Jeeeeesus Christ! Why do I even bother looking forward to the start of the NFL season again? Is this early on-set Alzheimer's? Because if it is just take me out to pasture and end it now because I do NOT want to toil on this way!
Seriously though...Miami barely scrapes by a Washington team in complete turmoil and I laugh nervously but shrug it off because it's a win and I'll setup some elaborate Keyser Soze shit just for a shot at a Dolphins win. But then they drop a huge steaming shit against the Jacksonville Jaguars?! What the Hell?!
First of all, the fact that the city of Jacksonville has a professional football team is humorous in itself but then you factor in that they are the jaguars? If the city of Jacksonville has that many rampant wild cats running through it's limits I think it's time to rethink their infrastructure.
I make fun because I'm bitter and also the greatest joke the Twilight Zone ever pulled was making you think you were out of the Twilight Zone aaaaaaand clearly I'm not.
It's the same! It's the same again after spending muellliiiioooonns and muelllliiiiiioooons of dollars and...and...it's the same! Money CAN buy you happiness but you have to have half a brain first and clearly that's lacking in this situation. This is one of those 'throw some rouge on that pig and put it in a dress' situations. Miami was adequate last season, like they have been for the last three or four years, and adequacy doesn't exactly exemplify a word I like to call 'winning'. The Jets and Bills haven't been the best of the best either but I see more effort from them than I do from the Dolphins and that makes me want to throw up out of my ass!
Miami looks like they are playing in pudding and that's never a place you want to be unless you really fucking love pudding.
And on top of all that good news is that the Rays are currently in a dog-fight with the Red Sox to see who finishes in LAST PLACE. That's odd, because all things considered, the Rays were in prime position to at least challenge a wild card sport no more than a month ago. What, in the holy Hell, could have transpired that the team would fall so far? Hmmmmm...maybe, just maybe, that our manager is a rookie manager and he was only ever a backup catcher in the league and WHAT THE THE HELL DOES HE KNOW ABOUT THE STRETCH?! This, kids, is where you tighten your boots and your belt and you go to work. If you want to be a big boy in this league now is the time you bring your stuff. Apparently, and unfortunately, we have no stuff.
We have no stuff to bring. We're going to a party and we're the weird ones standing on the outskirts not really talking to anybody because WE HAVE NOTHING TO CONTRIBUTE TO THE CONVERSATION!!!
And it's sad...it really is. I would not be surprised at this point that the Rays final record is 81-81. Dead even. Hell, that's pretty adequate.
And on top of all that good news is that the UCF Knights are 0-TBD. This normally wouldn't be such a huge issue for me because they've always been the little brother that has had some sort of deficiency so you root for them nevertheless...but they just lost to Furman.
Look, I don't even know what Furman is. Is that just one person?! Is that a technical school? I honestly have no idea and don't care to look it up because whatever the answer is doesn't matter. We should have beaten them. Correction: we should have destroyed their integrity. They shouldn't exist anymore. They should have been so disheartened by the beating that they say, "Well, that's it guys, pack it in. Furman is no more."
Instead I'm telling you that UCF lost to Furman. I can't even believe I just said that.
I'm 30 now and I think it's time to start getting my priorities in order. My mother once referred to me as the 'Charlie Brown' of sports fans in that I never get the satisfaction of kicking that goddamn ball just once. And she's right.
How weird is it that where my greatest passions lie are completely out of my hands and always a complete letdown?
Go ahead and marinate on that a little bit, kids, I'll be back.
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
Saturday, August 1, 2015
Water Cooler, Asseeeeemblllleeeeeee!
Ah, August, the herald of my fleeting mortality!
The unicorns are whispering to each other and I can only assume it's because they're planning some sort of special hullabaloo for my birthday and it's frustrating because they think they're so damn sneaky but they can't whisper for shit. Plus, whatever they end up doing, they'll just muck it up anyways. They have hooves for Christ sakes.
The unicorns have magical powers but they insist on wrapping the gifts themselves and it just ends up looking like a box that's been bludgeoned by a bunch of hammers. Then I have to put on this big production about how 'surprised' I am and it's...it's just awful. They mean well though and I do appreciate the effort...you know...considering the hooves.
In essence I think August is my time for reflection. What better way to reflect...than a water cooler!
WHAT THE HELL?: Today's 'What the Hell?' is brought to you in large part by Canada. Kids, David Price is now Canadian. In the latest twist in the Twilight Zone, David is back in the AL East and he's playing for the godforsaken Blue Jays. Look, Toronto is a storied franchise with a long history of success and...oh who the Hell am I kidding...this is just ridiculous. I'm almost positive that most casual baseball fans had no idea that there was even a MLB team in Canada and now one of the premier pitchers in baseball is playing there.
I'm sure Toronto is a nice enough place for anybody born there and doesn't know anything different but let's cut the shit here. David Price isn't a Blue Jay. John Olerud was a Blue Jay and he would wear his batting helmet on the base path. That's a Blue Jay. David Price has style...he has finesse...and he's also a free agent after this season. We already ripped my heart out last year when the Rays traded him to Detroit in the Zero Hour of the trade deadline so why not finish the job? Why must we prolong the inevitable? Canada might think that they are sparing me with this trade but the fact is that I've been on borrowed time since last year. Just put him in pinstripes already.
After this season, and free agency begins, and David inevitably and officially becomes a Yankee I'll probably vomit multiple times. And it's not exactly a picnic right now. Having this fear in the pit of my bowels (I didn't put it there, it just sort of happened) is like knowing ahead of time that Anakin is about to take his talents to South Beach and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.
I'm getting all jumbled here...you see what this shit does to me?! Do you see?!!
HAH!: Today's 'Hah!' is brought to you in large part by the great state of Texas. Texas, what can I say, you really know how to mix things up at a singles party. When the rumors were flying around that Cole Hamels was headed to Los Angeles, Texas swooped in and said "Hey! We're in. How much?"
Now I don't know the GM of the Philadelphia Phillies but he's probably a sad sonuvabitch and he probably wakes up each morning saying to himself, "I gave up the family hotdog cart for this?" But not even he could contain his laughter when he picked up the phone and it was Texas on the other end. In fact I'm pretty sure he answered, "Texas, whom?"
Sometimes in the world of baseball, especially at the trade deadline, lines get muddled and teams aren't exactly sure if they should be buyers or sellers. The Rangers took a page from the book of their previous owner, George W. Bush, and decided that they would do the exact opposite of what they should. So they traded for Cole Hamels, a guy that's just gonna smoke all their weed and eat all of their chips. When Arlington burns to the ground at least now we'll know it's because Hamels tried to drunkenly light all of his farts on fire.
