I'm about to be one of those jerks that wasn't there at the time but is going to tell you about it anyways. Listen, all history is just somebody telling you that this is what happened and you can take their word for it and believe it or just make up some random shit and all of a sudden you're a cult leader. I've seen it tens and tens of times...
In the 1920's, the United States of America decided to ruin everybody's good time and made the buying and selling of booze illegal. It went over about as well as you would think and the infrastructure crumbled. All Prohibition managed to do was bring about rampant organized crime, usher in an era known as the Great Depression, and still allow people to buy and sell booze but be more quiet about it. I'm no historian but if there's a place called the 'Dust Bowl' I'm probably getting the Hell out of there. It's the same thing for 'Tornado Alley', 'Ring of Fire', and 'Chipotle'. Their very names illicit fear!
The fact that you could have lived in the Dust Bowl during the Great Depression while under Prohibition and didn't immediately off yourself proves to me that people are generally very, very stupid. Dust Bowl? Sounds exotic!
Look I know that I didn't live through those times and I'm basically mocking our family history but...come on! The mentality of "Well, we're poor and on the brink of annihilation...let's settle in this barren wasteland that is completely void of any natural resources that is constantly pounded by storms...made...of...dust. That oughta cheer us up!"
We come from a long line of stupid and that much is very obvious even in today's standards.
Which brings me to today's NBA and the saga of DeAndre Jordan.
You know what, screw that, this story isn't about DeAndre Jordan it's about the stupidity of the NBA and how their failure to recognize the sign of the times brings about things of this nature. DeAndre Jordan was set to be a free agent, meaning he could sign with any team. The NBA sets aside a period of time before free agency begins where all potential free agents can talk with other teams and negotiate deals but not allowed to sign any contracts...meaning anything decided during this time is strictly based upon the faith of a man's word.
Jordan gave his word to the Dallas Mavericks that he was headed there and then they proceeded to do nothing else in this pre-free agency period except party and high-five each other. Well it turns out that the Dallas Mavericks don't watch Game of Thrones where basically 'giving your word' means 'I'm about to stab you'.
Before we continue we have to visit our little history lesson real quick. The NBA refers to this pre-gaming practice as the 'Moratorium Period' which turns out to be the 'temporary prohibition of an activity'. Uh oh...there's that scary word again. That didn't turn out so well the first time...
The NBA thinks that it can operate under the 'word' of man. The 'word' of man died as soon as we started throwing millions of dollars around and kept a harem of lawyers on speed dial. You can't even go smoke a cigarette without leaving a credit card with the bartender! The Dallas Mavericks were stupid. The NBA is stupid. And now DeAndre Jordan looks like a jerk because he wasn't sure he was making the right decision as a 26-year old facing a career defining moment and ended up going back to the place he felt the safest.
People will say he should have called Mark Cuban, the owner of the Mavericks, and explained it all to him and I'm pretty sure those are the same people that let their significant other know that they are broken up by Facebook status. Have you ever applied to two jobs, got them both, and then called the lesser paying of the two and thanked them for considering you but you have a better option? If you answered 'yes' then you are definitely a Dust Bowl descendant. Does Mark Cuban call all the players he doesn't sign and says, "thanks but no thanks?" Did Al Capone ever call up the cops before Eliot Ness and thank them for being close but not close enough?
I'm not calling DeAndre Jordan a scumbag but there's been too many scumbags in the past for the NBA to still operate a system where men just give their 'word'. It leaves too many loopholes. Whenever we throw around words like 'honor' with multi-billion dollar companies, agents, lawyers, and the media...well...now we're just asking for Great Depression.
Who's the bad guy in this whole affair, kids? History and the human inability to recognize and learn from it. The 'Moratorium Period' is as good as dead and I can only imagine what they come up with next.
I'd like to think that my ancestor during this time was sitting in a speak-easy drinking a probably awful tasting scotch and just thinking to himself, "Yep, it's all the same."
Float on, graceful swans.
Saturday, July 11, 2015
Thursday, July 2, 2015
Six!
Kids! Faceless entities! It's July and it's time to celebrate yet another Studly Pastures anniversary! Yep, this July we're kicking off our sixth year and I couldn't...wait...where the Hell is everybody?!
I just walked into the break room expecting a huge surprise party and there wasn't anything in there except an old moldy sandwich that might have been turkey at one point and time. The unicorns are acting malaise at best and that's the word of the day that I just taught you.
Okay, okay, I get it. This year has felt more like a retirement party than any other has. I've pretty much gathered up all my laurels, molded them into a nice little pile, and rested on those bitches for the better part of 2015. The problem with laurels is, that once you are upon them, it's mighty hard to get your fat ass up again. My apologies to anybody named Laurel by the way, but you shouldn't be mad at me, it's your parents' fault. I know none of this is making any sense, especially the part where I'm talking about sitting on a bunch of plants as if it's comfortable or something, but hang with me for just a moment...I'm bound to end up somewhere.
I haven't been writing, not for the SP (that much is obvious), but it's more than that. I haven't been writing at all. Nothing. The only creative thing that I've been producing lately is quickly flushed down so it doesn't stink up the joint. By the way, how many bloody wipes is officially worrisome?
You see? Poop jokes! I've been at it for six freakin' years and I'm doing shtick on poop jokes! Shameful.
I've made it no secret that this is the year that I turn 30 and I'm not one of those bratty asshole 22-year olds that complain that they're getting old because 30 will only be old in the future when we have to governmentally control the population by executing people once they reach a certain age. Luckily for me, that's not now, and I know all this but shit...why does it have to be such a nice round number? 29? Break out the cigars and call up the hookers. 30? Reservations for one at the mausoleum, please.
The problem with 30 is that it's the first actual checkpoint in your life where society expects you to be able to answer them with something and if you don't have any answers, well then, you really sound like a jackass. And invariably, the question they ask, has something to do along the lines of "What have you done with your life the last 30 years?" I'm currently going with the answer of "Uhhhhhhhhh".
Not exactly toe to toe with "I have a dream" or the Gettysburg Address.
When I was 18 I thought to myself, "This is it, you're an adult now." And then I turned 21 and I thought to myself, "Adult? What the Hell is that? Can I drink it?" And now I have to worry about silly things like blood pressure, and keeping my hair, and WHY IS MY STOOL SO BLOODY! (Note: my stool isn't really bloody, don't worry, I just think it's a good writing technique to badger you to death with the same joke over and over again.)
Life is funny because I don't fear real and scary things like inevitability but I do fear being too high off the ground and sharks. Ridiculous. Sharks? They can't leave the ocean, and me, a land-dweller, fears those smooth skinned bastards. Yet I don't blink at the face of the inevitable end of existence that hinges on whether or not you've been here too long or eaten too many cheeseburgers but those damn sharks though...
