They're basically dogs the size of bears that also look and act like bears...so bears.  Their line of defense is bears!  How ridiculously crazy is that?!

Of course a symbol of peace and friendly competition would be a target for terrorism...of course.  Look, potential terrorists of the world, leave the games alone.  Isn't it enough that they have to be in Russia?  Besides, bombing the Winter Olympics is like trying to assassinate the Vice President--what are you doing?  I mean, our best Winter Olympian is Shaun White and he pretty much spends his time drinking Red Bulls and smoking marijuana...of course, you could say that about our best Summer Olympian too but that's not the point!  Nobody thinks you're tough for beating up the smallest kid in school and that was the note that my mom always used to put in my lunch box just in case I got beat up that day.

Keep in mind, before we head to my next segment, that I have a large readership for some reason in Russia.  I know I joked about it a couple of posts ago but it's actually true.  I think they like my no-nonsense approach to hard-hitting topics.  With that said...

The other major issue revolving around the Sochi games is that Russia doesn't seem to care for gay people all too much.  Homosexuality, that's still a hot button issue?  Huh.  Weeeeirrrrd.  Anyways, Russian President Vladimir Putin signed a law back in June that's basically a ban on propaganda of "nontraditional sexual relations" so no 'under the covers' or 'lights off' stuff, kids.  Many people take this as discrimination against gays but I think Ol' Pooty just had a bad run in with a tranny at a Russian vodka bar.  Grudges don't die easy!

But wait...there's more!  Most of the countries that are attending the games aren't nearly as narrow-minded as our snow-blind friends to the East and have come out (zing) against the Russian law.  The United States is even sending our own resident lesbian and sports icon, Billy Jean King, to represent us and act as an ambassador of sorts.  And Ol' Pooty better watch out because the USA doesn't send in the Notorious B.J.K. unless we're ready for an all out knock 'em down, drag 'em out war!  Not even bear-dogs will stop the Notorious B.J.K!  FUN FACT: Billy Jean used to re-wire her tennis racket with the tendons of defeated opponents.

But wait...there's more!  Facing the criticism and deciding to do a little damage control, Putin said that people of all walks of life, even gays, are welcome into his country for the games...so long as they don't talk to any children.  It's funny because I have the same policy for Jehovah's Witnesses.  Come on in, have some tea, but don't look my son in the eye, you propaganda spewing S.O.B.!

I guess Ol' Pooty thinks that for some reason that gay people are endowed with either hypnotism or mind-control or can just really sell another person's butt-hole.  I have never seen this to be the case but, hey, you don't become the President of Russia without doing a little research, right?  Why should world famous athletes get the chance to talk to children?  It's not like anybody's ever had an impression on a youth before, especially people that children look up to.

Sigh...but wait...mere's thore!  I guess Sochi has a mayor too and he's come out (zing) and said that his city is 100% gay-free, so no worries to anybody that suffers from a gay allergy.  "We don't have them in our town," Anatoly Pakhomov told the BBC.  Was that a box on the latest census or is it a simpler approach to  just go door to door and pull your pants down and go "Huh?...huh?"  If they take the bait then they are quickly whisked away in a train to some sort of camp where we can later...oh...my...god...

Quick question: When Sochi signed up for this did they know that men's figure skating was an event?  There's nothing gay about men wearing tight, colorful clothing doing ballet on ice!  Float on, you graceful swans!

Hey, I guess if anything, Russia sure is doing a helluva job getting people to tune into the Winter Olympics.  I've always loved the Olympics and I think it's a wonderful concept.  And if blogs, and myself, were around in 1936 you can guarantee that I would have been all over the Berlin Summer Olympics.  Jesse Owens taught the world a valuable lesson: bigotry and prejudice never succeed.  You can stand on a pedestal and yell as loud as you want, Putin, but nobody cares.

Well I gotta go lay down now because that last line just resonated with myself.  Enjoy the games, kids.  Peace and friendly competition and as always, float on, you graceful swans!

The Tight Ends To A Mean

When I first started out with writing I was working for my college newspaper reporting on the women's basketball team and one of the constant problems I kept running into with my articles was, "How do I make this relevant considering they suck so bad every night?"

Well the answer to that question was that I had to search, and dig, and utilize every statistic that I had at my disposal to try and come up with something that would make people want to read about a bad women's basketball team.  This was normally a futile attempt, obviously, but every now and again I would get handed what I considered a 'gem' where something would happen and the story would just snowball from there.  It was rare but it did happen.

Now things are different because I have the luxury of sitting at home in the dark and waiting for some byproduct of the universe to just go ahead and fulfill his or her destiny.  These are referred to the 'Golden Ages'.

Please, allow me to regale you all with a story of a man, a woman, and the search for a chicken restaurant, I present to you...The Tight Ends To A Mean.