Be forewarned, Texas, you are now in the rough, manicured hands of the Devil. Well, you probably were before, but now you definitely are.
THAT'S ENOUGH BASEBALL: Today's 'That's Enough Baseball' is brought to you in large part by the disillusioned states that make up New England.
Arrogance. Entitlement. Extraction from reality. God syndrome. Douchebags. These are just a handful of terms that can be used to describe the New England Patriots, specifically their owner, coach, and quarterback... or as they are colloquially known, "The Holy Trinity of Smug Assholes".
Roger Goodell recently upheld Tom Brady's suspension of four games for deliberately deflating footballs in the AFC Championship game and it was in large part due to Brady destroying evidence, a move that Brady picked up from his old pal, Aaron Hernandez. The guilty party then went on the offensive and Tom Brady posted to Facebook to confirm that's how big of a douchebag he is. He thought that the best way to proclaim his innocence was to make a Facebook post. I'd like to think that right after he posted it, he liked it, shared it, and then went and stared at himself in the mirror for six hours.
Instead, Tom said that he switches phones every four months (because those FBI taps are ruthless on the drug trade) and that he gave the NFLPA permission to seek a federal court ruling on the decision to uphold the appeal of the initial four game suspension. I agree, wholeheartedly with this, because if there's one thing that tax money needs to go to it's proving whether or not some air was released from some footballs and whether or not a man is lying about it. Weak infrastructure? Not in the good ol' US of A!
FEDERAL COURT to determine the air pressure of footballs. Tom Brady has become the quintessential 'It's the principal that matters to me' when really he's become the guy that's guilty in the public court. Tom said that neither he nor the Patriots did no wrong. So why the suspension of the two ball boys that Tom was texting? Why the sudden destroyed cell phone on the day that he was to meet the investigator? I know cell phone contracts can be a bitch but there's easier ways around that, Tom.
At least some things never change in the Twilight Zone. New England has no chance to turn back now. They've lied, they've been caught in the lie, and have lied to cover up being caught in the lie. The only logical choice from here is to keep lying. Deny till you die.
By the way, the unicorns say you aren't invited to my birthday party, so take that, Tom Brady.
Float on, graceful swans.
21.
The unicorns are whispering to each other and I can only assume it's because they're planning some sort of special hullabaloo for my birthday and it's frustrating because they think they're so damn sneaky but they can't whisper for shit. Plus, whatever they end up doing, they'll just muck it up anyways. They have hooves for Christ sakes.
The unicorns have magical powers but they insist on wrapping the gifts themselves and it just ends up looking like a box that's been bludgeoned by a bunch of hammers. Then I have to put on this big production about how 'surprised' I am and it's...it's just awful. They mean well though and I do appreciate the effort...you know...considering the hooves.
In essence I think August is my time for reflection. What better way to reflect...than a water cooler!
WHAT THE HELL?: Today's 'What the Hell?' is brought to you in large part by Canada. Kids, David Price is now Canadian. In the latest twist in the Twilight Zone, David is back in the AL East and he's playing for the godforsaken Blue Jays. Look, Toronto is a storied franchise with a long history of success and...oh who the Hell am I kidding...this is just ridiculous. I'm almost positive that most casual baseball fans had no idea that there was even a MLB team in Canada and now one of the premier pitchers in baseball is playing there.
I'm sure Toronto is a nice enough place for anybody born there and doesn't know anything different but let's cut the shit here. David Price isn't a Blue Jay. John Olerud was a Blue Jay and he would wear his batting helmet on the base path. That's a Blue Jay. David Price has style...he has finesse...and he's also a free agent after this season. We already ripped my heart out last year when the Rays traded him to Detroit in the Zero Hour of the trade deadline so why not finish the job? Why must we prolong the inevitable? Canada might think that they are sparing me with this trade but the fact is that I've been on borrowed time since last year. Just put him in pinstripes already.
After this season, and free agency begins, and David inevitably and officially becomes a Yankee I'll probably vomit multiple times. And it's not exactly a picnic right now. Having this fear in the pit of my bowels (I didn't put it there, it just sort of happened) is like knowing ahead of time that Anakin is about to take his talents to South Beach and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.
I'm getting all jumbled here...you see what this shit does to me?! Do you see?!!
HAH!: Today's 'Hah!' is brought to you in large part by the great state of Texas. Texas, what can I say, you really know how to mix things up at a singles party. When the rumors were flying around that Cole Hamels was headed to Los Angeles, Texas swooped in and said "Hey! We're in. How much?"
Now I don't know the GM of the Philadelphia Phillies but he's probably a sad sonuvabitch and he probably wakes up each morning saying to himself, "I gave up the family hotdog cart for this?" But not even he could contain his laughter when he picked up the phone and it was Texas on the other end. In fact I'm pretty sure he answered, "Texas, whom?"
Sometimes in the world of baseball, especially at the trade deadline, lines get muddled and teams aren't exactly sure if they should be buyers or sellers. The Rangers took a page from the book of their previous owner, George W. Bush, and decided that they would do the exact opposite of what they should. So they traded for Cole Hamels, a guy that's just gonna smoke all their weed and eat all of their chips. When Arlington burns to the ground at least now we'll know it's because Hamels tried to drunkenly light all of his farts on fire.
Be forewarned, Texas, you are now in the rough, manicured hands of the Devil. Well, you probably were before, but now you definitely are.
THAT'S ENOUGH BASEBALL: Today's 'That's Enough Baseball' is brought to you in large part by the disillusioned states that make up New England.
Arrogance. Entitlement. Extraction from reality. God syndrome. Douchebags. These are just a handful of terms that can be used to describe the New England Patriots, specifically their owner, coach, and quarterback... or as they are colloquially known, "The Holy Trinity of Smug Assholes".
Roger Goodell recently upheld Tom Brady's suspension of four games for deliberately deflating footballs in the AFC Championship game and it was in large part due to Brady destroying evidence, a move that Brady picked up from his old pal, Aaron Hernandez. The guilty party then went on the offensive and Tom Brady posted to Facebook to confirm that's how big of a douchebag he is. He thought that the best way to proclaim his innocence was to make a Facebook post. I'd like to think that right after he posted it, he liked it, shared it, and then went and stared at himself in the mirror for six hours.