It's been six years since I first sat down at the computer and wondered if people would like the idea of a sports blog that is somehow related to a unicorn stud farm. It was a bold concept that I was asking of faceless entities that I would never meet and yet somehow it worked out really well. I guess that's my answer. What did I do with the last 30 years? I tried my damn hardest to make people laugh and if they learned something along the way then that's even better. I command the Studly Pastures, dammit, and we're still here! Still here! So let's get going...
THE BAD: We're gonna start with the bad, up in Canada, at the Women's World Cup and the semifinals match between Japan and England. The match ended 2-1 in favor of Japan when Laura Bassett, of the English team, scored an own goal with a minute left in stoppage time. She immediately defected to Cuba but she boarded the wrong plane and ended up in Wales.
I feel bad for this woman because this is the Social Media age and schmucks (like me) who think the internet offers immortal power are going to be ruthless and evil towards her when all she did was make a bad mistake that had the worst possible outcome. She was obviously distraught after the match and I can only hope her teammates consoled her and took the weight off her shoulders.
With that said, what the flying shit were you thinking?! Whenever you could have done nothing and it would have turned out better than you doing something means that you really screwed the pooch on that one. Kids, I don't condone breaking the rules, but I'll do it to help myself win all the time. Laura tried to play things fair and when she found herself outmatched one-on-one on defense she tried to clear the ball...by sending it right into her own goal. What she should have done, and listen closely when I tell you this, is KNOCK THAT BITCH DOWN! Knock her down. If you get the card, then screw it, she still has to make the penalty kick. But there's still the chance that they won't even card you. I mean, it's FIFA, after all. Those corrupt bastards would probably appreciate the bloodlust and not even blow the whistle.
I can only hope that Laura learned an important lesson here and that it's simply too hard to compete in professional level sports without getting your hands a little dirty. Save the manners for the tea party, Laura, and next time knock that bitch down.
THE UGLY: I move on to the American side of things and the Shakespearean downfall of Tiger Woods. I guess Othello would be the best comparison? Is that racist? But Iago would have to just be another personality of Othello because Tiger's downfall was caused by himself and...wait...is Othello and Iago one person? I think I just stumbled upon my own Da Vinci code.
Tiger and Lindsey Vonn have decided to not be America's best hobby-sport couple anymore and it's probably because Tiger cheated on her. This really takes me back to the glory days when Tiger used to cheat on his super model wife with random bar floozies...ahhhhhhhh...fresh mountain air! What a colossal jackass. Tiger has officially become more relevant on TMZ than he is on the PGA Tour. What a time to be alive! Our once and true great king turned out to be a horny playboy and I'm not surprised. The dam walls broke. That's not a typo, I really mean dam. Think about it: He was a golf player...at Stanford...he didn't get laid until he was well under the cozy and warm wings of Nike. Once you get a taste of the good life...it's all downhill from there.
If Tiger wants to mow down two or three skanks a weekend, that's fine, that's his thing. But I used to think he did because that's where he drew his life force from and now he clearly sucks at golf so that can't be it. He's just a jackass. One of the greatest athletes of my time is a terrible human being and that's incredibly sad.
THE GOOD: Kids, for the last five years I've stood on my soap box and judged humanity from my own twisted view of things and for some reason you've let me. I've opened Year Six with a crisis of faith, a berating of a poor English woman, and the worst thing to happen to American sports since Tom Brady's chin...and yet, you're still here. The unicorns appreciate it, as do I, and we'll be here until we're court ordered to stop.
Float on, graceful swans! Six!
I just walked into the break room expecting a huge surprise party and there wasn't anything in there except an old moldy sandwich that might have been turkey at one point and time. The unicorns are acting malaise at best and that's the word of the day that I just taught you.
Okay, okay, I get it. This year has felt more like a retirement party than any other has. I've pretty much gathered up all my laurels, molded them into a nice little pile, and rested on those bitches for the better part of 2015. The problem with laurels is, that once you are upon them, it's mighty hard to get your fat ass up again. My apologies to anybody named Laurel by the way, but you shouldn't be mad at me, it's your parents' fault. I know none of this is making any sense, especially the part where I'm talking about sitting on a bunch of plants as if it's comfortable or something, but hang with me for just a moment...I'm bound to end up somewhere.
I haven't been writing, not for the SP (that much is obvious), but it's more than that. I haven't been writing at all. Nothing. The only creative thing that I've been producing lately is quickly flushed down so it doesn't stink up the joint. By the way, how many bloody wipes is officially worrisome?
You see? Poop jokes! I've been at it for six freakin' years and I'm doing shtick on poop jokes! Shameful.
I've made it no secret that this is the year that I turn 30 and I'm not one of those bratty asshole 22-year olds that complain that they're getting old because 30 will only be old in the future when we have to governmentally control the population by executing people once they reach a certain age. Luckily for me, that's not now, and I know all this but shit...why does it have to be such a nice round number? 29? Break out the cigars and call up the hookers. 30? Reservations for one at the mausoleum, please.
The problem with 30 is that it's the first actual checkpoint in your life where society expects you to be able to answer them with something and if you don't have any answers, well then, you really sound like a jackass. And invariably, the question they ask, has something to do along the lines of "What have you done with your life the last 30 years?" I'm currently going with the answer of "Uhhhhhhhhh".
Not exactly toe to toe with "I have a dream" or the Gettysburg Address.
When I was 18 I thought to myself, "This is it, you're an adult now." And then I turned 21 and I thought to myself, "Adult? What the Hell is that? Can I drink it?" And now I have to worry about silly things like blood pressure, and keeping my hair, and WHY IS MY STOOL SO BLOODY! (Note: my stool isn't really bloody, don't worry, I just think it's a good writing technique to badger you to death with the same joke over and over again.)
Life is funny because I don't fear real and scary things like inevitability but I do fear being too high off the ground and sharks. Ridiculous. Sharks? They can't leave the ocean, and me, a land-dweller, fears those smooth skinned bastards. Yet I don't blink at the face of the inevitable end of existence that hinges on whether or not you've been here too long or eaten too many cheeseburgers but those damn sharks though...
It's been six years since I first sat down at the computer and wondered if people would like the idea of a sports blog that is somehow related to a unicorn stud farm. It was a bold concept that I was asking of faceless entities that I would never meet and yet somehow it worked out really well. I guess that's my answer. What did I do with the last 30 years? I tried my damn hardest to make people laugh and if they learned something along the way then that's even better. I command the Studly Pastures, dammit, and we're still here! Still here! So let's get going...
THE BAD: We're gonna start with the bad, up in Canada, at the Women's World Cup and the semifinals match between Japan and England. The match ended 2-1 in favor of Japan when Laura Bassett, of the English team, scored an own goal with a minute left in stoppage time. She immediately defected to Cuba but she boarded the wrong plane and ended up in Wales.