Kellen Winslow was a great football player for the San Diego Chargers in the NFL and was made a Hall of Famer after his retirement.  He is most famous for playing in one of the longest games in history against the Miami Dolphins, in which the Chargers were victorious, and delivered a tremendous performance.  He even milked it further by pretending like he was so exhausted that his teammates had to carry him off the field.  Alright, alright, maybe Winslow did have numerous things happen to him in that game.  I mean, he did have to get treated for a pinched nerve, dehydration, severe cramps, and a cut lip but come on this is football, dammit!  Alright, alright, he did say that "I've never been so close to death before" and even further adding "That's what Muhammad Ali said after Manila and that's how I felt out there at the end."

Now he's bringing Greatness into the conversation...fantastic.  Look, anybody who's read this blog for four and a half years knows that my favorite sports/person ever is Muhammad Ali and while I don't agree with Winslow about the comparison 100%...I'd still give him about 80%.  He did look like he was about to die.  I don't like Winslow because he defeated my favorite team in a game that will never go away in NFL lore but I can't help but respect him.  He's a good man and I hope he burns in Hell.

However, now it's clear that Winslow sold his soul to the Devil in that game and that's pretty much what Alanis Morissette could never get right and that's irony.  By the way, the only thing ironic in that song is the part where the guy who never flies is about to die in a plane crash and says "Well isn't this nice!" but there's no way that she knew that, right?  You can't tell me that she made a song entirely about irony and the only actual irony is this one subtle part and she knew that, right?!

Anyways, the reason why I now believe that Winslow sold his soul to the Devil was because after the epic game in Miami, the Chargers traveled to Cincinnati to play in one of the coldest playoff games of all-time in the Freezer Bowl.  The temperature was -9 degrees and the wind chill  made it -59 degrees.  While -59 degrees is considered 'bikini weather' on Mars here on Earth it's basically the harbinger of death.  This game took place in 1982 and a year later Kellen Winslow was the proud father of a beautiful, bouncing baby boy that he bestowed his own namesake upon creating Kellen Winslow: The Sequel.

 Kellen 2.0 was a lot like his father--he was athletic, wanted to carry on the tradition of the Winslow name and become a tight end in the National Football League.  So he followed his dreams, shot for the stars, and landed somewhere in the atmosphere that's being most affected by global warming and enrolled at the University of Miami.  Being successful in college football is a double-edged sword because you have your moment in the sun and then you're immediately shuttled to one of the worst teams in the NFL and it's then you realized that maybe keeping yourself in the middle of the pack would have been an ideal situation.  Thus, Kellen 2.0 became a member of the Cleveland Browns and the Devil chalked up another point on the scoreboard.

What largely happened afterwards is nothing but bad news bears.  Winslow II broke his leg, crashed his motorcycle, got a staph infection, was traded, was traded, was released, was signed and then asked for his release, and then he found himself with America's Last Chance Before Another Remake of the Longest Yard: The New York Jets.

Sad story so far, I know, but it's about to take one of those classic M.Night.Shyamalan twists that really make you laugh so hard you piss your pants.  It's kinda like The Happening where you find out that trees were making people kill themselves and if you're mad that I just spoiled that for you I'm just doing God's work here and keeping people from watching The Happening.

Now our story shifts to present day and I'm just like most Americans in that I love shopping at Target.  I love the idea that I can shop somewhere and also eat hot dogs and drink Slurpees and not have people think I'm only here to see what I can get away with food stamps these days.  I appreciate it when shoes are required.  My current bedding is from Target and it's like sleeping in a Beyonce slow jam--it appeals to all the senses!

I love Target, and respect Target, and would never masturbate at Target.  Masturbation is a tricky thing when dealing with the majority of the public.  I would say that 70% of people that masturbate would prefer to have their own secret "Masturbation Lair" that only they knew about and could get to, kinda like the Bat Cave, and the other 30% want to use it as their platform for running for public office--they put it out there, people are informed of it, and they want to be voted for it.

Kellen Winslow II is in that 30%.

Some lady, in her late fifties, pulls into a Target parking lot.  She's probably going for like three weirdly specific items but sometimes the sales just get her and maybe she'll just end up browsing for a while, who knows, things get crazy at Target!  She parks her sensible, lovable, but mostly stupid Ford Focus in a decent spot in the large parking lot--not too close because she hates that rat race but not too far to where she has to remember G4 or E3 or A8 because that's too damn confusing.  She collects her pocketbook, because that's what they call those things, shuts her door, hits the auto-lock twice because it gives you better piece of mind that way and notices that there's a man sitting in the vehicle next to her.  It's a large, black, Cadillac Escalade, an impressively expensive car but if she had the money to afford it she would rather spend it on traveling to someplace exotic--not Mexico, I said exotic--how about Tahiti?  Yeah, she would go to Tahiti.