Instead, Tom said that he switches phones every four months (because those FBI taps are ruthless on the drug trade) and that he gave the NFLPA permission to seek a federal court ruling on the decision to uphold the appeal of the initial four game suspension. I agree, wholeheartedly with this, because if there's one thing that tax money needs to go to it's proving whether or not some air was released from some footballs and whether or not a man is lying about it. Weak infrastructure? Not in the good ol' US of A!
FEDERAL COURT to determine the air pressure of footballs. Tom Brady has become the quintessential 'It's the principal that matters to me' when really he's become the guy that's guilty in the public court. Tom said that neither he nor the Patriots did no wrong. So why the suspension of the two ball boys that Tom was texting? Why the sudden destroyed cell phone on the day that he was to meet the investigator? I know cell phone contracts can be a bitch but there's easier ways around that, Tom.
At least some things never change in the Twilight Zone. New England has no chance to turn back now. They've lied, they've been caught in the lie, and have lied to cover up being caught in the lie. The only logical choice from here is to keep lying. Deny till you die.
By the way, the unicorns say you aren't invited to my birthday party, so take that, Tom Brady.
Float on, graceful swans.
21.
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Tricking The Devil
After I posted my last piece to the Studly Pastures, my girlfriend promptly came downstairs and pointed out all the mistakes that I made, including the most glaring that I repeatedly (and by repeatedly I mean each and every time) misspelled Caitlyn Jenner's name. I spelled it with a K because I went ahead and assumed that like EVERYBODY else in the family whose name starts with K that she would follow suit.
Well, kids, just like the old saying goes "When you assume you make an ass out of yourself for misspelling a transgender's name over and over again throughout a blog post."
An hour later she asked me if I had any intentions of changing it and I sat there and thought about it for about three seconds and then promptly said, "Nahhhhhh." Let it be. Maybe the good people will think it's some sort of weird intentional joke. It could be funny...right? Besides...what's the worst that could happen?
WHAT'S THE WORST THAT COULD HAPPEN?!
I must be losing it in my old age because I forgot for just a split second that I lived in the Twilight Zone and there would be consequences and repercussions to my actions. I had upset the balance of the force and tilted it ever so slightly in favor of the Dark Side. I never thought that an old foe, long cast into obscurity, would take the small window of opportunity to rise to power yet again.
I've become as power blind as Yoda.
If you've read this blog, on at least the two occasions I've mentioned it prior, then you are already privy to this information: I despise Cole Hamels. Back in 2008 he sold his soul to the Devil to rise up and smite my Tampa Bay Rays in their one and only World Series visit. I slunk back into the darkness and began my elaborate plans to make sure Hamels lost his arms in a tragic wheat-thresher 'accident' but then I remembered...you don't sell your soul to the Devil without him collecting payment at some point.
Sure enough, enter 2015, and Cole Hamels is still toiling away with the Philadelphia Phillies only now they're phucking terrible and the worst team in baseball. Before yesterday, Hamels was 0-4 in his last 9...9! starts and had an ERA over five! The writing powers that be said that Hamels looked "disinterested" on the mound. Hah! It was done. Back in 2008 I really really wanted Hamels' career in baseball to end with an Arby's franchise that he would have to eventually work at to keep it from going bankrupt. I guess I really wanted to one day be in the position to say to Cole Hamels, "I said Horsey sauce, you moron! How hard is your job really?" I feel like that would crush him.
But I guess the next best thing would be for him to have to be stuck with his beloved Phillies only no matter what he did--no matter how he pitched--he would always lose. You lose! You get nothing! GOOD DAY SIR!
Then the whispers started and wouldn't fate have it...Cole Hamels popped up as a trade deadline name.
What? Cole Hamels? Don't these people know you can only sell your soul once to the Devil? How in the Hell is his name popping up as a hot commodity at the trade deadline SEVEN years after he was last relevant? There are baseball players that disappear into obscurity every single day and it's only years later that we ask ourselves in passing "Hey, whatever happened to so and so?" and why can't that happen to Cole Hamels? The ONE guy (other than Alex Rodriguez) who I want to disappear and he's the chosen one to be resurrected?
Then I thought about it and realized it wasn't that big of a deal. So what if he gets traded? He's still Cole Hamels. If the Phillies want to release him from perdition and get a ham sandwich in return, who I am to deny them? That's roughly what I equate his worth to anyways...a ham sandwich. And not even a good ham sandwich. So there.
Then yesterday happened and Cole Hamels threw a no-hitter against the Cubs. You know what probably raises your stock a helluva lot right before the trade deadline? A goddamned no-hitter.
The best part, the quintessential moment that really makes you remember where you are, came in the ninth with two outs. Hamels was one out away from his no-hitter when rookie phenom Kris Bryant blasted a pitch to dead center. The Phillies center fielder, whose name will not sully my unicorn stables, misplayed the ball horribly. It was as if he was expecting the ball to just clear the fence and he was going to go for a heroic jump-up-the-wall and save the day maneuver. The only problem was that the ball was not going to clear the fence and would fall feet short on the warning track. He realized this about a fraction of a second before the inevitable, went to make the adjustment, and slipped on the dirt that makes up the warning track. When he slipped, he fell forward, and just managed to get his glove out in time to snag the ball before it hit the ground and Cole Hamels secured his legacy as the only man to sell his soul to the Devil twice.
Damn you, Twilight Zone...damn you to Hell.
Don't think it's lost on me that he did it against the Cubs. My favorite player to hate no-hit my favorite team to hate and that's such a weird flux of emotions that I'm not sure what to do. Cry and pee?
All those years when Tampa was the worst team in baseball and the best thing we got to celebrate was losing to Cole Hamels in the World Series.
Sigggghhhhhhhhh.
The only solace I can take is that maybe this is a blessing in disguise. Maybe his once again fame will lead him to a lady of the night and they will spend the night together only the lady is really three raccoons in disguise and they'll chew his face off in the morning. At least Hamels can never take my dreams!
Float on, graceful swans...except you Hamels...stop floating.
27.
Well, kids, just like the old saying goes "When you assume you make an ass out of yourself for misspelling a transgender's name over and over again throughout a blog post."
An hour later she asked me if I had any intentions of changing it and I sat there and thought about it for about three seconds and then promptly said, "Nahhhhhh." Let it be. Maybe the good people will think it's some sort of weird intentional joke. It could be funny...right? Besides...what's the worst that could happen?
WHAT'S THE WORST THAT COULD HAPPEN?!