I feel bad for this woman because this is the Social Media age and schmucks (like me) who think the internet offers immortal power are going to be ruthless and evil towards her when all she did was make a bad mistake that had the worst possible outcome. She was obviously distraught after the match and I can only hope her teammates consoled her and took the weight off her shoulders.
With that said, what the flying shit were you thinking?! Whenever you could have done nothing and it would have turned out better than you doing something means that you really screwed the pooch on that one. Kids, I don't condone breaking the rules, but I'll do it to help myself win all the time. Laura tried to play things fair and when she found herself outmatched one-on-one on defense she tried to clear the ball...by sending it right into her own goal. What she should have done, and listen closely when I tell you this, is KNOCK THAT BITCH DOWN! Knock her down. If you get the card, then screw it, she still has to make the penalty kick. But there's still the chance that they won't even card you. I mean, it's FIFA, after all. Those corrupt bastards would probably appreciate the bloodlust and not even blow the whistle.
I can only hope that Laura learned an important lesson here and that it's simply too hard to compete in professional level sports without getting your hands a little dirty. Save the manners for the tea party, Laura, and next time knock that bitch down.
THE UGLY: I move on to the American side of things and the Shakespearean downfall of Tiger Woods. I guess Othello would be the best comparison? Is that racist? But Iago would have to just be another personality of Othello because Tiger's downfall was caused by himself and...wait...is Othello and Iago one person? I think I just stumbled upon my own Da Vinci code.
Tiger and Lindsey Vonn have decided to not be America's best hobby-sport couple anymore and it's probably because Tiger cheated on her. This really takes me back to the glory days when Tiger used to cheat on his super model wife with random bar floozies...ahhhhhhhh...fresh mountain air! What a colossal jackass. Tiger has officially become more relevant on TMZ than he is on the PGA Tour. What a time to be alive! Our once and true great king turned out to be a horny playboy and I'm not surprised. The dam walls broke. That's not a typo, I really mean dam. Think about it: He was a golf player...at Stanford...he didn't get laid until he was well under the cozy and warm wings of Nike. Once you get a taste of the good life...it's all downhill from there.
If Tiger wants to mow down two or three skanks a weekend, that's fine, that's his thing. But I used to think he did because that's where he drew his life force from and now he clearly sucks at golf so that can't be it. He's just a jackass. One of the greatest athletes of my time is a terrible human being and that's incredibly sad.
THE GOOD: Kids, for the last five years I've stood on my soap box and judged humanity from my own twisted view of things and for some reason you've let me. I've opened Year Six with a crisis of faith, a berating of a poor English woman, and the worst thing to happen to American sports since Tom Brady's chin...and yet, you're still here. The unicorns appreciate it, as do I, and we'll be here until we're court ordered to stop.
Float on, graceful swans! Six!
Saturday, May 23, 2015
May Flowers
Dear God, it's the end of May, and that means that the dawn of my fourth decade of life is just barreling towards me like some sort of weird barrel based weapon. Time sucks because it's always time to do something. It's time to get up, it's time to go to work, it's time for your state approved execution...blah blah blah. There's never any time for anything besides all the shit we don't want to happen. Time is literally the harbinger of my doom, your doom, and the doom of all carbon based life forms. Watches and clocks are morbid ways of checking the time that you have left and also when that meeting starts. Time rolls on and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it.
I once believed that if I just stayed in bed all day then that day would never occur and time would stop. That's how I lost my first job.
In three months time I'll be thirty years old and it's time to highlight some positives of that because I'm already depressed and we're not even there yet. I'm like Queen Elizabeth to hamsters, goldfish, most insects, and celebrity marriages. I'm a true testament of time in the very sense that it hasn't killed me yet, dammit, and it's time we get going.
The Miami Dolphins have inked Ryan Tannehill, my little Fuzzby, to a big contract that will keep him in South Florida and potentially pay him ninety six muellllllliiiioooon buckaroos. Several of my friends have come up to me and asked me what I thought about this and every single time my mind kept going back to the Vietnam War for some reason but I think I'm ready to settle down and talk about it now.
It's dumb. It's a dumb move. Just because it's after the divorce and you run through a bunch of scumbags for a number of years doesn't mean you have to marry the first guy that's wearing slacks and has his hair combed. You can probably, gee I don't know, LET HIM PROVE HIS WORTH FIRST!
Ryan's a great guy and I'm sure he's nice to children, old people, and dogs. He could even go on to mesh so well with the tools the Dolphins have provided him this offseason and just wreck shit. He could lead his team to the playoffs and be in title contention come the end of the year. He could be an MVP candidate and hoist up the Lombardi trophy in South Florida for the first time in longer than I've lived on this planet...but...it's all hope and hope is absolutely dog shit in professional football. If you are signing people to your team in the NFL based on hope then you better prepare yourself for a good old fashioned cry session in your bathroom while pretending to take a shower because that's where you are headed.
We now live in a world where Andrew Luck, who has been further into the playoffs each year he's been in the league, and Russell Wilson, who has won a Super Bowl and been to two, and were both drafted the same year as Ryan Tannehill and yet they remain on their rookie contracts. And Robert Griffin Part III! He was there too!
It's weird. It's gotta be a great tool for when the time comes that I become a parent because every Sunday I'm cheering him on but in my head I'm praying to whoever answers that he just doesn't completely blow it. But for better or for worse, in sickness or in health, in wins or in complete mediocrity each and every season, I am now stricken with a Fuzzby for the next FIVE freakin' years.
That's a lot of time. And if every season that I've witnessed is some sort of barometer for how the next five will go...let's just say I'm not quitting the blog any time soon.
And now...NOW...it's finally time that I make my way to you, Mr. Thomas Gladys Brady, you cheating son of a bitch! (His middle name comes from his father's favorite lunch lady in school)
When the time comes that I'm dead and gone from this Earth and you are too, and so are our children, and so on and so forth...but yet the SP remains for some reason...the time capsule of the NFL would be the period of time that the New England Patriots decided, "Hell, we aren't winning, maybe we should start cheating?" And that would be for the last thirteen or so years.
It was all an elaborate set up, from top to bottom, and it was undeniably brilliant but it was also the worst thing to happen to American sports. Bill Belichick was a horrible failure as a head coach but as soon as he landed in New England he had one bad year and then was the best ever. Tom Brady knitted wool caps for the rest of the Michigan Wolverines and wasn't drafted until the sixth round, pick 199, meaning that one hundred and ninety-eight people were considered better than him by people that spend their entire lives by evaluating talent and potential and yet now he is considered the best ever?! How in the holy Hell did they accomplish this amazing feat?! BY CHEATING! The whole time. We caught them with Spygate. We have now caught them with Deflategate. How many other gates did they get past us? I'm now struck with a myriad of questions, questions like, 'Did they lose some games on purpose to not look suspicious?', 'Did the Tuck Rule start the flood and they started wondering how far they could press the stupidity of the rules of the NFL?', and 'Isn't this the fitting answer as to why Tom Brady, the most popular NFL player, and Gisele Bundchen, the most popular super model, never did a reality show?' It's because he didn't want to be caught!
