Another NFL Draft has come and gone, kids, and per usual it is bereft of things that normal people care about but rife with things that obsessive compulsors like me (and to an extent, you) can sit back and laugh a little at.
For example, let's start with me and my borderline 'cut myself obsession' with the Miami Dolphins. Well folks, they did it AGAIN! I sit here on the flip-side of another draft and I'm just puzzled at their continued actions to try and get me to renounce my fanship. Am I that big of a bad luck charm?
I don't know Dion Jordan. I have no idea what he's capable of or what he's already accomplished. He comes from Oregon, which is a Pac-12 school, which might as well be in a different country as far as I'm concerned because the only thing I know about the West Coast is that 60 Minutes never seems to air there (and that's a joke for East Coasters.)
I've heard that he could be an elite pass-rusher, and possibly the best defender in the draft, and if that turns out to be true I might be able to cry for the first time in my life out of sheer bewilderment. But my track record tells me that we might have gotten another Fuzzby.
You might recall that last year I lamented how Andrew Luck and RG3 were Furby's and as the poor kid on the block I got stuck with Ryan Tannehill, the Fuzzby. Now Tannehill played his little heart out and he gives hope to the future but he never did anything to prove to me that he wasn't a Fuzzby. The two Furby's went to the playoffs and Miami finished sub .500 yet again.
But the NFL is a team game more than any other sport and I know that you can't be expected to do it alone and so the Dolphins have made it a mission this off-season to get our Fuzzby some help. So we got him the fastest guy in the NFL to throw to, we beefed up our front seven on defense, and we drafted a kid that could be the perfect compliment to our quarterback pressure...or he could be the biggest bone-headed pick we ever made.
That's the thing about the NFL draft: It's the most publicized game of Russian Roulette that exists. Except when you are fan of the Miami Dolphins, the chamber holds five bullets instead of one.
The absolutely crazy thing about everything they have done this off-season is that--it might just actually mesh together perfectly. It's absolutely absurd to declare anything at this point, considering it's still April, but what if it works? What if, God-forgiving, they catch a lucky break? What if...they actually know what they are doing and it WORKS?!
I just got goosebumps. Gasp! What if the Miami Dolphins are actually good, to the point of actual competition? I wouldn't know what to do with the Pastures this year...retire it I guess.
But the world would be so much better if we all crapped gumdrops and lemon drops and blah blah blah. Let's keep our asses firmly on the ground and just assume that I know nothing about sports.
Tyrann Mathieu was drafted before Matt Barkley. Isn't that absolutely hilarious? The NFL thought the chronic rule breaker and pothead had better upside than Barkley.
They shouldn't have been so hard on Barkley, he was the victim of circumstance (shoulder injury) and of people giving him completely the wrong advice. He only came back for his senior year because of the influence of Lane Kiffin, which is not so much a testament to Barkley's poor judgment as it is to Kiffin's evilness. The guy, Kiffin, is such garbage that he's charging Oscar the Grouch rent (and that's a joke for the whole family.)
It's not Barkley's fault that he's followed in the footsteps of wash-outs like Matt Leinart and Mark Sanchez, and kinda Carson Palmer but not as much as the other two. Let him prove he can buck the trend. Don't slight the kid because of what a bunch of dumb, surfer bro's from SoCal have done so far.
Mathieu had it all in the palm of his hand and he rolled it up and smoked it all away...again...and again...and again. He doesn't deserve a second chance because he used that up a couple of years ago. Even cats are jealous of how many chances the Honey Badger gets (and that's a joke for all the lonely people.)
And at the end of the day, Mathieu goes to Arizona and Barkley goes to Philadelphia and absolutely nobody wins because both of those teams are complete crap.
We have time for one more pick that stood out to me and that belongs to my dear friends, the Lennie Smalls of the NFL, the Buffalo Bills (and finally a joke for the literary minds.) They took EJ Manuel at 16 overall. Let that sink in.
Now resume breathing.
After I was pounding beers after the Dion Jordan pick I was granted a reprieve when my rival Bills chose an even worse pick, which might have been the worst pick. Not only was Manuel considered a third round pick, at best, he is definitely a "project quarterback" which is something the Bills don't have the time or resources to commit to. Manuel needs to sit behind a valued veteran for at least a couple of years instead of being thrown to the dogs right away which is not going to happen in Buffalo.
It's a complete lose-lose situation but hey, what do I know? Nothing about sports.
Live long and prosper, kids.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Monday, April 8, 2013
The Major League Dictatorship
You're killing me.
But seriously, you're KILLING US.