I must be losing it in my old age because I forgot for just a split second that I lived in the Twilight Zone and there would be consequences and repercussions to my actions. I had upset the balance of the force and tilted it ever so slightly in favor of the Dark Side. I never thought that an old foe, long cast into obscurity, would take the small window of opportunity to rise to power yet again.
I've become as power blind as Yoda.
If you've read this blog, on at least the two occasions I've mentioned it prior, then you are already privy to this information: I despise Cole Hamels. Back in 2008 he sold his soul to the Devil to rise up and smite my Tampa Bay Rays in their one and only World Series visit. I slunk back into the darkness and began my elaborate plans to make sure Hamels lost his arms in a tragic wheat-thresher 'accident' but then I remembered...you don't sell your soul to the Devil without him collecting payment at some point.
Sure enough, enter 2015, and Cole Hamels is still toiling away with the Philadelphia Phillies only now they're phucking terrible and the worst team in baseball. Before yesterday, Hamels was 0-4 in his last 9...9! starts and had an ERA over five! The writing powers that be said that Hamels looked "disinterested" on the mound. Hah! It was done. Back in 2008 I really really wanted Hamels' career in baseball to end with an Arby's franchise that he would have to eventually work at to keep it from going bankrupt. I guess I really wanted to one day be in the position to say to Cole Hamels, "I said Horsey sauce, you moron! How hard is your job really?" I feel like that would crush him.
But I guess the next best thing would be for him to have to be stuck with his beloved Phillies only no matter what he did--no matter how he pitched--he would always lose. You lose! You get nothing! GOOD DAY SIR!
Then the whispers started and wouldn't fate have it...Cole Hamels popped up as a trade deadline name.
What? Cole Hamels? Don't these people know you can only sell your soul once to the Devil? How in the Hell is his name popping up as a hot commodity at the trade deadline SEVEN years after he was last relevant? There are baseball players that disappear into obscurity every single day and it's only years later that we ask ourselves in passing "Hey, whatever happened to so and so?" and why can't that happen to Cole Hamels? The ONE guy (other than Alex Rodriguez) who I want to disappear and he's the chosen one to be resurrected?
Then I thought about it and realized it wasn't that big of a deal. So what if he gets traded? He's still Cole Hamels. If the Phillies want to release him from perdition and get a ham sandwich in return, who I am to deny them? That's roughly what I equate his worth to anyways...a ham sandwich. And not even a good ham sandwich. So there.
Then yesterday happened and Cole Hamels threw a no-hitter against the Cubs. You know what probably raises your stock a helluva lot right before the trade deadline? A goddamned no-hitter.
The best part, the quintessential moment that really makes you remember where you are, came in the ninth with two outs. Hamels was one out away from his no-hitter when rookie phenom Kris Bryant blasted a pitch to dead center. The Phillies center fielder, whose name will not sully my unicorn stables, misplayed the ball horribly. It was as if he was expecting the ball to just clear the fence and he was going to go for a heroic jump-up-the-wall and save the day maneuver. The only problem was that the ball was not going to clear the fence and would fall feet short on the warning track. He realized this about a fraction of a second before the inevitable, went to make the adjustment, and slipped on the dirt that makes up the warning track. When he slipped, he fell forward, and just managed to get his glove out in time to snag the ball before it hit the ground and Cole Hamels secured his legacy as the only man to sell his soul to the Devil twice.
Damn you, Twilight Zone...damn you to Hell.
Don't think it's lost on me that he did it against the Cubs. My favorite player to hate no-hit my favorite team to hate and that's such a weird flux of emotions that I'm not sure what to do. Cry and pee?
All those years when Tampa was the worst team in baseball and the best thing we got to celebrate was losing to Cole Hamels in the World Series.
Sigggghhhhhhhhh.
The only solace I can take is that maybe this is a blessing in disguise. Maybe his once again fame will lead him to a lady of the night and they will spend the night together only the lady is really three raccoons in disguise and they'll chew his face off in the morning. At least Hamels can never take my dreams!
Float on, graceful swans...except you Hamels...stop floating.
27.
Saturday, July 18, 2015
The Sticker King
When I was a kid, during the 90's, I walked that fine line of children actually achieving things instead of adults just handing out 'congratulations' and 'great win' like free samples of shitty ice cream. It was a weird time to be alive because I'm pretty sure I was competitive against my fellow fifth graders in just about anything. In fact, I remember specifically this really sadistic game that only children of the 90's could get away with. The premise was simple: Two teams lined up ten bowling pins on opposite sides of a court with a line, that could not be passed, in the middle of the court. Playground balls were given to both sides and melee ensued as the winner was simply whoever knocked over the other side's pins first. I laid out for a ball that was surely headed for a pin on my side and came skin to concrete and just chucked it up as that these are the scars that we earn in battle when we go for the win! That was the fifth grade.
Then things took a turn for the worst...also in the fifth grade. My essay, which I wrote for the D.A.R.E. program did NOT get picked as the winner of the one that would be read at 'fifth grade graduation', which confounds the Hell out of me considering I can write and I DON'T DO DRUGS but hey maybe that committee can be bought...
But the absolute worst thing, the thing that I still think back and shake my head about was that I had a first year teacher. She was great, probably the nicest woman in the world at that time to deal with us and she made sure that each and every day was the best it could be for us. Well, when it came time to 'graduate' she made sure that no student was left behind and everybody got a certificate. Here's where the lines get a little hazy and even the morons got recognized for something. Basically my teacher went to a store like, say, probably Party City and bought a bunch of mock certificates and filled them out herself to encourage the spirit in all of us as we ventured into the vast, unknown world...of middle school. It was a sweet thing to do, and she was a first year so she gets even more credit, and we were probably assholes anyways and didn't deserve such a nice notion.
Only my certificate read, "The Sticker King." That's what I was credited with. I collected the most stickers. We had 'Show and Tell' every week for the entire year and eventually I ran out of things to show these douche bags and brought my sticker collection just as a filler and now I'm the goddamn Sticker King? I wrote a musical based on the songs of Meatloaf but you want to see the stupid ass stickers in my notebook?! Unbelievable. Obviously that certificate isn't hanging about my mantle but it's probably mostly because I don't have a mantle.
Then the collective people went up in arms about the ESPY choice of the Arthur Ashe award for courage. The award went to Kaitlyn Jenner, formally Bruce Jenner, and current transgender. I've heard all the jokes, I've listened to them and I probably laughed at a few good ones. That's all in the past because what's important is getting the message across.