The thing that I don't get, the thing that bothers me, is how did the whole operation get exposed over a few underinflated footballs? Incriminating texts between two lackeys, Brady's denial, Kraft's infuriation, Belichick's inevitable betrayal...it's not adding up for me. Thanks to all the lawyers and media Deflategate has become a joke. One of the guys that Brady had taking the air out of footballs called himself 'The Deflator' and now Brady's lawyer is saying that he called himself that because he was trying to lose weight. Riiiiiight. I think I can remember that being the pinnacle of the pyramid in the Jenny Craig plan to lose weight. You start out as The Defiler, next is The Diarrheal, then The Defenestrator, and finally, The Deflator.
I think it's time that Brady answers for his crimes. Belichick has left him to the pyre. Kraft puffed up his chest and then slowly backed away. Brady is all alone now.
It's also time for this post to wrap up. Hopefully, in time, we'll know the full story but if I were you I wouldn't hold my breath. The NFL is very good at being dumb or they're very good at playing dumb. I'm not sure which is worst.
I once believed that if I just stayed in bed all day then that day would never occur and time would stop. That's how I lost my first job.
In three months time I'll be thirty years old and it's time to highlight some positives of that because I'm already depressed and we're not even there yet. I'm like Queen Elizabeth to hamsters, goldfish, most insects, and celebrity marriages. I'm a true testament of time in the very sense that it hasn't killed me yet, dammit, and it's time we get going.
The Miami Dolphins have inked Ryan Tannehill, my little Fuzzby, to a big contract that will keep him in South Florida and potentially pay him ninety six muellllllliiiioooon buckaroos. Several of my friends have come up to me and asked me what I thought about this and every single time my mind kept going back to the Vietnam War for some reason but I think I'm ready to settle down and talk about it now.
It's dumb. It's a dumb move. Just because it's after the divorce and you run through a bunch of scumbags for a number of years doesn't mean you have to marry the first guy that's wearing slacks and has his hair combed. You can probably, gee I don't know, LET HIM PROVE HIS WORTH FIRST!
Ryan's a great guy and I'm sure he's nice to children, old people, and dogs. He could even go on to mesh so well with the tools the Dolphins have provided him this offseason and just wreck shit. He could lead his team to the playoffs and be in title contention come the end of the year. He could be an MVP candidate and hoist up the Lombardi trophy in South Florida for the first time in longer than I've lived on this planet...but...it's all hope and hope is absolutely dog shit in professional football. If you are signing people to your team in the NFL based on hope then you better prepare yourself for a good old fashioned cry session in your bathroom while pretending to take a shower because that's where you are headed.
We now live in a world where Andrew Luck, who has been further into the playoffs each year he's been in the league, and Russell Wilson, who has won a Super Bowl and been to two, and were both drafted the same year as Ryan Tannehill and yet they remain on their rookie contracts. And Robert Griffin Part III! He was there too!
It's weird. It's gotta be a great tool for when the time comes that I become a parent because every Sunday I'm cheering him on but in my head I'm praying to whoever answers that he just doesn't completely blow it. But for better or for worse, in sickness or in health, in wins or in complete mediocrity each and every season, I am now stricken with a Fuzzby for the next FIVE freakin' years.
That's a lot of time. And if every season that I've witnessed is some sort of barometer for how the next five will go...let's just say I'm not quitting the blog any time soon.
And now...NOW...it's finally time that I make my way to you, Mr. Thomas Gladys Brady, you cheating son of a bitch! (His middle name comes from his father's favorite lunch lady in school)
When the time comes that I'm dead and gone from this Earth and you are too, and so are our children, and so on and so forth...but yet the SP remains for some reason...the time capsule of the NFL would be the period of time that the New England Patriots decided, "Hell, we aren't winning, maybe we should start cheating?" And that would be for the last thirteen or so years.
It was all an elaborate set up, from top to bottom, and it was undeniably brilliant but it was also the worst thing to happen to American sports. Bill Belichick was a horrible failure as a head coach but as soon as he landed in New England he had one bad year and then was the best ever. Tom Brady knitted wool caps for the rest of the Michigan Wolverines and wasn't drafted until the sixth round, pick 199, meaning that one hundred and ninety-eight people were considered better than him by people that spend their entire lives by evaluating talent and potential and yet now he is considered the best ever?! How in the holy Hell did they accomplish this amazing feat?! BY CHEATING! The whole time. We caught them with Spygate. We have now caught them with Deflategate. How many other gates did they get past us? I'm now struck with a myriad of questions, questions like, 'Did they lose some games on purpose to not look suspicious?', 'Did the Tuck Rule start the flood and they started wondering how far they could press the stupidity of the rules of the NFL?', and 'Isn't this the fitting answer as to why Tom Brady, the most popular NFL player, and Gisele Bundchen, the most popular super model, never did a reality show?' It's because he didn't want to be caught!
The thing that I don't get, the thing that bothers me, is how did the whole operation get exposed over a few underinflated footballs? Incriminating texts between two lackeys, Brady's denial, Kraft's infuriation, Belichick's inevitable betrayal...it's not adding up for me. Thanks to all the lawyers and media Deflategate has become a joke. One of the guys that Brady had taking the air out of footballs called himself 'The Deflator' and now Brady's lawyer is saying that he called himself that because he was trying to lose weight. Riiiiiight. I think I can remember that being the pinnacle of the pyramid in the Jenny Craig plan to lose weight. You start out as The Defiler, next is The Diarrheal, then The Defenestrator, and finally, The Deflator.
I think it's time that Brady answers for his crimes. Belichick has left him to the pyre. Kraft puffed up his chest and then slowly backed away. Brady is all alone now.
It's also time for this post to wrap up. Hopefully, in time, we'll know the full story but if I were you I wouldn't hold my breath. The NFL is very good at being dumb or they're very good at playing dumb. I'm not sure which is worst.
Friday, April 17, 2015
Isn't It About Time You Got Going?
The subscribers to the Studly Pastures know that there are a few folks in the realm of the universe that I am not quite fond of.
Peyton Manning. Cole Hamels. And the rest...
I hate those guys because I've always felt like they had a personal vendetta against me which, in turn, led me to have a personal vendetta against them. Thus the cycle repeats itself and I never confront my weird hatred for random athletes.