She also notices that in this black Cadillac Escalade, because the windows are down, a man is sitting in the driver's seat.  Being raised the right way, and realizing that they've both noticed each other, she feels compelled to say something and casually mentions the weather.  That's when she sees the erect penis of the man sticking outside his pants.  Horrified, and curiously aroused perhaps, she has no choice but to do what any person her age does for any matter and that's involve the police.

The police show up and approach the black Cadillac Escalade and notice that the male sitting in the driver's seat is fidgeting around and kind of slumped over but when they get up to the window his pants are securely on and any erect penises have since faded away or are now tucked into the waistband of said pants.  The police ask what the man is doing and he identifies himself as Kellen Winslow II and that he was looking for a Boston Market but couldn't find it.  Because this isn't a filming of the Naked Gun, the cop then starts to inspect the vehicle and finds a large tub of Vaseline on the center console and several empty bags marked 'Mr. Happy' and 'Funky Monkey.'  These are apparently synthetic forms of marijuana, which even though the bags were empty, Mr. Winslow II made sure that they were labeled to be admitted as evidence.

The M.Night.Shyamalan twist?  The only things I made up were the intricate details about the woman.  I know nothing about her other than she saw Kellen Winslow: The Sequel's erect penis sticking out of his pants.  The rest is sadly true and really, really strange.

First of all, like Boston Market needs the bad publicity?  Or is it good publicity?  "I was out looking for a Boston Market and couldn't find one so I just decided to pull over and start masturbating because all hope was lost!"  On one hand, if the chicken was delicious enough you think you could take a couple more steps than just aimlessly driving around and check a GPS or even stick you head out of the damn window and yell, "Hey, where's the closest Boston Market?"  On the other, you couldn't find a Boston Market so you just pulled over and started masturbating?  Damn.  Second of all, a Target parking lot?  You might as well have picked Grand Central Station because you're just asking to get caught.  And you had a tub of Vaseline in your possession?!  I'm almost starting to believe that the woman was made up and you called the police yourself!

 He was smoking synthetic marijuana because he thought the NFL would be okay with that even though the NFL isn't okay with players wearing different colored shoes.  I've never once thought to myself, "Hey, that Kellen Winslow II is one smart guy!" but it's almost getting to the point where he's trying to make a new category for himself.

I guess I'm jaded because I always knew at some point in my life that I would have to link the words 'Boston Market', 'Vaseline', and 'Mr.Happy' together but I didn't expect to have to include the New York Jets as well, that's just an added bonus.

It's painfully obvious that Winslow 2.0 needs some help with a lot of things in his life and one of the least of his problems is finding the nearest rotisserie chicken place.  I hope he gets that help before I have to write another one of these fantastically awful pieces.

With all that said, happy birthday mom.  Your baby boy is making you proud despite all the penis jokes and I love you for that.  Sorry.

Champions? Pssh...

We're back in action, so soon after a posting because I couldn't help but think "Jesus, what the Hell are we doing?"  How are we barreling towards Year Five and we've almost reached the hundredth post of the Studly Pastures.  Which, by the way, keep your kids at home that night because we're going to have ourselves a disgusting/leave your inhibitions at the door, type of party that night.  Just sayin'.

I'd hang my head in shame if I knew how to properly describe that through text to faceless entities.

I mean what kind of churn out is that?  A post every 60 days?*

*That statistic was based off of the fact that I don't do statistics.  This isn't the Wall Street Journal where we track those brain-hurtin' types of things.  I consider my day successful if I can fry my egg properly at breakfast.  This is more like Fox News where the louder I scream the harder I get.

I'm still sitting here surprised that I got 'hundredth' right on the first go-around.  Just kidding, I speak pretty all day.

Kids, we live in a world where I was finally proven wrong.  I used to think that Vegas controlled Sports.  I capitalized Sports because I am including everything that may be considered a sport, so sit this one out: cheerleaders, interpretive dancers, chess enthusiasts, ribbon dancers, power walkers, competitive eaters, fat people that think it's the same as being a sumo wrestler, and hot yoga only because it violates the Geneva Convention.

I learned today that Sports is controlled by Big Television.  The final NFL teams that are matched up in the conference championship games that will determine who goes to the Super Bowl are: San Francisco vs. Seattle and New England vs. Denver.

Are you absolutely kidding me?  I like to sleep in to avoid this kind of daytime television drama.  RATINGS, BABY!!!?!!!!

These are the story-lines that were 'destined' from the start, right?

"Two division rivals face each other a third time in a do or die situation to make it to the Super Bowl!" -  every journalist on the West Coast right now.  I might have gotten the exclamation points wrong because there's probably more.