I consider myself a strong voice but that's only because I'm narcissistic beyond the normal human realm. In reality I am just a normal fan who happens to word things in a humorous and brilliant manner. See?
Well folks, here's what happened, the Rays started their long road trip against the scum bag Texas Rangers tonight and once again we were robbed in the ninth. The perpetrator this time however was not the Rangers players themselves but the umpiring staff acting on the behalf of the Texas Rangers.
First of all, I hate to play the 'what if' game but this is freaking baseball, the number one sport where 'what if' applies all of the time. Anything can happen at any time that's why they play all nine innings. Rallies, mojo, momentum, karma, will power, whatever you want to call it...I buy in. I subscribe to the magazine that writes about baseball players feeding off energy. Hell, I'm watching on television and I'm feeding off of it.
Second of all, human error is a part of sports. Yes, it is, and I have defended this practice since I was a wee lad. Now that I am a slightly bigger lad I hold the same principle but now it's more like, "Human error is a part of sports, sure, but now we have technology to be like, no, you're really wrong on that call." And because I know that technology exists, and that Major League Baseball has decided to use it for only certain things and not everything makes me want to stick my own head up my ass because then I would truly fit in.
It gets worse, however, because it's not everyday we have a confession. The umpire who apparently mistook the strike zone for his wife's ass (zing) took a second look, and by gosh oh golly oh gee, he wouldn't have called it a strike a second time.
Thanks. We all feel better now.
So, you admit you were wrong, and your initial call changed the outcome, but yet we can't do anything about this except shrug our shoulders?
Man, if only there was some overruling figure in baseball that would set little arguments like this to rest by just simply making a decision of his own for once in his life and allowing FULL REPLAY in baseball. But these are just dreams that are drifting away on the fart of a manatee. It falls on daft and deaf ears. He actually covers all the bases.
Bud Selig is too close to being Bud Selig for these last gratifying years that he simply can't make a move on replay in baseball right now. How could a commissioner who lead us through the Steroids Era ever make such a drastic move? This man had an All-Star game end in a tie. I would have rather he personally drove to my house and slapped me in my face and told me what a sucker I was for watching with such eager eyes and that I should be more cynical about things.
Forget about Selig. He's not important. The umpires made a mistake tonight, in game seven, and I'm just thankful that it wasn't Game Seven. I couldn't even imagine...but then again...maybe that's what it takes.
Goodnight, kids, Daddy is upset.
But seriously, you're KILLING US.
I consider myself a strong voice but that's only because I'm narcissistic beyond the normal human realm. In reality I am just a normal fan who happens to word things in a humorous and brilliant manner. See?
Well folks, here's what happened, the Rays started their long road trip against the scum bag Texas Rangers tonight and once again we were robbed in the ninth. The perpetrator this time however was not the Rangers players themselves but the umpiring staff acting on the behalf of the Texas Rangers.
First of all, I hate to play the 'what if' game but this is freaking baseball, the number one sport where 'what if' applies all of the time. Anything can happen at any time that's why they play all nine innings. Rallies, mojo, momentum, karma, will power, whatever you want to call it...I buy in. I subscribe to the magazine that writes about baseball players feeding off energy. Hell, I'm watching on television and I'm feeding off of it.
Second of all, human error is a part of sports. Yes, it is, and I have defended this practice since I was a wee lad. Now that I am a slightly bigger lad I hold the same principle but now it's more like, "Human error is a part of sports, sure, but now we have technology to be like, no, you're really wrong on that call." And because I know that technology exists, and that Major League Baseball has decided to use it for only certain things and not everything makes me want to stick my own head up my ass because then I would truly fit in.
It gets worse, however, because it's not everyday we have a confession. The umpire who apparently mistook the strike zone for his wife's ass (zing) took a second look, and by gosh oh golly oh gee, he wouldn't have called it a strike a second time.
Thanks. We all feel better now.
So, you admit you were wrong, and your initial call changed the outcome, but yet we can't do anything about this except shrug our shoulders?
Man, if only there was some overruling figure in baseball that would set little arguments like this to rest by just simply making a decision of his own for once in his life and allowing FULL REPLAY in baseball. But these are just dreams that are drifting away on the fart of a manatee. It falls on daft and deaf ears. He actually covers all the bases.
Bud Selig is too close to being Bud Selig for these last gratifying years that he simply can't make a move on replay in baseball right now. How could a commissioner who lead us through the Steroids Era ever make such a drastic move? This man had an All-Star game end in a tie. I would have rather he personally drove to my house and slapped me in my face and told me what a sucker I was for watching with such eager eyes and that I should be more cynical about things.