But there's always one...alwaaaaaays one that can only be explained as the feeling you get when you meet your daughter's boyfriend for the first time and he's a total douche bag...but he also knows that he's a douche bag and he's so far gone into Doucheland that he's trying his damndest to get into your house and bang your daughter while also showing you how much of a douche bag he is.
I'm talking about Alex Rodriguez, kids. The guy just doesn't take a hint unless it's something you can liquefy and inject into your ass and have your cousin and dealer take the fall.
He's so far gone that he came back to baseball. HE CAME BACK. That's like being told by the chess club, and you're the guy that beat Bobby Fischer (Google it before you judge), that we're good and we don't need you anymore because you took brain pills or some shit like that. They annexed you and you decided, "Eh, I'll come back next year and everything will be just fine." Everything you've done has been done in vain. It doesn't matter.
That was your unvite, dipshit. We don't want you here anymore and apparently a simple YEAR LONG BAN isn't enough to get through your chemically improved thick-skull. The New York Yankees make press conferences about how 'he has to prove himself" and how they're 'taking it day by day'and it makes me want to vomit because they should have been rid of him a loooooong time ago.
I get it. I scale over the Yankees current lineup and there's not a single person listed there that scares me and that's not exactly Bronx Bomber fashion. So for good business we kiss and makeup with Rodriguez and plug him in at first base or DH because we need the money...er...the power. Wait. Do either of those nouns matter? I'm starting to feel that they are interchangeable.
We were at 656 with Rodriguez. He hit 657 tonight. Does it matter? Is anybody going to think he really passes Willie Mays at 660? Really?!
Alex Rodriguez has felt, for the entirety of his career, that his personal gain is much more important than keeping intact the integrity of the game. He made a choice, was called out on it, paid his punishment, and is now in the starting lineup of the New York Yankees. Was that enough? Absolutely not. His reputation is beyond repair. He'll never see the light of day of the Hall of Fame because the writers that vote for it are old school and they HATE anybody who tampers with the integrity of the game.
He's playing for a paycheck at this point. There's nothing else he can accomplish. The rhetoric he spits out about loving baseball and setting a good example for his children is what we call in the waking world utter bullshit. He's a con artist. I feel bad for his kids.
If he loves baseball so much why does he try his best to manipulate it's rules? Or bend them? Or cheat them?!
Mariano Rivera and Derek Jeter deserved their send-offs. Rodriguez deserves to be sent away and never thought of again.
Peyton Manning. Cole Hamels. And the rest...
I hate those guys because I've always felt like they had a personal vendetta against me which, in turn, led me to have a personal vendetta against them. Thus the cycle repeats itself and I never confront my weird hatred for random athletes.
But there's always one...alwaaaaaays one that can only be explained as the feeling you get when you meet your daughter's boyfriend for the first time and he's a total douche bag...but he also knows that he's a douche bag and he's so far gone into Doucheland that he's trying his damndest to get into your house and bang your daughter while also showing you how much of a douche bag he is.
I'm talking about Alex Rodriguez, kids. The guy just doesn't take a hint unless it's something you can liquefy and inject into your ass and have your cousin and dealer take the fall.
He's so far gone that he came back to baseball. HE CAME BACK. That's like being told by the chess club, and you're the guy that beat Bobby Fischer (Google it before you judge), that we're good and we don't need you anymore because you took brain pills or some shit like that. They annexed you and you decided, "Eh, I'll come back next year and everything will be just fine." Everything you've done has been done in vain. It doesn't matter.
That was your unvite, dipshit. We don't want you here anymore and apparently a simple YEAR LONG BAN isn't enough to get through your chemically improved thick-skull. The New York Yankees make press conferences about how 'he has to prove himself" and how they're 'taking it day by day'and it makes me want to vomit because they should have been rid of him a loooooong time ago.
I get it. I scale over the Yankees current lineup and there's not a single person listed there that scares me and that's not exactly Bronx Bomber fashion. So for good business we kiss and makeup with Rodriguez and plug him in at first base or DH because we need the money...er...the power. Wait. Do either of those nouns matter? I'm starting to feel that they are interchangeable.
We were at 656 with Rodriguez. He hit 657 tonight. Does it matter? Is anybody going to think he really passes Willie Mays at 660? Really?!
Alex Rodriguez has felt, for the entirety of his career, that his personal gain is much more important than keeping intact the integrity of the game. He made a choice, was called out on it, paid his punishment, and is now in the starting lineup of the New York Yankees. Was that enough? Absolutely not. His reputation is beyond repair. He'll never see the light of day of the Hall of Fame because the writers that vote for it are old school and they HATE anybody who tampers with the integrity of the game.
He's playing for a paycheck at this point. There's nothing else he can accomplish. The rhetoric he spits out about loving baseball and setting a good example for his children is what we call in the waking world utter bullshit. He's a con artist. I feel bad for his kids.
If he loves baseball so much why does he try his best to manipulate it's rules? Or bend them? Or cheat them?!
Mariano Rivera and Derek Jeter deserved their send-offs. Rodriguez deserves to be sent away and never thought of again.
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Deep South Beach
I woke up today and looked over the immediate transactions at the start of the new NFL year (that's right, it starts in March) and had a couple of thoughts right off the bat.
The Seahawks actually agree with the rest of the world and believe that Russell Wilson has an arm as well and decided to get him somebody that's very good at catching the football--at long last and also just a couple months too late. Also this tells me that 7-9 last year for the Saints wasn't an aberration, it was a premonition. They got rid of Drew Brees' favorite target and let Drew Brees find out how the rest of us found out?! You're in the worst division in football and you just got rid of your best weapon for which reason? Oh, because you guys clashed over the fact that he thought he deserved more money and you were too busy counting your own dollars to pay him the time of day, I get it now. Last month, Tom Benson, the owner of the Saints, was ordered to undergo evaluations under different doctors to determine whether or not he was still competent enough to be the man in charge. Now I wonder if we should deem the same thing for the rest of the Saints' organization.
Jimmy Graham is a tight end, that plays like a wide receiver, and has size advantage over everybody in the secondary. Are you kidding me? You don't trade that. You DON'T trade that! There's only one other one of those in football but he's got mush-brain and is probably something that scientists chiseled out of an iceberg from the Neolithic age. Sure, the Seahawks gave up a first round pick, but that means that they essentially drafted Jimmy Graham which is what I would do given the choice a hundred times over.