And don't even get me started with the AFC...Brady vs. Manning?  Brady vs. Manning?!  And it's the good Manning?!  Oh lord, why must you tempt me with such frivolities?  I'd like to consider the rivalry between Brady and Manning a lot like the relationship of Clint Eastwood and the Vietnamese boy in "Gran Torino."

Manning dies and leaves everything meaningful to Brady who just shits all over it by letting a dog sit in the front seat who also just shits all over it.  END SCENE.

Of course this game is the bane of my existence but the general public is a bunch of fodder-sucking, brainless shells that are told to go absolutely ape-shit over this match-up.  And so they shall, and many a vomit-stifling shall be had that day by yours truly.

Best case scenario for me?  Denver defeats New England and we're treated to another post-game interview with Manning with that red mark on his forehead because it's too big for his helmet...and another post-game interview of Brady blaming himself but secretly hating everybody on his team but the secret isn't so secret once you see his face because he's a terrible actor.

And then Seattle defeats Denver in whatever Roman Numeral Super Bowl this year is because Peyton deserves to be the new Dan Marino.  Congratulations, you have records that are impressive now but this is a progressive game...who's to say that anything you've done will be meaningful/remembered give or take thirty years?  You have a title, I'll give you that Manning, but people talk about Marino now as if he was the martyr of good but never great.

I bestow that crown on you, Peyton Manning, current holder of all that is holy except for anything that really counts and I challenge you to prove me wrong!

And usually when I do that on this blog I am caught with my pants down and stammering over my own words.  Peyton is, after all, my arch-nemesis.  I guess I'm just the same as the rest of you and we'll see what Big Television demands...

New Year Water Coolings

Greetings faceless entities and welcome to the year of two-ought-fourteen!  Fingers crossed, this will finally be the year that the 'I just rolled out of bed' look will be socially accepted.  Please note that just because scumbags have adopted this look for years previous that it has still not been socially accepted as the norm and if you have personally rocked this look at any given time prior to this posting you are most likely a dirty hippie or just a world-weary sonuvabitch.

If it's the latter, welcome brother!

This is the type of post that I'm trying to make a 'regular' but just can't seem to post with any relevant sequential posting technique so it's just coming off as a 'shove it down your throats' type of thing.  Eh.  Whatever.  I stopped getting paid for this a long time ago, isn't that right LATVIA?!

It's almost like Latvia doesn't even care anymore.  Remember, Latvia, when I used to get mad because all you wanted to do in bed was cuddle and now I can't I even get you to look me in the eyes and treat me like an actual human being!  You've changed, Latvia...you've changed.

In fact, you've changed so much that my most subscribed readership (outside of the United States) is now...wait for it...Russia!

Wait.  What?  Russia?  In fact the top three non-US readers of the Studly Pastures are Russia, Germany, and Canada.  That's fantastic.  I might as well pull the plug now.  I can't even be cool ON MY OWN BLOG THAT I DESIGN FOR MYSELF!

In fact, the French, my own goddamn people, read me less than Latvia does!  I can't take this anymore...what's next?

THE GOOD: Normally a grown man sobbing on the sidelines at a game would get lambasted here.  Crying in sports is only acceptable for two things: the first is if Tonya Harding hired some thugs to break your leg and the second is a great win after a death in the immediate family.

Before we get to the point of where I was going with this I need to talk about Tonya Harding some more because who doesn't, right?  One of the guys that Harding got to bash Nancy Kerrigan's leg in was her current husband.  After all the shenanigans went down a sex tape came out of Harding and that same guy.  That's right, not even one of the biggest sports scandals in recent history was enough to propel Harding into fame that she still had to release a sex tape.  What a supreme loser.

Mark Fox is the current men's basketball coach for the University of Georgia and last night, with his team on the verge of an upset victory at Missouri, broke down in tears.  Fox succumbed to emotion late in overtime when it was clear that his team was going to win and it all finally crashed down on him.  His father died last Saturday and when you couple that devastating blow with the fact that Georgia hadn't won on the road all year long it looked like the Bulldogs were in for a long night.  But the team rallied behind their coach, and it wasn't exactly "win just one for the one for the Gipper", but Georgia defeated No. 21 ranked Mizzou 70-64.  Fox was crying because he got to experience the best part of sports--the whole reason why we do the damn thing--and that's the human aspect of it all.  Fox is a father-figure to his players, he lost his father, so they play to honor him.  So it goes.  I love sports.



THE BAD: Did I just say I love sports?  Sigggghhhhhh.  Liking sports is having a girlfriend that's totally into S&M and you're ambivalent towards it.  Just when you're starting to get on the same page you get whipped just a little too hard and it's back to square one from there.  This will all be relevant once I tell you I'm about to talk about Bobby Petrino.