What's the message? I feel like that's lost because a lot of people don't exactly know who Arthur Ashe was and most people fear the unknown.
Ashe was a champion tennis player, let alone a champion American tennis player, but a black American tennis champion. Chew on that for a bit.
He died from AIDS-related pneumonia and he got the HIV from a blood transfusion, which at the time, just a little before I was deemed the Sticker King, was one of those scary terms we were dealing with. The HIV?! Only homosexuals get the HIV...right?! See, the world didn't know, so Arthur went to work and made them aware. He spent his dying years teaching the world about something they were all petrified to get but they didn't know how and they weren't exactly sure why. He was the embodiment of courage in that he couldn't save himself from it...but maybe he could save you.
I personally do not know why a sports-centered empire needs an award show. They've gotten increasingly sentimental over the years and have incorporated several celebrities because I feel like even they don't know why they have an awards show. But they do, and it's called the ESPY's, and they named an award after Arthur Ashe and they called it courage...and I agree with that. Then this year they gave that same award to Kaitlyn Jenner, formally Bruce, and she went up there and said the exact same heartbreaking speech that so many before her have had to say.
She knew that she would be the target of ridicule, of jokes, and of criticism of why she got that award but she stood up there and said that it wasn't it about her...it was about all of the people that felt afraid that they were living in their wrong bodies and took everyday in fear. All of those that were unsure of themselves that night finally had a role model. If you can stand there on national television as a former male and say that you are finally free as a female and that there is hope for the others that feel the same..and also win an award at the same time...well then I'd say that's pretty goddamn courageous.
Was the right platform a sports awards ceremony? Sure, as long as the cameras are on, because who the Hell is watching that crap anyways? They already get awards...they're called million dollar paychecks and trophies. Use whatever platform you have to get people to listen. Kaitlyn Jenner used her voice with the ESPY's and that's all I hear about these days so you know she did something right and apparently people are watching the ESPY's...
Must be that star power!
Float on, graceful swans...and also geese. You're more than welcome to share the pond.
Then things took a turn for the worst...also in the fifth grade. My essay, which I wrote for the D.A.R.E. program did NOT get picked as the winner of the one that would be read at 'fifth grade graduation', which confounds the Hell out of me considering I can write and I DON'T DO DRUGS but hey maybe that committee can be bought...
But the absolute worst thing, the thing that I still think back and shake my head about was that I had a first year teacher. She was great, probably the nicest woman in the world at that time to deal with us and she made sure that each and every day was the best it could be for us. Well, when it came time to 'graduate' she made sure that no student was left behind and everybody got a certificate. Here's where the lines get a little hazy and even the morons got recognized for something. Basically my teacher went to a store like, say, probably Party City and bought a bunch of mock certificates and filled them out herself to encourage the spirit in all of us as we ventured into the vast, unknown world...of middle school. It was a sweet thing to do, and she was a first year so she gets even more credit, and we were probably assholes anyways and didn't deserve such a nice notion.
Only my certificate read, "The Sticker King." That's what I was credited with. I collected the most stickers. We had 'Show and Tell' every week for the entire year and eventually I ran out of things to show these douche bags and brought my sticker collection just as a filler and now I'm the goddamn Sticker King? I wrote a musical based on the songs of Meatloaf but you want to see the stupid ass stickers in my notebook?! Unbelievable. Obviously that certificate isn't hanging about my mantle but it's probably mostly because I don't have a mantle.
Then the collective people went up in arms about the ESPY choice of the Arthur Ashe award for courage. The award went to Kaitlyn Jenner, formally Bruce Jenner, and current transgender. I've heard all the jokes, I've listened to them and I probably laughed at a few good ones. That's all in the past because what's important is getting the message across.
What's the message? I feel like that's lost because a lot of people don't exactly know who Arthur Ashe was and most people fear the unknown.
Ashe was a champion tennis player, let alone a champion American tennis player, but a black American tennis champion. Chew on that for a bit.
He died from AIDS-related pneumonia and he got the HIV from a blood transfusion, which at the time, just a little before I was deemed the Sticker King, was one of those scary terms we were dealing with. The HIV?! Only homosexuals get the HIV...right?! See, the world didn't know, so Arthur went to work and made them aware. He spent his dying years teaching the world about something they were all petrified to get but they didn't know how and they weren't exactly sure why. He was the embodiment of courage in that he couldn't save himself from it...but maybe he could save you.
I personally do not know why a sports-centered empire needs an award show. They've gotten increasingly sentimental over the years and have incorporated several celebrities because I feel like even they don't know why they have an awards show. But they do, and it's called the ESPY's, and they named an award after Arthur Ashe and they called it courage...and I agree with that. Then this year they gave that same award to Kaitlyn Jenner, formally Bruce, and she went up there and said the exact same heartbreaking speech that so many before her have had to say.
She knew that she would be the target of ridicule, of jokes, and of criticism of why she got that award but she stood up there and said that it wasn't it about her...it was about all of the people that felt afraid that they were living in their wrong bodies and took everyday in fear. All of those that were unsure of themselves that night finally had a role model. If you can stand there on national television as a former male and say that you are finally free as a female and that there is hope for the others that feel the same..and also win an award at the same time...well then I'd say that's pretty goddamn courageous.
Was the right platform a sports awards ceremony? Sure, as long as the cameras are on, because who the Hell is watching that crap anyways? They already get awards...they're called million dollar paychecks and trophies. Use whatever platform you have to get people to listen. Kaitlyn Jenner used her voice with the ESPY's and that's all I hear about these days so you know she did something right and apparently people are watching the ESPY's...
Must be that star power!
Float on, graceful swans...and also geese. You're more than welcome to share the pond.
Saturday, July 11, 2015
The Dust Bowl
I'm about to be one of those jerks that wasn't there at the time but is going to tell you about it anyways. Listen, all history is just somebody telling you that this is what happened and you can take their word for it and believe it or just make up some random shit and all of a sudden you're a cult leader. I've seen it tens and tens of times...
In the 1920's, the United States of America decided to ruin everybody's good time and made the buying and selling of booze illegal. It went over about as well as you would think and the infrastructure crumbled. All Prohibition managed to do was bring about rampant organized crime, usher in an era known as the Great Depression, and still allow people to buy and sell booze but be more quiet about it. I'm no historian but if there's a place called the 'Dust Bowl' I'm probably getting the Hell out of there. It's the same thing for 'Tornado Alley', 'Ring of Fire', and 'Chipotle'. Their very names illicit fear!