Benson's not the only one slipping these days. Chip Kelly has been given full reigns of the Eagles and he's driving the stagecoach right off the cliff. Chip has decided that he's going to kick off Year Three by getting rid of everybody and bringing in people that were revising their resumes for jobs at insurance companies. Trading McCoy for a linebacker doesn't surprise me because today's NFL hates running backs that much that it makes perfect sense to swap a dynamic play-maker for a guy coming off of reconstructive knee surgery. Then he let his best receiver walk out the door but that didn't really surprise me because he traded one away a year ago. But then he traded his quarterback for Sam Bradford and I really had a moment where I just kind of drifted away from reality and went somewhere dark for a bit.
Sam Bradford? What happened to Marcus Mariota? I thought you were gonna pull some weird David Copperfield shit to move from pick 20 to top ten and pair next year's number one to get your boy. That's your boy! Instead you've opted to go with a guy coming off BACK TO BACK reconstructive knee surgeries and have relegated your boy to the likes of the New Jersey Jets. Will somebody take his keys away please? Let me be clear about something: the St.Louis Rams should never, ever be able to hang up the phone and start laughing their asses off for pulling a fast one on somebody. This is the very team that took the Greatest Show on Turf and made it just A Show about Turf.
Maybe Sam Bradford will pull a...uh...shit...I don't know...a Chad Pennington?! There's no precedent so I don't know what end result there is other than writing about the Philadelphia Riots seven months from now.
NOW. I can dish it but I most certainly can take it. If you were going to retaliate by talking about how dumb the Miami Dolphins were/are than you must be new around here because not only am I the president of the Jesus Christ, I Can't Believe We Just Did That, We Would Be Better Off Burning The Stadium Down club...I'm also a member.
Ndamukong Suh is currently working with his agent to go over the fine print in the record-breaking contract that the Miami Dolphins are negotiating with him and I'm just sitting here staring at a white wall and rocking myself back and forth while gently humming random old-timey tunes.
It's official kids, Stephen Ross has the smallest penis in the world. You see, he has a deep psychological void that he has to fill with trinkets like Ferrari's and private jets, and whatever the most expensive free agent is each off-season. He's Mediocre Gatsby.
Congratulations to the Miami Dolphins, off-season champions for three years in a row.
Now hear me out because this might be a wild and crazy off the charts idea but what if instead of crippling the cap room for the next five years (each and every year so it's more like seven or eight years now) by throwing piles of cash at a single person we evenly distribute that money across the whole team, because, you know, it's a team game. I only bring this up because it seems to me that every time we recognize a problem or a weakness we just seem to throw piles of cash at it to make it go away.
Pipe busted? Screw it, replace the whole plumbing system. Old refrigerator is making a noise we don't like? Screw it, get the biggest and shiniest on the market. Infrastructure is crumbling? Throw a new coat of paint on it. That new fridge isn't what they promised us at the store? We're gonna need a new house.
I've obviously been referencing the whole money aspect of this situation to this point (because that's all these morons seem to hear) but there's a whooooooole 'nother side to this story and that's the human aspect. The NFL refers to this as 'consequence of life' in their tax return form.
Joe Philbin is still the head coach of the Miami Dolphins and he couldn't handle Richie Incognito verbally abusing a teammate without it becoming the biggest scandal to rock the NFL since that time we all forgot that football players all talk shit to each other. Suh stomps and kicks on people. How's that fairy tale gonna end?
Three years ago, on this day, Peyton said no thanks to Miami. A year ago, on this day, they traded Jonathan Martin to the 49ers. Today they welcome Ndamukong Suh.
Circle of failure, kids.
The Seahawks actually agree with the rest of the world and believe that Russell Wilson has an arm as well and decided to get him somebody that's very good at catching the football--at long last and also just a couple months too late. Also this tells me that 7-9 last year for the Saints wasn't an aberration, it was a premonition. They got rid of Drew Brees' favorite target and let Drew Brees find out how the rest of us found out?! You're in the worst division in football and you just got rid of your best weapon for which reason? Oh, because you guys clashed over the fact that he thought he deserved more money and you were too busy counting your own dollars to pay him the time of day, I get it now. Last month, Tom Benson, the owner of the Saints, was ordered to undergo evaluations under different doctors to determine whether or not he was still competent enough to be the man in charge. Now I wonder if we should deem the same thing for the rest of the Saints' organization.
Jimmy Graham is a tight end, that plays like a wide receiver, and has size advantage over everybody in the secondary. Are you kidding me? You don't trade that. You DON'T trade that! There's only one other one of those in football but he's got mush-brain and is probably something that scientists chiseled out of an iceberg from the Neolithic age. Sure, the Seahawks gave up a first round pick, but that means that they essentially drafted Jimmy Graham which is what I would do given the choice a hundred times over.
Benson's not the only one slipping these days. Chip Kelly has been given full reigns of the Eagles and he's driving the stagecoach right off the cliff. Chip has decided that he's going to kick off Year Three by getting rid of everybody and bringing in people that were revising their resumes for jobs at insurance companies. Trading McCoy for a linebacker doesn't surprise me because today's NFL hates running backs that much that it makes perfect sense to swap a dynamic play-maker for a guy coming off of reconstructive knee surgery. Then he let his best receiver walk out the door but that didn't really surprise me because he traded one away a year ago. But then he traded his quarterback for Sam Bradford and I really had a moment where I just kind of drifted away from reality and went somewhere dark for a bit.
Sam Bradford? What happened to Marcus Mariota? I thought you were gonna pull some weird David Copperfield shit to move from pick 20 to top ten and pair next year's number one to get your boy. That's your boy! Instead you've opted to go with a guy coming off BACK TO BACK reconstructive knee surgeries and have relegated your boy to the likes of the New Jersey Jets. Will somebody take his keys away please? Let me be clear about something: the St.Louis Rams should never, ever be able to hang up the phone and start laughing their asses off for pulling a fast one on somebody. This is the very team that took the Greatest Show on Turf and made it just A Show about Turf.
Maybe Sam Bradford will pull a...uh...shit...I don't know...a Chad Pennington?! There's no precedent so I don't know what end result there is other than writing about the Philadelphia Riots seven months from now.
NOW. I can dish it but I most certainly can take it. If you were going to retaliate by talking about how dumb the Miami Dolphins were/are than you must be new around here because not only am I the president of the Jesus Christ, I Can't Believe We Just Did That, We Would Be Better Off Burning The Stadium Down club...I'm also a member.
Ndamukong Suh is currently working with his agent to go over the fine print in the record-breaking contract that the Miami Dolphins are negotiating with him and I'm just sitting here staring at a white wall and rocking myself back and forth while gently humming random old-timey tunes.
It's official kids, Stephen Ross has the smallest penis in the world. You see, he has a deep psychological void that he has to fill with trinkets like Ferrari's and private jets, and whatever the most expensive free agent is each off-season. He's Mediocre Gatsby.
Congratulations to the Miami Dolphins, off-season champions for three years in a row.