Forget about Selig. He's not important. The umpires made a mistake tonight, in game seven, and I'm just thankful that it wasn't Game Seven. I couldn't even imagine...but then again...maybe that's what it takes.
Goodnight, kids, Daddy is upset.
Friday, March 29, 2013
The Water Cooler
SOMETHING BAD: I understand that Justin Verlander is the best starting pitcher in Major League Baseball. I understand that he's an All-Star, workhorse, centerpiece of a franchise that you can build multiple championships around. The numbers are undeniable. He led the American League last year in strikeouts, innings pitched, and complete games. He's also just two years removed from 2011 when he won the Cy Young AND the MVP award in the same freakin' season. He's also bangin' Kate Upton, a Sports Illustrated supermodel.
Yeah, yeah, I get all that. I just don't understand how you justify giving him $180 million over seven years. Ladies and gentlemen, the new standard has been set: raise your kids to be starting pitchers in professional baseball. They'll want to deviate and try some random crap like boy scouts or stamp collecting but you make sure you get their little asses back out in the yard and practice pitching!
Seriously? One hundred and eighty milllionnnnnnnn duealllers! I almost stroked out writing that!
The man works every five days, minimum. If he gets hurt and misses a start or two, now we're paying a man $180 million to rub his hamstrings with petroleum jelly. And he'll be able to buy that fancy petroleum jelly with the gold flakes in it.
I'm not going to look into the logistics of the contract, well, because I'm lazy and also I want to try and stifle my vomit this evening. However, a basic mathematical breakdown goes something like this:
$180 mil over 7 years = $25.7 mil a season. Verlander worked 238 innings last season in 33 games. That's an average of 7.2 innings per game, which means that if he averages about the same pace this season that Verlander will be earning $107,983 per INNING and roughly $750,000 per GAME.
If I make $750,000 in my lifetime I've probably robbed a bank at some point and Verlander can potentially make that on a night he loses a baseball game. Commence the jealousy-fueled hatred!
SOMETHING GOOD: UCLA has recently removed the man that was previously their men's head basketball coach and is now looking for a new man to take up that spot. That man was rumored to be Butler's current head basketball coach, Brad Stevens. But Stevens has come out today and said, "No dice" to UCLA. I'm not really sure if he actually said, "No dice," but he's not taking the job.
I commend Stevens. I always admire coaches sticking with the little guy that made them famous to begin with and not bolting to the first flashy name to open up. You don't ever hear about Butler until it's NCAA Tournament time but when the big dance comes around, those scrappy bastards put on their best shoes.
Plus, leaving Butler and going to UCLA is like a "ruler in Hell, servant in Heaven" type of thing. Why on Earth would you go to a place where you are always going to be compared to John Wooden, the greatest college basketball coach of all-time? You're never going to fill those shoes. Literally. John Wooden had enormous feet.
I mean the man was so fiercely competitive that he lived until he was 99 years old. 99! Give it up already and leave some air for the youth!
SOMETHING WEIRD: Tiger Woods is dating Lindsey Vonn. Finally! We've got that "Word's Greatest Golfer and World's Greatest Skier" pairing that we've always wanted! When I first heard that they got together I wondered how they even met in the first place. Then I remembered that one of the individuals is Tiger Woods and he probably met Vonn when he was banging her sister...or her mother...or both.
Things seem to be going well for Tiger. He's number one on the PGA Tour again and he's dating a hot, young, blonde athlete. But he used to be married to a hot, young, blonde model and that ended with a nine-iron through the back window of his SUV. Remember ladies, once a cheater always a cheater and for Tiger's sake it can't feel good to get stabbed with one of those ski sticks.
Enjoy your Easter weekend, kids!
Yeah, yeah, I get all that. I just don't understand how you justify giving him $180 million over seven years. Ladies and gentlemen, the new standard has been set: raise your kids to be starting pitchers in professional baseball. They'll want to deviate and try some random crap like boy scouts or stamp collecting but you make sure you get their little asses back out in the yard and practice pitching!
Seriously? One hundred and eighty milllionnnnnnnn duealllers! I almost stroked out writing that!
The man works every five days, minimum. If he gets hurt and misses a start or two, now we're paying a man $180 million to rub his hamstrings with petroleum jelly. And he'll be able to buy that fancy petroleum jelly with the gold flakes in it.
I'm not going to look into the logistics of the contract, well, because I'm lazy and also I want to try and stifle my vomit this evening. However, a basic mathematical breakdown goes something like this:
$180 mil over 7 years = $25.7 mil a season. Verlander worked 238 innings last season in 33 games. That's an average of 7.2 innings per game, which means that if he averages about the same pace this season that Verlander will be earning $107,983 per INNING and roughly $750,000 per GAME.