It looks like Louisville is about to hire Bobby "The Shark" Petrino as their head football coach and I'm just sitting here wondering why Louisville doesn't have that friend to convince them to just turn the damn phone off.  For those at home that need the Cliff notes: Petrino was head coach of the Louisville Cardinals, then went to coach the Atlanta Falcons and he quickly lost the locker room and bolted back to the NCAA (mid-season mind you), to the Arkansas Razorbacks where the married man and father of four was caught sleeping with a female staffer.

He was caught when the two were in a motorcycle accident together.  "Hey baby, watch this sick wheelie I'm about to pull--OH GOD MY CAREER!"

The press conference with him in the neck brace was an instant classic.  I watch it every Christmas Eve while drinking hot cocoa.

Then I see that Western Kentucky Coach Bobby Petrino is a strong candidate for Louisville Coaching job.  My initial thought was "clearly Western Kentucky is a whore" and after that I really felt bad for Louisville.  Louisville had themselves a nice, gentle man in Charlie Strong but Louisville was too damaged and he left for  self-confident Texas.  So what does Louisville do?  They open a few photo albums, remember the time they said, 'wouldn't it be cute if we got matching tattoos?', and they pick up the phone--hesitant at first--because they also start remembering the black eyes, the 'falling down the stairs', and all the other girls he used to 'just be friends with.'  In the end, loneliness and heartbreak are the victors and before you know it Bobby Petrino's dirty Duffel bag is on the floor of your bedroom and all your orange juice is gone.  I've seen it a million times.

Look I'm not saying that putting Bobby Petrino in charge of college kids is bad business practice I'm saying that it's a stain on the human race and I'm utterly disgusted.  How is he going to be the head coach at Louisville and not the guy that picks up roadkill on the side of the interstate?  You're better than that, Louisville.  Please be better than that, Louisville?



THE UGLY: I've just sat here for ten minutes trying to come up with a J.R. Smith and a Three Stooges reference but I just keep getting so mad at J.R. Smith that it's impacting my funny.

The following statement is true:  Twice, in the past week, J.R. Smith tried to untie an opponent's shoelaces during a free-throw attempt.  Let that soak in.  A professional basketball player tried to untie shoes to give himself an advantage, on television, and in front of everybody.  His punishment was a $50,000 fine.

This is another reason why I hate David Stern, I mean besides being the entity of evil.  Instead of pulling this guy aside, smacking him upside the head, and telling him that Space Jam was just a movie he just issues a fine.  Are you kidding me?  Clearly, Mr. J.R. Smith has some mental imbalance that allows him to think that pre-school tactics are okie-dokie in professional settings.  David Stern lacks anything that allows him to appear human.  J.R. Smith is a wayward sheep that should probably not find it's way home.  Why isn't relegation to the D-league a suitable punishment?  "Oh you think untying shoes is funny?  Here, play for nothing."

Maybe J.R. Smith is pulling these kinds of antics so he'll be traded away from the awful New York Knicks and maybe he's just an asshole.  I'm voting asshole and hope he'll get elected soon.


Enjoy going back to work, kids.  Remember, you probably won't be able to afford retirement at a reasonable age!

Black Fish

I've often had to sit back and reflect on a big issue that I seem to constantly deal with.

I look around at other people watching the same football game that I am and they're cheering while I am sitting there with a scorned look on my face.  I see them cheering and I just don't get it--are they watching the same game that I am?  I must be crazy because I swear I have seen this game before because I know exactly what's going to happen!

I'm not a pessimist.  I go into the game truly believing that they're not going to take things lightly and actually treat this like something they want to strive towards...uh...you know...success.  That thing.  But then I see their damn faces and the way they walk and to quote Aragorn "it would take the very heart of me" because they LOOK LIKE THEY ALREADY LOST THE DAMN GAME.  Are you kidding me?  Where's the motivation?  Where's the desire?  Where is the "I NEED this!?"

Bad teams are separated from great teams because great teams "NEED" to win.  Dropping two straight games against eliminated teams and only scoring seven points is not even close to showing need, or desire, or even fielding a professional football team.  I get to spell out 'seven' because AP style says you don't get to use the numeral until you get past ten.  10!  They couldn't even score 10 points against The Toronto Forgettables and the Damn Jersery Dogs.  They only thing they had to play for was to ruin Miami's season and that's exactly what they accomplished because they wanted it more...even though we were playing for the shot at the...wait for it...PLAYOFFS!

*Note: For those of you that are unsure on how the NFL operates, the playoffs are the opportunity that a team gets to try to advance to the championship game known collectively as the Super Bowl.  It's what every team strives for at Day One but only twelve teams get the shot from this point on.  The trick is to be one of those twelve teams by this point or you're already waiting in next year's line.  The Super Bowl, the pinnacle of American sports, was not enough of an enticing title for the Miami Dolphins that they decided to crap all over themselves against two teams that would only get the chance to view the trophy behind a glass case and say, "Oh, how nice."  Miami has done this now for 40 years.  Please notice the '40'.