The fact that you could have lived in the Dust Bowl during the Great Depression while under Prohibition and didn't immediately off yourself proves to me that people are generally very, very stupid. Dust Bowl? Sounds exotic!
Look I know that I didn't live through those times and I'm basically mocking our family history but...come on! The mentality of "Well, we're poor and on the brink of annihilation...let's settle in this barren wasteland that is completely void of any natural resources that is constantly pounded by storms...made...of...dust. That oughta cheer us up!"
We come from a long line of stupid and that much is very obvious even in today's standards.
Which brings me to today's NBA and the saga of DeAndre Jordan.
You know what, screw that, this story isn't about DeAndre Jordan it's about the stupidity of the NBA and how their failure to recognize the sign of the times brings about things of this nature. DeAndre Jordan was set to be a free agent, meaning he could sign with any team. The NBA sets aside a period of time before free agency begins where all potential free agents can talk with other teams and negotiate deals but not allowed to sign any contracts...meaning anything decided during this time is strictly based upon the faith of a man's word.
Jordan gave his word to the Dallas Mavericks that he was headed there and then they proceeded to do nothing else in this pre-free agency period except party and high-five each other. Well it turns out that the Dallas Mavericks don't watch Game of Thrones where basically 'giving your word' means 'I'm about to stab you'.
Before we continue we have to visit our little history lesson real quick. The NBA refers to this pre-gaming practice as the 'Moratorium Period' which turns out to be the 'temporary prohibition of an activity'. Uh oh...there's that scary word again. That didn't turn out so well the first time...
The NBA thinks that it can operate under the 'word' of man. The 'word' of man died as soon as we started throwing millions of dollars around and kept a harem of lawyers on speed dial. You can't even go smoke a cigarette without leaving a credit card with the bartender! The Dallas Mavericks were stupid. The NBA is stupid. And now DeAndre Jordan looks like a jerk because he wasn't sure he was making the right decision as a 26-year old facing a career defining moment and ended up going back to the place he felt the safest.
People will say he should have called Mark Cuban, the owner of the Mavericks, and explained it all to him and I'm pretty sure those are the same people that let their significant other know that they are broken up by Facebook status. Have you ever applied to two jobs, got them both, and then called the lesser paying of the two and thanked them for considering you but you have a better option? If you answered 'yes' then you are definitely a Dust Bowl descendant. Does Mark Cuban call all the players he doesn't sign and says, "thanks but no thanks?" Did Al Capone ever call up the cops before Eliot Ness and thank them for being close but not close enough?
I'm not calling DeAndre Jordan a scumbag but there's been too many scumbags in the past for the NBA to still operate a system where men just give their 'word'. It leaves too many loopholes. Whenever we throw around words like 'honor' with multi-billion dollar companies, agents, lawyers, and the media...well...now we're just asking for Great Depression.
Who's the bad guy in this whole affair, kids? History and the human inability to recognize and learn from it. The 'Moratorium Period' is as good as dead and I can only imagine what they come up with next.
I'd like to think that my ancestor during this time was sitting in a speak-easy drinking a probably awful tasting scotch and just thinking to himself, "Yep, it's all the same."
Float on, graceful swans.
In the 1920's, the United States of America decided to ruin everybody's good time and made the buying and selling of booze illegal. It went over about as well as you would think and the infrastructure crumbled. All Prohibition managed to do was bring about rampant organized crime, usher in an era known as the Great Depression, and still allow people to buy and sell booze but be more quiet about it. I'm no historian but if there's a place called the 'Dust Bowl' I'm probably getting the Hell out of there. It's the same thing for 'Tornado Alley', 'Ring of Fire', and 'Chipotle'. Their very names illicit fear!
The fact that you could have lived in the Dust Bowl during the Great Depression while under Prohibition and didn't immediately off yourself proves to me that people are generally very, very stupid. Dust Bowl? Sounds exotic!
Look I know that I didn't live through those times and I'm basically mocking our family history but...come on! The mentality of "Well, we're poor and on the brink of annihilation...let's settle in this barren wasteland that is completely void of any natural resources that is constantly pounded by storms...made...of...dust. That oughta cheer us up!"
We come from a long line of stupid and that much is very obvious even in today's standards.
Which brings me to today's NBA and the saga of DeAndre Jordan.
You know what, screw that, this story isn't about DeAndre Jordan it's about the stupidity of the NBA and how their failure to recognize the sign of the times brings about things of this nature. DeAndre Jordan was set to be a free agent, meaning he could sign with any team. The NBA sets aside a period of time before free agency begins where all potential free agents can talk with other teams and negotiate deals but not allowed to sign any contracts...meaning anything decided during this time is strictly based upon the faith of a man's word.
Jordan gave his word to the Dallas Mavericks that he was headed there and then they proceeded to do nothing else in this pre-free agency period except party and high-five each other. Well it turns out that the Dallas Mavericks don't watch Game of Thrones where basically 'giving your word' means 'I'm about to stab you'.
Before we continue we have to visit our little history lesson real quick. The NBA refers to this pre-gaming practice as the 'Moratorium Period' which turns out to be the 'temporary prohibition of an activity'. Uh oh...there's that scary word again. That didn't turn out so well the first time...
The NBA thinks that it can operate under the 'word' of man. The 'word' of man died as soon as we started throwing millions of dollars around and kept a harem of lawyers on speed dial. You can't even go smoke a cigarette without leaving a credit card with the bartender! The Dallas Mavericks were stupid. The NBA is stupid. And now DeAndre Jordan looks like a jerk because he wasn't sure he was making the right decision as a 26-year old facing a career defining moment and ended up going back to the place he felt the safest.
People will say he should have called Mark Cuban, the owner of the Mavericks, and explained it all to him and I'm pretty sure those are the same people that let their significant other know that they are broken up by Facebook status. Have you ever applied to two jobs, got them both, and then called the lesser paying of the two and thanked them for considering you but you have a better option? If you answered 'yes' then you are definitely a Dust Bowl descendant. Does Mark Cuban call all the players he doesn't sign and says, "thanks but no thanks?" Did Al Capone ever call up the cops before Eliot Ness and thank them for being close but not close enough?
I'm not calling DeAndre Jordan a scumbag but there's been too many scumbags in the past for the NBA to still operate a system where men just give their 'word'. It leaves too many loopholes. Whenever we throw around words like 'honor' with multi-billion dollar companies, agents, lawyers, and the media...well...now we're just asking for Great Depression.