If I make $750,000 in my lifetime I've probably robbed a bank at some point and Verlander can potentially make that on a night he loses a baseball game. Commence the jealousy-fueled hatred!
SOMETHING GOOD: UCLA has recently removed the man that was previously their men's head basketball coach and is now looking for a new man to take up that spot. That man was rumored to be Butler's current head basketball coach, Brad Stevens. But Stevens has come out today and said, "No dice" to UCLA. I'm not really sure if he actually said, "No dice," but he's not taking the job.
I commend Stevens. I always admire coaches sticking with the little guy that made them famous to begin with and not bolting to the first flashy name to open up. You don't ever hear about Butler until it's NCAA Tournament time but when the big dance comes around, those scrappy bastards put on their best shoes.
Plus, leaving Butler and going to UCLA is like a "ruler in Hell, servant in Heaven" type of thing. Why on Earth would you go to a place where you are always going to be compared to John Wooden, the greatest college basketball coach of all-time? You're never going to fill those shoes. Literally. John Wooden had enormous feet.
I mean the man was so fiercely competitive that he lived until he was 99 years old. 99! Give it up already and leave some air for the youth!
SOMETHING WEIRD: Tiger Woods is dating Lindsey Vonn. Finally! We've got that "Word's Greatest Golfer and World's Greatest Skier" pairing that we've always wanted! When I first heard that they got together I wondered how they even met in the first place. Then I remembered that one of the individuals is Tiger Woods and he probably met Vonn when he was banging her sister...or her mother...or both.
Things seem to be going well for Tiger. He's number one on the PGA Tour again and he's dating a hot, young, blonde athlete. But he used to be married to a hot, young, blonde model and that ended with a nine-iron through the back window of his SUV. Remember ladies, once a cheater always a cheater and for Tiger's sake it can't feel good to get stabbed with one of those ski sticks.
Enjoy your Easter weekend, kids!
Friday, March 8, 2013
Still Here
My dog has this recurring conundrum where she thinks every time that I leave the room I will not be returning.
And I'm sure this worries her more from a sustenance perspective than a companionship sort of way.
I always come back and her simple dog brain is all happy again and everything is heavenly in the world. Yet the reality is that I probably just went pee, or grabbed a beer, or went shopping for turnips, and just ended up walking back into the room afterwards.
Note 1: I just mentioned a turnip. Think about it. When's the last time you walked into a grocery store and said, "Hey, there's a turnip!" That's what I thought. Never. The turnip is just a propaganda vegetable made up by the Republican media used to instill fear in the hearts of regular grocery store users who know that there are really only like four or five vegetables that are edible by man.
But she sees me come back into the room and for the split-second that the world was over for her, it was rightly resolved and everything was back to the natural order of things as quickly as it started. This is, after all, a dog brain.
And I feel magnificent.
"What's that, tiny dog? You felt like you couldn't survive without the likes of ME?!"
I usually yell out the "me" part, that's why it's in bold.
I'm only going to briefly touch on the part that I talk to the dog because I feel like any self-respecting pet owner should indulge in small conversations with their animal from time to time.
Note 2: I'm a loser.
So here we are, you and me. And I am immediately sorry for you. You don't deserve this. Neither do I, but yet here we are!
There was a time, not so long ago and not in a galaxy not so far away (I'm lost), where a burgeoning young journalist could go out and report back to their newspaper that Team A beat Team B by a score of X to Z. And the universe thrived and little teddy bear-like creatures would come out of their hovels and sing in harmony!
But, this is in no way a "you did this!" piece. This is a "hey, this guy is still here" piece. I'm writing. What for? No idea. There's no agenda here. There's no advertising here (I could get them, shut up!).
It's you, me, and the loyal ass dog who needs to make sure I am not leaving the room for good this time.
I need a beer.
And I'm sure this worries her more from a sustenance perspective than a companionship sort of way.
I always come back and her simple dog brain is all happy again and everything is heavenly in the world. Yet the reality is that I probably just went pee, or grabbed a beer, or went shopping for turnips, and just ended up walking back into the room afterwards.
Note 1: I just mentioned a turnip. Think about it. When's the last time you walked into a grocery store and said, "Hey, there's a turnip!" That's what I thought. Never. The turnip is just a propaganda vegetable made up by the Republican media used to instill fear in the hearts of regular grocery store users who know that there are really only like four or five vegetables that are edible by man.