Now hear me out because this might be a wild and crazy off the charts idea but what if instead of crippling the cap room for the next five years (each and every year so it's more like seven or eight years now) by throwing piles of cash at a single person we evenly distribute that money across the whole team, because, you know, it's a team game. I only bring this up because it seems to me that every time we recognize a problem or a weakness we just seem to throw piles of cash at it to make it go away.
Pipe busted? Screw it, replace the whole plumbing system. Old refrigerator is making a noise we don't like? Screw it, get the biggest and shiniest on the market. Infrastructure is crumbling? Throw a new coat of paint on it. That new fridge isn't what they promised us at the store? We're gonna need a new house.
I've obviously been referencing the whole money aspect of this situation to this point (because that's all these morons seem to hear) but there's a whooooooole 'nother side to this story and that's the human aspect. The NFL refers to this as 'consequence of life' in their tax return form.
Joe Philbin is still the head coach of the Miami Dolphins and he couldn't handle Richie Incognito verbally abusing a teammate without it becoming the biggest scandal to rock the NFL since that time we all forgot that football players all talk shit to each other. Suh stomps and kicks on people. How's that fairy tale gonna end?
Three years ago, on this day, Peyton said no thanks to Miami. A year ago, on this day, they traded Jonathan Martin to the 49ers. Today they welcome Ndamukong Suh.
Circle of failure, kids.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Passions and Punishments
I've been giving a lot of thought lately, given that this year I'll be rounding out the first 30 of my life, to what it is I'm really doing here.
I mean commanding a stud farm for unicorns while I jot down my thoughts isn't exactly the answer I gave to my teacher in fifth grade when she asked me what I wanted to do with my life. In fact I think I told her I wanted to design the new White House, which is a weird thing too because if you think about it most people would have just said architect. Apparently I was only invested in that one project. The even weirder part is that since that time I have never had any desire whatsoever to become an architect. The designing of buildings fit for human in-habitation is not something that should be put into my hands. Except maybe tee-pees. I could probably build a tee-pee.
I have passion for running the stud farm, I really do. But there's a roadblock and I can't for the life of me figure out what that is. I'm a lot like Derrick Rose I think, except he's black and incredibly gifted in the art of basketball. Hear me out: Derrick has tremendous passion for basketball but it keeps betraying him and his body and he keeps sustaining horrific injuries. I think that's incredibly unfair but I also understand that, 'hey that's life', and I hope he does too but I'm sure he sits at home late at night wondering what the Hell he's supposed to do. What if he had passion for basketball and it didn't work out for one way or the other and he decided the best way to care for his family was to make pizzas? Would he live a life content or would he just spend the rest of his days wondering what the Hell he's supposed to do?
Then I think to myself, "No, you have to run this stud farm. Nobody else knows where the rakes get put back or where we keep the fresh hay and et cetera, et cetera, et cetera... That's latin, doll. Is that selfish or foolish? I can't decide. I guess I'm a lot like Kobe Bryant I think, except he's black and incredibly gifted in the art of basketball. Hear me out: Kobe has been to the mountaintop--several times. To put it lightly he makes you question who the best Laker of all-time was. His last few years haven't been very kind to him as his body is breaking down after all this time of wear and tear and he should probably be done but his mind won't let him. He's going to come back for more punishment because 'he just can't go out this way.' This happens from time to time to all great champions. Your entire career has been a fairy tale so how could there not be a happy ending? Do you think Kobe sits at home at night and asks himself what the Hell he's supposed to do? If he hung it up right now and got some cushy TV analyst job do you think he would live a life content or would he just spend the rest of his days wondering what the Hell he's supposed to do?
If the Studly Pastures ended tomorrow I think my overall demeanor would be that I was generally pleased but felt like we could have done so much more. And, hey, I've already told you that the two parameters for the ending of the SP are either the Miami Dolphins winning the Super Bowl or my untimely demise--whichever occurs first. But the Zombie Apocalypse could happen and I'm pretty sure the internet would shut down and that would end the SP and if that happened, like I said, I would have mixed feelings...and hopefully a shotgun. I guess I'm a lot like Peyton Manning, except he's under the Mendoza Line for Intelligence Quotient and extremely gifted at the art of football. Peyton has no reason to come back next year--absolutely none--and it looks like he's coming back. He's old, he's worn down, and his neck is fused together with technology they talked about in the original Terminator. He's completely insane but he knows no other way. Peyton Manning sits at home and says, 'Neck or football? Ehhh...football." Because what the Hell else would he do?!
I wonder, way back in the fifth grade that day, if I told the teacher I wanted to design the new White House because I panicked under the weight of the question. Who the Hell at ten years old knows what they want to devote the rest of their life to? The ironic part is that it's probably athletes and it's ironic because they never last. They know from Day One what they want to be and they're the first ones to not be able to do that anymore or surrender their necks.
As for me, I like my neck. I think it's pretty clear what my calling is. It's still not too late to have Jimmy Carter teach me to build houses.
Float on, graceful swans.
I mean commanding a stud farm for unicorns while I jot down my thoughts isn't exactly the answer I gave to my teacher in fifth grade when she asked me what I wanted to do with my life. In fact I think I told her I wanted to design the new White House, which is a weird thing too because if you think about it most people would have just said architect. Apparently I was only invested in that one project. The even weirder part is that since that time I have never had any desire whatsoever to become an architect. The designing of buildings fit for human in-habitation is not something that should be put into my hands. Except maybe tee-pees. I could probably build a tee-pee.
I have passion for running the stud farm, I really do. But there's a roadblock and I can't for the life of me figure out what that is. I'm a lot like Derrick Rose I think, except he's black and incredibly gifted in the art of basketball. Hear me out: Derrick has tremendous passion for basketball but it keeps betraying him and his body and he keeps sustaining horrific injuries. I think that's incredibly unfair but I also understand that, 'hey that's life', and I hope he does too but I'm sure he sits at home late at night wondering what the Hell he's supposed to do. What if he had passion for basketball and it didn't work out for one way or the other and he decided the best way to care for his family was to make pizzas? Would he live a life content or would he just spend the rest of his days wondering what the Hell he's supposed to do?
Then I think to myself, "No, you have to run this stud farm. Nobody else knows where the rakes get put back or where we keep the fresh hay and et cetera, et cetera, et cetera... That's latin, doll. Is that selfish or foolish? I can't decide. I guess I'm a lot like Kobe Bryant I think, except he's black and incredibly gifted in the art of basketball. Hear me out: Kobe has been to the mountaintop--several times. To put it lightly he makes you question who the best Laker of all-time was. His last few years haven't been very kind to him as his body is breaking down after all this time of wear and tear and he should probably be done but his mind won't let him. He's going to come back for more punishment because 'he just can't go out this way.' This happens from time to time to all great champions. Your entire career has been a fairy tale so how could there not be a happy ending? Do you think Kobe sits at home at night and asks himself what the Hell he's supposed to do? If he hung it up right now and got some cushy TV analyst job do you think he would live a life content or would he just spend the rest of his days wondering what the Hell he's supposed to do?