The thing that astonished me more is that I'm only 28 and I'm this passionate about it.  God forbid you were born in 1974.  I can only imagine what you're going through right now, you poor, second-guessing yourself over everything, neurotic virgin.  What if she likes me?  What if she doesn't?  Oh God, she doesn't even know I exist!  At this point, the only thing that I can think of that would save you from this torture is to completely forsake everything sports-related and go live in a cabin in the woods and hunt for all your sustenance.  Personally?  I'm headed for the mountains and I'll live among the goats and the Sherpas and we'll all sit around and talk about cliffs and high winds and it will have nothing to do with the Miami Dolphins and I'll retain my sanity.  Yeah...that's it.

Here's how you start to solve the problem: Anybody who ever made a decision in what determined to be the outcome of any play in any game this season needs to be fired.  Seriously.  You called a play, you're gone.  You supported a play-call, take a hike.  If you saw somebody do either of these and thought, 'This makes sense', you are about to collect unemployment my friend because you are what we like to call an inept MORON!  I'm calling for the heads of Joe Philbin (the head coach), Mike Sherman (the offensive coordinator), Jim Turner (the offensive line coach), and so on and so forth.

Ironically, the one person that will probably be fired is the one that shouldn't and that's Jeff Ireland, the general manager.  Look, if I buy you a hammer and say, "Go do work with this hammer" and you immediately raise it up to nail something in and the pointy end goes directly into your eyeball--that's not my fault.  You're a moron, once again, and don't know how to use the tools I gave you to do the job that was intended.  It's not Ireland's fault that he went out and got the fastest deep-threat in the game for a quarterback that can't throw an accurate deep pass...okay...I'll stop there.  But this brings me to my little, adorable Fuzzby.

Tannehill did several things to impress me this season and I even considered him for Furby status.  For starters, he improved...he really did.  He made quicker decisions that were actually the right ones and there was no question that he was the leader of this team.  Secondly, he proved he is one tough son of a bitch.  He took a lot of hits this year--most of them thanks to the terrible offensive line--but he trotted his ass out there every single game.  I honestly can't remember, nor care to look it up, the last time that a Dolphins' quarterback started every game of the season.  I like Tannehill as the Dolphins' quarterback but he's still Fuzzby status.  He can't utilize his best weapon and doesn't know when to throw the ball.  That's a Fuzzby...but he gets a little bit of a free pass this season because of  how terrible the offensive line was...and that brings me to my next point:

What the Hell did Philbin do exactly to extinguish the whole 'bullying' controversy?  I read earlier yesterday that Don Shula endorsed Philbin as head coach.  Well kids, looks like Unky Don has slipped into senility because the only thing Philbin did was remove everybody involved from the clubhouse and lose to the win-less Buccaneers on Monday Night Football.  Interesting strategy!

So I sit here, hours after nothing but bitter defeat and I ask, "What was this season for?"

Miami finished 8-8.  Three early wins against teams we thought would be good that turned out not to be.  Four losses in a row that was lead by a loss that we knew would happen but didn't think would snowball.  But then came a few bizarre games that probably could have gone either way but, eh, they didn't because who cares.  Then the team turned it on and beat some really good teams only just to end the season by losing to some really bad teams.  What was this season for?  Absolutely nothing.  There's nothing to take away from the schedule because every game was an enigma.  Nothing made sense.  Miami defeated Cincinnati, New England, San Diego, and Indianapolis and all those teams are in the playoffs (and three of them are division winners).  Miami is out of the playoffs because they lost to Buffalo and Jersey who were playing to see which team would be most relevant out of the irrelevant and out of Buffalo, Jersey, and Miami the only team to lay down was Miami.

What?!?

So I watch them cheering and I'm standing there so angry and I wish I could be so naive.  I really do.  But I can't.  I study it.  I remember things.  I HATE when the commentators are right because they never should be.  They shouldn't know and if they do it's because your team SUCKS.

Kids, have a safe and happy New Year's Eve.  Don't get incarcerated because I want you to see the epic upset that UCF puts on Baylor in the Fiesta Bowl.  Last I checked the line was -16.5 Baylor which is definitely bulletin board material for the Knights.  I'll see you in 2014, my friends, and I'll try a little harder next year.

Saban, Thy Name is Evil

Gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins of mankind, kids, and it can easily be defined as an insatiable appetite that leads to one's own destruction.

Of course we're assuming that the person in question is a human being, of which, Nick Saban is not.

Nick Saban is a snake, and as all scholars of the Bible know, brought about the corruption of men.  Saban is a plague upon your houses, a river of blood, and a swarm of locusts all wrapped up in one suave and menacing hairstyle.  Saban looks like the guy that is sent to collect the security money.  If Saban didn't coach football he could easily run a pawn shop that was under constant surveillance of the FBI.