But she sees me come back into the room and for the split-second that the world was over for her, it was rightly resolved and everything was back to the natural order of things as quickly as it started. This is, after all, a dog brain.
And I feel magnificent.
"What's that, tiny dog? You felt like you couldn't survive without the likes of ME?!"
I usually yell out the "me" part, that's why it's in bold.
I'm only going to briefly touch on the part that I talk to the dog because I feel like any self-respecting pet owner should indulge in small conversations with their animal from time to time.
Note 2: I'm a loser.
So here we are, you and me. And I am immediately sorry for you. You don't deserve this. Neither do I, but yet here we are!
There was a time, not so long ago and not in a galaxy not so far away (I'm lost), where a burgeoning young journalist could go out and report back to their newspaper that Team A beat Team B by a score of X to Z. And the universe thrived and little teddy bear-like creatures would come out of their hovels and sing in harmony!
But, this is in no way a "you did this!" piece. This is a "hey, this guy is still here" piece. I'm writing. What for? No idea. There's no agenda here. There's no advertising here (I could get them, shut up!).
It's you, me, and the loyal ass dog who needs to make sure I am not leaving the room for good this time.
I need a beer.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Kiss Girls, Tackle Boys
Quick! When's the last time you were filling out a job application and you looked down and saw the box asking you the question, "Do you like girls? Check Yes or No"?
Well if you are applying to be in the National Football League, this is a hot-button issue, and we have reason to believe you cannot adequately fulfill your football duties if you are not interested in females.
Sure, you can run fast as hell and you're stronger than a horse that drank milk for ten years (just run with it) but do you get excited when you see breasts? Because you better. They're breasts for Christ sakes, what's wrong with you?
And if you don't, you better freakin' lie! This is a macho business filled with macho men that slap each other's asses and shower together on a daily basis and we don't want anybody getting the wrong idea around here!
So at the NFL combine, Colorado tight end Nick Kasa said that several teams probed him on his sexual orientation. Wait, tight end? What the hell is this? The National Fairy League!? Burn him! And they probed him? All this innuendo is suppressing my ability to like breasts. I need some air.
The greatest part about all of this is the fantasy world that the NFL is living in. The NFL very clearly doesn't want gay people to play in their sport. They're a fraternity that's run by a bunch of dinosaurs that are from a very different time and refuse to adjust with the rest of the waking world. Hopefully things will change once these naive sons of bitches start kicking the bucket but for now we're stuck with things like this. But I mention fantasy world because I find it absolutely hilarious that their solution to their "problem" is to simply ask them if they like girls.
So maybe they aren't a bunch of fogey hate-mongerers...they're just middle schoolers, apparently.
Well, bad news NFL, there's flaws in your system. Players have come out after their NFL days and declared that they are gay. They like to kiss boys and something tells me that didn't magically happen one day they woke up in their forties. They were probably gay in the NFL too.
But I don't understand. How did we not notice the subtleties? Were there not signs? Did they not seem to really, really want to tackle somebody...a little too much? Did they not give pregame speeches straight from West Side Story? Did they not find the alternate uniforms to be too much of a color clash?
When this story broke, I read it, and promptly thought, "That's about right." I'm not shocked by the NFL anymore. I'm not shocked that a business that runs itself like a fraternity doesn't want homosexuals. I'm not shocked that it's 2013 and this is still happening because its probably always going to happen.
Nine out of ten people will read this and think that it's absolutely ludicrous. And one person will think it's absolutely status quo and the cycle will repeat itself. You can take this article and every time I wrote NFL and replace it with either: military, public schools, government, organised crime, etc. and it will still be applicable.
I knew growing up that we lived in a world predicated by breasts. I covet them like Gollum from Lord of the Rings...they're...my...precious. I guess I just never realized that I'm capable of doing my job correctly because of my love of breasts.
Time to update the ol' resume.
Well if you are applying to be in the National Football League, this is a hot-button issue, and we have reason to believe you cannot adequately fulfill your football duties if you are not interested in females.
Sure, you can run fast as hell and you're stronger than a horse that drank milk for ten years (just run with it) but do you get excited when you see breasts? Because you better. They're breasts for Christ sakes, what's wrong with you?
And if you don't, you better freakin' lie! This is a macho business filled with macho men that slap each other's asses and shower together on a daily basis and we don't want anybody getting the wrong idea around here!
So at the NFL combine, Colorado tight end Nick Kasa said that several teams probed him on his sexual orientation. Wait, tight end? What the hell is this? The National Fairy League!? Burn him! And they probed him? All this innuendo is suppressing my ability to like breasts. I need some air.