Who's the bad guy in this whole affair, kids? History and the human inability to recognize and learn from it. The 'Moratorium Period' is as good as dead and I can only imagine what they come up with next.
I'd like to think that my ancestor during this time was sitting in a speak-easy drinking a probably awful tasting scotch and just thinking to himself, "Yep, it's all the same."
Float on, graceful swans.
Thursday, July 2, 2015
Six!
Kids! Faceless entities! It's July and it's time to celebrate yet another Studly Pastures anniversary! Yep, this July we're kicking off our sixth year and I couldn't...wait...where the Hell is everybody?!
I just walked into the break room expecting a huge surprise party and there wasn't anything in there except an old moldy sandwich that might have been turkey at one point and time. The unicorns are acting malaise at best and that's the word of the day that I just taught you.
Okay, okay, I get it. This year has felt more like a retirement party than any other has. I've pretty much gathered up all my laurels, molded them into a nice little pile, and rested on those bitches for the better part of 2015. The problem with laurels is, that once you are upon them, it's mighty hard to get your fat ass up again. My apologies to anybody named Laurel by the way, but you shouldn't be mad at me, it's your parents' fault. I know none of this is making any sense, especially the part where I'm talking about sitting on a bunch of plants as if it's comfortable or something, but hang with me for just a moment...I'm bound to end up somewhere.
I haven't been writing, not for the SP (that much is obvious), but it's more than that. I haven't been writing at all. Nothing. The only creative thing that I've been producing lately is quickly flushed down so it doesn't stink up the joint. By the way, how many bloody wipes is officially worrisome?
You see? Poop jokes! I've been at it for six freakin' years and I'm doing shtick on poop jokes! Shameful.
I've made it no secret that this is the year that I turn 30 and I'm not one of those bratty asshole 22-year olds that complain that they're getting old because 30 will only be old in the future when we have to governmentally control the population by executing people once they reach a certain age. Luckily for me, that's not now, and I know all this but shit...why does it have to be such a nice round number? 29? Break out the cigars and call up the hookers. 30? Reservations for one at the mausoleum, please.
The problem with 30 is that it's the first actual checkpoint in your life where society expects you to be able to answer them with something and if you don't have any answers, well then, you really sound like a jackass. And invariably, the question they ask, has something to do along the lines of "What have you done with your life the last 30 years?" I'm currently going with the answer of "Uhhhhhhhhh".
Not exactly toe to toe with "I have a dream" or the Gettysburg Address.
When I was 18 I thought to myself, "This is it, you're an adult now." And then I turned 21 and I thought to myself, "Adult? What the Hell is that? Can I drink it?" And now I have to worry about silly things like blood pressure, and keeping my hair, and WHY IS MY STOOL SO BLOODY! (Note: my stool isn't really bloody, don't worry, I just think it's a good writing technique to badger you to death with the same joke over and over again.)
Life is funny because I don't fear real and scary things like inevitability but I do fear being too high off the ground and sharks. Ridiculous. Sharks? They can't leave the ocean, and me, a land-dweller, fears those smooth skinned bastards. Yet I don't blink at the face of the inevitable end of existence that hinges on whether or not you've been here too long or eaten too many cheeseburgers but those damn sharks though...
It's been six years since I first sat down at the computer and wondered if people would like the idea of a sports blog that is somehow related to a unicorn stud farm. It was a bold concept that I was asking of faceless entities that I would never meet and yet somehow it worked out really well. I guess that's my answer. What did I do with the last 30 years? I tried my damn hardest to make people laugh and if they learned something along the way then that's even better. I command the Studly Pastures, dammit, and we're still here! Still here! So let's get going...
THE BAD: We're gonna start with the bad, up in Canada, at the Women's World Cup and the semifinals match between Japan and England. The match ended 2-1 in favor of Japan when Laura Bassett, of the English team, scored an own goal with a minute left in stoppage time. She immediately defected to Cuba but she boarded the wrong plane and ended up in Wales.
I feel bad for this woman because this is the Social Media age and schmucks (like me) who think the internet offers immortal power are going to be ruthless and evil towards her when all she did was make a bad mistake that had the worst possible outcome. She was obviously distraught after the match and I can only hope her teammates consoled her and took the weight off her shoulders.
With that said, what the flying shit were you thinking?! Whenever you could have done nothing and it would have turned out better than you doing something means that you really screwed the pooch on that one. Kids, I don't condone breaking the rules, but I'll do it to help myself win all the time. Laura tried to play things fair and when she found herself outmatched one-on-one on defense she tried to clear the ball...by sending it right into her own goal. What she should have done, and listen closely when I tell you this, is KNOCK THAT BITCH DOWN! Knock her down. If you get the card, then screw it, she still has to make the penalty kick. But there's still the chance that they won't even card you. I mean, it's FIFA, after all. Those corrupt bastards would probably appreciate the bloodlust and not even blow the whistle.
I can only hope that Laura learned an important lesson here and that it's simply too hard to compete in professional level sports without getting your hands a little dirty. Save the manners for the tea party, Laura, and next time knock that bitch down.
THE UGLY: I move on to the American side of things and the Shakespearean downfall of Tiger Woods. I guess Othello would be the best comparison? Is that racist? But Iago would have to just be another personality of Othello because Tiger's downfall was caused by himself and...wait...is Othello and Iago one person? I think I just stumbled upon my own Da Vinci code.
Tiger and Lindsey Vonn have decided to not be America's best hobby-sport couple anymore and it's probably because Tiger cheated on her. This really takes me back to the glory days when Tiger used to cheat on his super model wife with random bar floozies...ahhhhhhhh...fresh mountain air! What a colossal jackass. Tiger has officially become more relevant on TMZ than he is on the PGA Tour. What a time to be alive! Our once and true great king turned out to be a horny playboy and I'm not surprised. The dam walls broke. That's not a typo, I really mean dam. Think about it: He was a golf player...at Stanford...he didn't get laid until he was well under the cozy and warm wings of Nike. Once you get a taste of the good life...it's all downhill from there.
If Tiger wants to mow down two or three skanks a weekend, that's fine, that's his thing. But I used to think he did because that's where he drew his life force from and now he clearly sucks at golf so that can't be it. He's just a jackass. One of the greatest athletes of my time is a terrible human being and that's incredibly sad.