Most importantly, Nick Saban is the epitome of gluttony.  He's not satisfied until he's consumed everything.

Mack Brown has been the head coach of the Texas Longhorns for 16 years and he never stood a chance this year.  He's old, he's lost his grip, and Texas hasn't really been relevant since Vince Young but I believe that some things you let run it's natural course.  Mack Brown deserves better.  He made Vince Young a winner for crying out loud!

Still, and it's the nature of the beast, but sports is what have you down for me lately and all Mack Brown has done is age.  At the time of this posting, Mack Brown is still the head coach of the Texas Longhorns but when you go back to read this two days later (because I have sustainability, dammit!) he will be officially another retiree soaking up social security in the good ol' state of Florida and Nick Saban will be picking out burnt orange drapes for his new office in Austin.

Oh sure, he'll come out and say publicly that he's fully invested in Alabama and that he's busy focusing on the bowl game and yadda yadda yadda.  We've heard this all before back in 2007

EDIT: I started writing this about a week and a half ago and abandoned it at this point because I felt that it had just become one big Nick Saban hate-fest and indeed I was right.  You should also notice that there is no period after "We've heard this all before back in 2007" because that's how abruptly I stopped.  I return to you now to finish what I've started because there's been some developments...but the overall theme remains the same.  The following takes place on December 21, 2013 and beyond.

Well, kids, Mack Brown has gone fishin'.  He has been successfully bullied out of his job and will step down officially after Texas' bowl game in the something or other...sigh...I can't do it.  I can't sit here and drink scotch, the nectar of the Gods, and not be completely horrified at what has transpired.

Let's put it this way: If Satan decided to live among mankind in order to directly attempt to influence them don't you think he'd be cocky enough to only change his name by a single letter?  And take up his residency in the very religious South?  Alabama loves three things: football, God, and Duck Dynasty--apparently added to the list this year.

To say that Nick Saban is evil is like saying that Hugh Hefner is a pimp because it's a vast understatement.  Hugh Hefner is older than the invention of written language yet he constantly has 20-year old blondes straight from the Sears catalog looking to sweep his front porch and I'm not even sure that's a euphemism.  Hefner's not a pimp...he's the guy that the word 'pimp' spawned from.  It came off of him like a weird growth that the rest of us have lanced off and take a three-day weekend.

Nick Saban is getting paid $7.5 million dollars a year to be a smug asshole.  What the Hell!?  Where was that category when I was signing up for classes in college?  "Hey man, how's your classes going this semester?" "Well, I'm doing well in Smug but I fear I might be on the fringe in Asshole.  How about you?" "I'm doing well in Asshole but can't figure out Smug so we should help each other study." "Sounds like a plan, my name is Nick by the way." "I'm Alex Rodriguez."  WE'RE ALL THE SAME PERSON!

Seven and a half million dollars to treat America's impressionable youth like the scumbags they are for trying to make something of themselves and all we're doing is trying to live day by day without any regions of the country thinking we're a plague on mankind.  This feels like a bad Keanu Reeves movie...oops sorry, I mean a Keanu Reeves movie.

(By the way, that's how you spell 'oops', kids.  If I see opps one more time I swear to Grammar Jesus that I might just not like your mundane and probably completely personal Facebook status!)

Look, for any aspiring prospect that happens to read this blog and also gets recruited by Nick Saban I am not saying you are getting recruited by the Devil.  I'm not.  I'm simply saying that if you willingly go stand by Saban you are just forsaking everything that's ever made you a respectable human being and that you choose personal gain over anything that is right and sacred.  Don't be confused.

I'm kinda pleased in thinking this might be the last Studly of 2013.  This made me feel good.  Kids, have a great Christmas/Whatever holiday you weirdos celebrate, and make sure you come back down to the Pastures in 2014.  My inspiration never lacks because humans never disappoint me.

Oh, by the way, the whole "last Studly of 2013" won't stand.  The Dolphins will either implode, actually succeed, or do something so mediocre that I have to write again.  Don't pop the champagne just yet, kids.

Stocking Stuffers

I have been keeping up the ol' Studly Pastures blog for over four years now, I've watched sports much longer than that, and I've even been paid in legal tender for some of the things I have written and I honestly cannot sit here and tell you why Robinson Cano deserves $240 million.

Take that $240 million, halve it, then halve it again, then halve it two more times and that's what I would pay a 31-year old second baseman over two years.  I'm obviously a huge proponent of sabermetrics because I follow the Tampa Bay Rays and I thought that the Seattle Mariners were trying to be scholars of the same train of thought but then they just throw us a wicked googly like this and I just...I just...don't get it!  I don't get it!  Take that money, invest it in pitching and solid defense and on-base percentage and now you've just taken a small-market team and made them competitive in a big-market team world.  Take that money, invest it in one guy and you've sunk your battleship.  You're just begging for a disaster, aren't you?  What if he gets hurt?  What if he has a down year?  What if, God forbid, he starts declining in every major statistical category like most ballplayers do after 30?