The greatest part about all of this is the fantasy world that the NFL is living in. The NFL very clearly doesn't want gay people to play in their sport. They're a fraternity that's run by a bunch of dinosaurs that are from a very different time and refuse to adjust with the rest of the waking world. Hopefully things will change once these naive sons of bitches start kicking the bucket but for now we're stuck with things like this. But I mention fantasy world because I find it absolutely hilarious that their solution to their "problem" is to simply ask them if they like girls.
So maybe they aren't a bunch of fogey hate-mongerers...they're just middle schoolers, apparently.
Well, bad news NFL, there's flaws in your system. Players have come out after their NFL days and declared that they are gay. They like to kiss boys and something tells me that didn't magically happen one day they woke up in their forties. They were probably gay in the NFL too.
But I don't understand. How did we not notice the subtleties? Were there not signs? Did they not seem to really, really want to tackle somebody...a little too much? Did they not give pregame speeches straight from West Side Story? Did they not find the alternate uniforms to be too much of a color clash?
When this story broke, I read it, and promptly thought, "That's about right." I'm not shocked by the NFL anymore. I'm not shocked that a business that runs itself like a fraternity doesn't want homosexuals. I'm not shocked that it's 2013 and this is still happening because its probably always going to happen.
Nine out of ten people will read this and think that it's absolutely ludicrous. And one person will think it's absolutely status quo and the cycle will repeat itself. You can take this article and every time I wrote NFL and replace it with either: military, public schools, government, organised crime, etc. and it will still be applicable.
I knew growing up that we lived in a world predicated by breasts. I covet them like Gollum from Lord of the Rings...they're...my...precious. I guess I just never realized that I'm capable of doing my job correctly because of my love of breasts.
Time to update the ol' resume.
Monday, February 18, 2013
Everything Falls Apart
Where have I been?
I've been hiding.
The renaissance is over and all that's left is the trash and glitter in the streets and the hangover and regret in the bed sheets.
I hate this. I hate every second of this. Every time I turn on the news or log on to ESPN.com I find myself with yet another bitter taste in my mouth. And it's never, ever remotely sane or in the grasp of my realm of understanding.
Oscar Pistorius, the dual-amputee Olympian that competed just recently in London has been accused of shooting and killing his girlfriend. A guy, that they call 'Blade Runner' (not making this up), who has non-biological parts attached to his body (not making this up), has been accused of murder...after he made the Olympics (not making this up) and competed against able-bodied Olympians.
Note 1: There have been many times in this blog where I wished I could have retracted something that didn't turn out the way I hoped it would or quite simply times where I just sound stupid and I wished it would go away but for the sake of whatever back-alley journalism I think this is, I never changed it. And I just want to say, "Thank Karma God that I never wrote some really inspirational piece on Oscar Pistorius and how he's showing us two-legged folks up and what an inspiration he is to handicapped people everywhere...and yadda, yadda, yadda." At least I don't have that egg on my face. Suck it, CNN.
But, in all seriousness, are you fucking kidding me? This happened? He was the flag bearer for South Africa in the closing ceremonies for Christ sakes!
Look, I've never sought out South Africa as the pinnacle of human analysis, but to distinguish one man as the FLAG BEARER of your country, you would think you would take the time to make sure that he wasn't...hmm...I don't know...a MURDERER!
Note 2: The trial hasn't even started yet, and probably won't for some time, and us citizens won't know exactly what happened until Pistorius stands trial in South Africa (that should be pretty rough) and even then who are WE to pass judgement. I put a period at the end of that question because it was rhetorical and I think we are more than qualified to pass judgement on scumbags.
I'm this passionate and at the end of the day I could probably give two shits about this guy. He's never been MY role model...but I'm sure he's been somebody's. I'm sure he's inspired somebody to do something they probably wouldn't have done by themselves...and now they feel like an enormous asshole. And I feel for them. That's where I come in. I'm always an enormous asshole.
It takes tremendous courage to stand up against all odds, against the over-whelming wave of resistance, and boldly stand like a pillar of defiance and do something nobody on the planet thought you were even capable of. It also takes courage to know that all men are created equal and all men are susceptible to faults on the simplest of levels, such as getting mad. It takes a lifetime to build a kingdom and a day to burn it.
This man didn't gain some sort of societal free pass because of his disability. His disability, which was a birth defect, caused his two legs to be amputated just below the knees. Nobody gives you a "Hey man, do what you want" pass for that. Naive people treat you like a invalid, guilty people treat you like a charity case, and good people ask how they can help. There's no such thing as a 'get out of jail free' card.