THE GOOD: Kids, for the last five years I've stood on my soap box and judged humanity from my own twisted view of things and for some reason you've let me. I've opened Year Six with a crisis of faith, a berating of a poor English woman, and the worst thing to happen to American sports since Tom Brady's chin...and yet, you're still here. The unicorns appreciate it, as do I, and we'll be here until we're court ordered to stop.
Float on, graceful swans! Six!
I just walked into the break room expecting a huge surprise party and there wasn't anything in there except an old moldy sandwich that might have been turkey at one point and time. The unicorns are acting malaise at best and that's the word of the day that I just taught you.
Okay, okay, I get it. This year has felt more like a retirement party than any other has. I've pretty much gathered up all my laurels, molded them into a nice little pile, and rested on those bitches for the better part of 2015. The problem with laurels is, that once you are upon them, it's mighty hard to get your fat ass up again. My apologies to anybody named Laurel by the way, but you shouldn't be mad at me, it's your parents' fault. I know none of this is making any sense, especially the part where I'm talking about sitting on a bunch of plants as if it's comfortable or something, but hang with me for just a moment...I'm bound to end up somewhere.
I haven't been writing, not for the SP (that much is obvious), but it's more than that. I haven't been writing at all. Nothing. The only creative thing that I've been producing lately is quickly flushed down so it doesn't stink up the joint. By the way, how many bloody wipes is officially worrisome?
You see? Poop jokes! I've been at it for six freakin' years and I'm doing shtick on poop jokes! Shameful.
I've made it no secret that this is the year that I turn 30 and I'm not one of those bratty asshole 22-year olds that complain that they're getting old because 30 will only be old in the future when we have to governmentally control the population by executing people once they reach a certain age. Luckily for me, that's not now, and I know all this but shit...why does it have to be such a nice round number? 29? Break out the cigars and call up the hookers. 30? Reservations for one at the mausoleum, please.
The problem with 30 is that it's the first actual checkpoint in your life where society expects you to be able to answer them with something and if you don't have any answers, well then, you really sound like a jackass. And invariably, the question they ask, has something to do along the lines of "What have you done with your life the last 30 years?" I'm currently going with the answer of "Uhhhhhhhhh".
Not exactly toe to toe with "I have a dream" or the Gettysburg Address.
When I was 18 I thought to myself, "This is it, you're an adult now." And then I turned 21 and I thought to myself, "Adult? What the Hell is that? Can I drink it?" And now I have to worry about silly things like blood pressure, and keeping my hair, and WHY IS MY STOOL SO BLOODY! (Note: my stool isn't really bloody, don't worry, I just think it's a good writing technique to badger you to death with the same joke over and over again.)
Life is funny because I don't fear real and scary things like inevitability but I do fear being too high off the ground and sharks. Ridiculous. Sharks? They can't leave the ocean, and me, a land-dweller, fears those smooth skinned bastards. Yet I don't blink at the face of the inevitable end of existence that hinges on whether or not you've been here too long or eaten too many cheeseburgers but those damn sharks though...
It's been six years since I first sat down at the computer and wondered if people would like the idea of a sports blog that is somehow related to a unicorn stud farm. It was a bold concept that I was asking of faceless entities that I would never meet and yet somehow it worked out really well. I guess that's my answer. What did I do with the last 30 years? I tried my damn hardest to make people laugh and if they learned something along the way then that's even better. I command the Studly Pastures, dammit, and we're still here! Still here! So let's get going...
THE BAD: We're gonna start with the bad, up in Canada, at the Women's World Cup and the semifinals match between Japan and England. The match ended 2-1 in favor of Japan when Laura Bassett, of the English team, scored an own goal with a minute left in stoppage time. She immediately defected to Cuba but she boarded the wrong plane and ended up in Wales.
I feel bad for this woman because this is the Social Media age and schmucks (like me) who think the internet offers immortal power are going to be ruthless and evil towards her when all she did was make a bad mistake that had the worst possible outcome. She was obviously distraught after the match and I can only hope her teammates consoled her and took the weight off her shoulders.
With that said, what the flying shit were you thinking?! Whenever you could have done nothing and it would have turned out better than you doing something means that you really screwed the pooch on that one. Kids, I don't condone breaking the rules, but I'll do it to help myself win all the time. Laura tried to play things fair and when she found herself outmatched one-on-one on defense she tried to clear the ball...by sending it right into her own goal. What she should have done, and listen closely when I tell you this, is KNOCK THAT BITCH DOWN! Knock her down. If you get the card, then screw it, she still has to make the penalty kick. But there's still the chance that they won't even card you. I mean, it's FIFA, after all. Those corrupt bastards would probably appreciate the bloodlust and not even blow the whistle.
I can only hope that Laura learned an important lesson here and that it's simply too hard to compete in professional level sports without getting your hands a little dirty. Save the manners for the tea party, Laura, and next time knock that bitch down.
THE UGLY: I move on to the American side of things and the Shakespearean downfall of Tiger Woods. I guess Othello would be the best comparison? Is that racist? But Iago would have to just be another personality of Othello because Tiger's downfall was caused by himself and...wait...is Othello and Iago one person? I think I just stumbled upon my own Da Vinci code.
Tiger and Lindsey Vonn have decided to not be America's best hobby-sport couple anymore and it's probably because Tiger cheated on her. This really takes me back to the glory days when Tiger used to cheat on his super model wife with random bar floozies...ahhhhhhhh...fresh mountain air! What a colossal jackass. Tiger has officially become more relevant on TMZ than he is on the PGA Tour. What a time to be alive! Our once and true great king turned out to be a horny playboy and I'm not surprised. The dam walls broke. That's not a typo, I really mean dam. Think about it: He was a golf player...at Stanford...he didn't get laid until he was well under the cozy and warm wings of Nike. Once you get a taste of the good life...it's all downhill from there.
If Tiger wants to mow down two or three skanks a weekend, that's fine, that's his thing. But I used to think he did because that's where he drew his life force from and now he clearly sucks at golf so that can't be it. He's just a jackass. One of the greatest athletes of my time is a terrible human being and that's incredibly sad.
THE GOOD: Kids, for the last five years I've stood on my soap box and judged humanity from my own twisted view of things and for some reason you've let me. I've opened Year Six with a crisis of faith, a berating of a poor English woman, and the worst thing to happen to American sports since Tom Brady's chin...and yet, you're still here. The unicorns appreciate it, as do I, and we'll be here until we're court ordered to stop.
Float on, graceful swans! Six!
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.
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