If the Studly Pastures ended tomorrow I think my overall demeanor would be that I was generally pleased but felt like we could have done so much more. And, hey, I've already told you that the two parameters for the ending of the SP are either the Miami Dolphins winning the Super Bowl or my untimely demise--whichever occurs first. But the Zombie Apocalypse could happen and I'm pretty sure the internet would shut down and that would end the SP and if that happened, like I said, I would have mixed feelings...and hopefully a shotgun. I guess I'm a lot like Peyton Manning, except he's under the Mendoza Line for Intelligence Quotient and extremely gifted at the art of football. Peyton has no reason to come back next year--absolutely none--and it looks like he's coming back. He's old, he's worn down, and his neck is fused together with technology they talked about in the original Terminator. He's completely insane but he knows no other way. Peyton Manning sits at home and says, 'Neck or football? Ehhh...football." Because what the Hell else would he do?!
I wonder, way back in the fifth grade that day, if I told the teacher I wanted to design the new White House because I panicked under the weight of the question. Who the Hell at ten years old knows what they want to devote the rest of their life to? The ironic part is that it's probably athletes and it's ironic because they never last. They know from Day One what they want to be and they're the first ones to not be able to do that anymore or surrender their necks.
As for me, I like my neck. I think it's pretty clear what my calling is. It's still not too late to have Jimmy Carter teach me to build houses.
Float on, graceful swans.
Saturday, February 21, 2015
The Fight of OUR Century
Kids, I'm a big fan of boxing and it's widely known (through my tens of supporters) that Muhammad Ali is my favorite athlete of all-time. He was the mixture of talk and walk that just appeals to smug jerks like me.
Greatness hasn't boxed in a long time (but they still play his fights on ESPN Classic so you should watch them...except the Thrilla in Manila because he almost dies...but other than that...watch them) and with his departure boxing hasn't been all that popular. The best boxer since him has probably been Mike Tyson but he's balls crazy and that distracts us from his brilliance.
Then for years since we've had the running battle between Manny Pacquiao and Floyd Mayweather about which of them is the best boxer of this generation but the funny thing was that they never fought each other. I've been dying for this fight because of, well, a few reasons really.
First off, boxing is playing second fiddle to UFC these days and that makes me sad because I really hate UFC. Two Cro-Magnons in thongs groping at each other for five minutes at a time is only sport in really weird gay mansions. Don't get me wrong, UFC has entertainment value just like the Coliseum used to have for ancient Romans. If there's one common vein throughout humanity it's that we like to see gorillas try to tear their heads off each other. Boxing is different. They tend to do things like, you know, defense. The Sport of Kings is horse racing but if there's a Hobby of Kings it has to be boxing. It's regal and brutal at the same time.
Second of all, there's bad blood between these two. Mayweather has gone on drunken racist Vegas rants about Pacquiao and has questioned his integrity of the sport by demanding blood tests. These two veritably hate each other and that always makes for a great fight. The last time I can remember a great fight when the two fighters hated each other so much was probably...sigh...the Thrilla in Manila. The Fight of Last Century took place between the same two men that fought in Manila but what if this is the Fight of OUR Century?! Which leads me to my next point...
Don't we deserve to know? Who is it? Is it Pacquiao or Mayweather? Which one do I get to gloat to my children about witnessing as the best of THIS generation? This is the only way--they HAVE to fight each other. Boxing, like most great sports, has become heavily commercialized and there's a lot of money involved these days. This bout is going to be the biggest money maker of them all but I'm asking you to put aside all those trivial dollars. At the end of the day it's two men in the ring and one of them will win and that will finally answer a question we've asked for a long time.
Sure, they're older, but great boxers don't age like you and me. Great boxers have a fire that dies out long after their bodies should. Without question this will be a great fight. Mayweather is undefeated, a perfect 47-0! Not one slip up in almost fifty bouts? Come on. Pacquiao is considered the best poud-for-pound fighter right now and that's just a nice way of saying he's a tough little guy. I'm just kidding. He could punch through my chest.
May 2nd. I'm clearing my calendar and I suggest you do the same.
Greatness hasn't boxed in a long time (but they still play his fights on ESPN Classic so you should watch them...except the Thrilla in Manila because he almost dies...but other than that...watch them) and with his departure boxing hasn't been all that popular. The best boxer since him has probably been Mike Tyson but he's balls crazy and that distracts us from his brilliance.
Then for years since we've had the running battle between Manny Pacquiao and Floyd Mayweather about which of them is the best boxer of this generation but the funny thing was that they never fought each other. I've been dying for this fight because of, well, a few reasons really.
First off, boxing is playing second fiddle to UFC these days and that makes me sad because I really hate UFC. Two Cro-Magnons in thongs groping at each other for five minutes at a time is only sport in really weird gay mansions. Don't get me wrong, UFC has entertainment value just like the Coliseum used to have for ancient Romans. If there's one common vein throughout humanity it's that we like to see gorillas try to tear their heads off each other. Boxing is different. They tend to do things like, you know, defense. The Sport of Kings is horse racing but if there's a Hobby of Kings it has to be boxing. It's regal and brutal at the same time.
Second of all, there's bad blood between these two. Mayweather has gone on drunken racist Vegas rants about Pacquiao and has questioned his integrity of the sport by demanding blood tests. These two veritably hate each other and that always makes for a great fight. The last time I can remember a great fight when the two fighters hated each other so much was probably...sigh...the Thrilla in Manila. The Fight of Last Century took place between the same two men that fought in Manila but what if this is the Fight of OUR Century?! Which leads me to my next point...
Don't we deserve to know? Who is it? Is it Pacquiao or Mayweather? Which one do I get to gloat to my children about witnessing as the best of THIS generation? This is the only way--they HAVE to fight each other. Boxing, like most great sports, has become heavily commercialized and there's a lot of money involved these days. This bout is going to be the biggest money maker of them all but I'm asking you to put aside all those trivial dollars. At the end of the day it's two men in the ring and one of them will win and that will finally answer a question we've asked for a long time.
Sure, they're older, but great boxers don't age like you and me. Great boxers have a fire that dies out long after their bodies should. Without question this will be a great fight. Mayweather is undefeated, a perfect 47-0! Not one slip up in almost fifty bouts? Come on. Pacquiao is considered the best poud-for-pound fighter right now and that's just a nice way of saying he's a tough little guy. I'm just kidding. He could punch through my chest.
May 2nd. I'm clearing my calendar and I suggest you do the same.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)