Where do we go from here? Well, frankly, not very far. I can only do so much. I can simply tell the people of the world that your (non-fictional) heroes of the world are mortal. They are susceptible to mortal flaws. They are PRONE to let you down. There is no such thing as a model human being.
There isn't.
Do you know why? The answer is simple...and fairly dark. Everywhere you would think to look for the model human being is corrupted. Boy Scouts, politics, Catholic Church...etc. The precedent has been set. But I wasn't misleading you. The answer is quite simple.
Every time you are faced with a decision, ask yourself this question, "Will this ruin or even maim someone's life?"
It's really that simple, morons. Stop believing everything you hear. Including this.
I've been hiding.
The renaissance is over and all that's left is the trash and glitter in the streets and the hangover and regret in the bed sheets.
I hate this. I hate every second of this. Every time I turn on the news or log on to ESPN.com I find myself with yet another bitter taste in my mouth. And it's never, ever remotely sane or in the grasp of my realm of understanding.
Oscar Pistorius, the dual-amputee Olympian that competed just recently in London has been accused of shooting and killing his girlfriend. A guy, that they call 'Blade Runner' (not making this up), who has non-biological parts attached to his body (not making this up), has been accused of murder...after he made the Olympics (not making this up) and competed against able-bodied Olympians.
Note 1: There have been many times in this blog where I wished I could have retracted something that didn't turn out the way I hoped it would or quite simply times where I just sound stupid and I wished it would go away but for the sake of whatever back-alley journalism I think this is, I never changed it. And I just want to say, "Thank Karma God that I never wrote some really inspirational piece on Oscar Pistorius and how he's showing us two-legged folks up and what an inspiration he is to handicapped people everywhere...and yadda, yadda, yadda." At least I don't have that egg on my face. Suck it, CNN.
But, in all seriousness, are you fucking kidding me? This happened? He was the flag bearer for South Africa in the closing ceremonies for Christ sakes!
Look, I've never sought out South Africa as the pinnacle of human analysis, but to distinguish one man as the FLAG BEARER of your country, you would think you would take the time to make sure that he wasn't...hmm...I don't know...a MURDERER!
Note 2: The trial hasn't even started yet, and probably won't for some time, and us citizens won't know exactly what happened until Pistorius stands trial in South Africa (that should be pretty rough) and even then who are WE to pass judgement. I put a period at the end of that question because it was rhetorical and I think we are more than qualified to pass judgement on scumbags.
I'm this passionate and at the end of the day I could probably give two shits about this guy. He's never been MY role model...but I'm sure he's been somebody's. I'm sure he's inspired somebody to do something they probably wouldn't have done by themselves...and now they feel like an enormous asshole. And I feel for them. That's where I come in. I'm always an enormous asshole.
It takes tremendous courage to stand up against all odds, against the over-whelming wave of resistance, and boldly stand like a pillar of defiance and do something nobody on the planet thought you were even capable of. It also takes courage to know that all men are created equal and all men are susceptible to faults on the simplest of levels, such as getting mad. It takes a lifetime to build a kingdom and a day to burn it.
This man didn't gain some sort of societal free pass because of his disability. His disability, which was a birth defect, caused his two legs to be amputated just below the knees. Nobody gives you a "Hey man, do what you want" pass for that. Naive people treat you like a invalid, guilty people treat you like a charity case, and good people ask how they can help. There's no such thing as a 'get out of jail free' card.
Where do we go from here? Well, frankly, not very far. I can only do so much. I can simply tell the people of the world that your (non-fictional) heroes of the world are mortal. They are susceptible to mortal flaws. They are PRONE to let you down. There is no such thing as a model human being.
There isn't.
Do you know why? The answer is simple...and fairly dark. Everywhere you would think to look for the model human being is corrupted. Boy Scouts, politics, Catholic Church...etc. The precedent has been set. But I wasn't misleading you. The answer is quite simple.
Every time you are faced with a decision, ask yourself this question, "Will this ruin or even maim someone's life?"
It's really that simple, morons. Stop believing everything you hear. Including this.
Friday, January 25, 2013
In Support of Man Kicks Boy
It being 2013 and all now, Chelsea winger Eden Hazard thought that maybe this might be the year that we can finally get away with kicking children.
Turns out we still can't and this really bums me out because we all know a few little brats that deserve a swift roundhouse to the rib cage. They just get away with too much these days...where's the morality?!
Chelsea was playing Swansea in a League Cup semifinal match when the ball went out of bounds and right into the awaiting arms of little, innocent 17-year old Charlie Morgan. Morgan then scooped it up and over came Hazard who had proper claim to the ball. Morgan didn't give it up and when Hazard went to take it, Morgan hugged it and dropped to the ground like he was covering a live grenade for his army buddies in the trenches.