The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim Southeast of San Francisco and west of Last Vegas, Nevada have taken the liberty of making colossal failures of huge contracts for you, Seattle, and you chose to ignore them even though they are in your same division!  Albert Pujols and Josh Hamilton were the lucky recipients of great agents and a terrible precedent for a free-agent market in Major League Baseball.  And the Angels were victims of both and the men in charge of making those deals no longer have any hair or functional livers.

Not you, Seattle.  You had to painfully part with your boy, Ichiro.  You salvaged enough money to lock up Felix Hernandez.  You bought bargain basement players so you could plan for the future.  You had a PLAN, Seattle, I know you did!  Then one night you got drunk and went out and had a little too much fun and when you woke up in the morning there was a 31-year old Dominican man in your bed and he wants breakfast, you naive jerks.

For your stocking stuffer, Seattle Mariners, you get a copy of Moneyball.  DVD, not Blueray.  Sit there and watch how Brad Pitt wheels and deals irrelevant names for other irrelevant names and is successful but never wins anything meaningful just like sabermetrics has proven thus far.



As always, if I was trying to be a successful sports blogger, I would never bother with mentioning the US men's soccer team because there's probably like a whole two of you that actually care about the next words that appear on your screen but then again here we are.

I love soccer and I love the US men's soccer team and I stand up for them even when they don't deserve it.  They're like my fictional son that sucks at sports but is out there every single day trying his little heart out and just not squaring up at all with the other kids.  And after every match I take him out for ice cream and he's really proud of himself for trying and I just sit there trying not to let him see my shame and I'm secretly glad he had to settle for strawberry because they were out of mint and chocolate chip.

With that said, the US team got hosed today for the World Cup draw.  Our opponents?  Oh just some no-name countries that never play soccer because they're great economically and stuff.  Ghana, Portugal, and Germany.  Are you kidding me?  Talk about a total non-invite.  If you didn't want us to come to your party, you could have just said so, Brazil!

I know a lot of readers won't take the time to wikipedia a lot of the soccer jargon I use in this blog so I'll help you out and secretly tell you it's never good to be in something dubbed the "group of death".  They call it that because the World Cup doesn't start until next July and we've already been given our 'Participant' ribbons.

For your stocking stuffer, US men's soccer team, you get the board game, Risk.  It's a strategic board game of world domination and NOBODY can take that away from you.  Get 'em, boys!



In the NFL world, Gary Kubiak was mercifully fired today as head coach of the Houston Texans and that's honestly best for him and his health.  If you truly love something you set it free and that's exactly what Houston is doing for their fans this year by making Wade Phillips the interim head coach.  Look, Kubiak had to go, that much was clear, but I wouldn't make Wade Phillips the interim 'puzzled look while hands on hips guy' and he's really, really good at that.

I feel partially responsible for Kubiak's departure because I picked Houston to go to the Super Bowl this year and that's basically a kiss of death.  And I would be sad for him but he's going to get a nice coordinator job next year that's less demanding and it will be great for his health and his kids won't have to spend Christmas at the Phillips' household and I'm thankful for that because we all know that's gotta be really, really disgusting.  I heard he likes to sacrifice a live pig and let the blood flow down his naked chest.  I just shuddered and gagged at the same time.

Houston isn't very good this year.  In fact, they're pretty terrible.  They made Jacksonville look decent enough and they won't even sign Tebow to stay relevant.  So the Houston Texans did what the NFL demands from losers trying to get better and that's to start completely over from scratch and be out of contention for at least the next four years, if you're lucky.  Does the rhetoric that you get rid of the highest titled and most recognized figure to get better as a whole fly in any other scenario than medieval times?  It's only a revolution if you win.

For your stocking stuffer, Gary Kubiak, you get a very polite and official interview as offensive coordinator for the Washington Redskins next year!  You deserve it, you're just the scapegoat, and you'll probably still end up being a quarterbacks coach or something equally demeaning.



Finally, I'm like a lot of you right now playing in all of the fantasy football playoffs that aren't worth anything other than pride and bragging rights.  While those things are cool, I too like cold hard cash and am very ashamed at myself for not making it where it really counts.  Stop for a minute for a 'that's what she said' joke.

Let me remind you fantasy players that March Madness is pretty much right around the corner and this year we get to do a World Cup bracket too and both of those things are crap shoots.  So rejoice, fellow failures, and know that blind luck could possibly be in your favor fairly shortly.

For your stocking stuffer, fantasy football playoff miss-outs, I give you false hope.  Hey, at least it's something.