Here's the thing about soccer: the clock never stops ticking. It was late in the match--the playoff match mind you--and now a supporter of the other team is keeping the ball from you. How do I know the ball boy was supporting the other team? Because his father is Martin Morgan, a director of Swansea, the team that Chelsea was playing!
Hazard starts out just trying to poke the ball free from the death grip of the ball boy and still the little brat wouldn't give it up! Hazard finally wrestles the ball free but by that point frustration had completely set in and when that happens the human body can't be held responsible for actions of the brain. Hazard brought his foot up and gave Morgan a quick jab to the midsection.
And all Hell breaks loose! Morgan is down on the ground, writhing in pain, needs to be helped to his feet by two attendants. Meanwhile, Hazard is shown the red card of death and has to leave the match. The match ends in regulation with a score of 0-0 and Chelsea loses to Swansea 2-0 in aggregate time.
Now the Football Association is saying the automatic three-game ban for Hazard is not enough punishment and will announce further sanctions.
Well folks, the British are wrong again! Why is Hazard being martyred for this? Did anybody else read what I just wrote?
Some snobby little rich kid for the other team was deliberately stalling the match! And, for the record, Morgan is 17 and Hazard is 22, this isn't some forty-year old man punting a six-year old in the face. This was a simple, quick, "you shouldn't have done that" jab to the ribs. A just punishment for the crime--a punishment that the little douche needed.
Look, Morgan is filthy rich and he's not going to have to work hard his entire life and is going to get anything and everything he wants. Hazard is an athlete, an athlete that was caught up in the passion of the match. He was being kept from his goal to win and in this day and age we should be supporting our athletes who refuse to be denied to win.
He didn't even kick him that hard! Morgan totally played it up that he was hurt to further draw attention to himself and delay the match even further. He's a disgrace--not a victim!
Don't be mad at Hazard. Be glad that some rich little snot got his just desserts for one day in his entire existence. I'll be sleeping soundly tonight.
Turns out we still can't and this really bums me out because we all know a few little brats that deserve a swift roundhouse to the rib cage. They just get away with too much these days...where's the morality?!
Chelsea was playing Swansea in a League Cup semifinal match when the ball went out of bounds and right into the awaiting arms of little, innocent 17-year old Charlie Morgan. Morgan then scooped it up and over came Hazard who had proper claim to the ball. Morgan didn't give it up and when Hazard went to take it, Morgan hugged it and dropped to the ground like he was covering a live grenade for his army buddies in the trenches.
Here's the thing about soccer: the clock never stops ticking. It was late in the match--the playoff match mind you--and now a supporter of the other team is keeping the ball from you. How do I know the ball boy was supporting the other team? Because his father is Martin Morgan, a director of Swansea, the team that Chelsea was playing!
Hazard starts out just trying to poke the ball free from the death grip of the ball boy and still the little brat wouldn't give it up! Hazard finally wrestles the ball free but by that point frustration had completely set in and when that happens the human body can't be held responsible for actions of the brain. Hazard brought his foot up and gave Morgan a quick jab to the midsection.
And all Hell breaks loose! Morgan is down on the ground, writhing in pain, needs to be helped to his feet by two attendants. Meanwhile, Hazard is shown the red card of death and has to leave the match. The match ends in regulation with a score of 0-0 and Chelsea loses to Swansea 2-0 in aggregate time.
Now the Football Association is saying the automatic three-game ban for Hazard is not enough punishment and will announce further sanctions.
Well folks, the British are wrong again! Why is Hazard being martyred for this? Did anybody else read what I just wrote?
Some snobby little rich kid for the other team was deliberately stalling the match! And, for the record, Morgan is 17 and Hazard is 22, this isn't some forty-year old man punting a six-year old in the face. This was a simple, quick, "you shouldn't have done that" jab to the ribs. A just punishment for the crime--a punishment that the little douche needed.
Look, Morgan is filthy rich and he's not going to have to work hard his entire life and is going to get anything and everything he wants. Hazard is an athlete, an athlete that was caught up in the passion of the match. He was being kept from his goal to win and in this day and age we should be supporting our athletes who refuse to be denied to win.
He didn't even kick him that hard! Morgan totally played it up that he was hurt to further draw attention to himself and delay the match even further. He's a disgrace--not a victim!
Don't be mad at Hazard. Be glad that some rich little snot got his just desserts for one day in his entire existence. I'll be sleeping soundly tonight.
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