Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Not what fantasies are made of
On Saturday, my BFF LL Cool Jew took a quick break from her in-laws to have dumplings and drinks with me. While we were sitting at P.D. O'Hurley's slugging down Irish coffees, we heard some of the local fellas at the bar talking about how Plaxico Burress "shot himself in the foot."
"Did Plaxico Burress fucking shoot himself?" LL Cool Jew asked, alarmed, as much of her domestic peace hinges upon the Giants' fortunes.
"That can't be!" I said, myself alarmed not because of concerns about disrupting my marital bliss, but because Plaxico Burress has been stinking up my Fantasy roster all season. I immediately scanned the many televisions tuned into College Game Day on ESPN and assumed there would be something on the ticker about it. I did not see anything about Plaxico shooting himself, so I said, "Nah, dude, it would be all over ESPN if he had. They must mean figuratively, because of his attitude problems all year."
"I hope so," said LL Cool Jew, looking nervous about the prospect of attending the circus later that day with her husband BigBagel, brother-in-law, and father-in-law, all of whom are rabid Giants fans.
"Me too. That motherfucker is on my Fantasy team and I was hoping to trade him for a draft pick next year to someone who actually made the playoffs," I said. Unfortunately, despite my Fantasy team being the defending league champions and looking super hot on paper at the beginning of the season, most of my marquis players failed to do jack shit all season. The only silver lining is that, though Tha Razzies paralleled the exceptionally disappointing Seattle Seahawks, at least we won more than two fucking games all season. Therefore, I planned to trade Plax and all these underperforming douchebags for draft picks or better keepers and hope Tha Razzies have a bright season next year.
LL Cool Jew and I didn't see or hear anything further about Plax at the bar, so I forgot about it until I got home and noticed that she had texted me: "dewd, he DID shoot himself!" I immediately went to the trusty internets and realized that the moron was at some shitty club carrying the gun in his waistband with the fucking safety off, and, while his foot escaped unscathed, he shot himself through the thigh. I should add that Plax was not hanging out at some thugged-out shithole in Bed-Stuy or the South Bronx. He was at the Latin Quarter, located in the utterly non-dangerous Radisson Lexington Hotel in East Midtown, where the salsa band that played LL Cool Jew's wedding performs on Wednesday nights and guests enjoy Chef Ralph Mercado's tasty "LatAsian" creations with their bottle service. This is the kind of establishment where you are more likely to dodge spray-tanned bridge-and-tunnel types in pastel Kangol hats taking kamikaze shots than bullets. There is absolutely NO REASON WHATSOEVER, except for validating what an idiotic asshole you actually are, to pack heat at a place like this.
Furthermore, Plaxico told the lamest lie in the history of prevarication when he said he was actually shot at an Applebee's where he ate before he hit the club. I guess that sounds slightly better than "I accidentally shot myself because my gun WITH THE FUCKING SAFETY OFF started to fall out of my pants while I was holding a drink," but not by much.
LL Cool Jew and BigBagel's crew are not the only ones as outraged as myself at Plaxico's idiotic firearm skills. Thanks to the greatest newspaper in the history of print journalism, the New York Post, and its fellow tabloid the New York Daily News, I have spent the last three days being reminded of Tha Razzies' grim Fantasy reality every time I walk past a bodega or get on the subway (my favorite is the "GIANT IDIOT!" Post cover):
Now the Giants have suspended and banned Burress for the rest of the season, and are rumored to be getting out of the remainder of his $35 million dollar contract. It's bad enough that Plaxico might wind up booted from the New York Football Giants, since he'll probably go to the one team that, if Adam "Pac Man" Jones is any indication, welcomes violent criminals with open arms: the hateful Dallas Cowboys. At least if he goes to the Cowboys, I can probably trade him and watch media hilarity ensue as he tries to coexist with Terrell Owens's ego. A much worse scenario involves Plaxico's fate at 100 Centre Street, AKA the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse. New York City has some of the strictest gun control laws in the nation, and possession of an illegal, loaded firearm carries a 3 1/2 year mandatory minimum sentence. Which means that if Plaxico is convicted in spite of hiring celebrity gun charge lawyer extraordinaire Benjamin Brafman, my Fantasy team goes from disappointing to totally fucked. Thanks a lot, Plax.
Labels: BigBagel, crime and punishment, Fantasia, guns, LL Cool Jew, NFL football, NYC, retard rage
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
We have a lot to be angry about
I left a smack-talking post on the Facebook page of the dude who I opened a can of ass-beating on in my Fantasy league after destroying him (by one point). Since he joined our league this year and quickly established that he's an even bigger shit-talker than me, I couldn't resist pointing out that not only did I defeat him after he claimed that playing me would be an "automatic win," his favorite team (the Bills) got smoked by the Dolphins.
"Automatic win"? Sha. My team just BARELY beat you only to ensure that you didn't feel bad about your Fantasy suckage. I didn't want to hurt your poor wittle feewings, especially since you're probably doubly depressed that the Bills got ass-raped by the Dolphins too. You have my sympathies, and I won by a meager point to illustrate what a charitable bitch I can truly be.Apparently, this was unwise, because he turned around and wrote a bitchy essay of his own for my Facebook wall:
Before you toot your horn too much, a few things to keep in perspective:While I would dispute his opinions concerning what makes a better Fantasy team, the AFC East being the "second best division in football," and the Arizona Cardinals being the 25% of the NFC West that is not a Pop Warner team (implied...this fool lives in Arizona), I unfortunately cannot come up with much to counter his accusation that I "come from the most wretched sports town on earth." Unfortunately things have indeed been grim sports-wise in the great P-N-Dub. However, I am pleased to see that at least we can produce champions in one area: flipping out NFL coaches.
1. I am an expansion team. You SHOULD destroy me. You barely won against a team that started drafting after 8 others gobbled up the 40 best players. You barely won against an expansion team that had three backups playing (backups on my team and on the ones the played on) due to injury and lack of any quality on waiver wire.
2. The Bills are 5-2 in the second best division in football. The Seahawks are 2-5 in the only division where it appears 75% of it is Pop Warner teams. You come from the most wretched sports town on earth. The Mariners were the worst MLB team, teh Huskies are the worst NCAA, the Sonics left the decrepit area for (cough) Oklahoma, and the Seahawks are the only team in the league that pray the Detroit Lions and Cincinnati Bengals don't die in a plane crash.
3. I still have more total points than you, an arguably better indicator of the best fantasy team.
I rule.
This past weekend, legendary Seahawks quarterback and current Redskins head coach Jim Zorn bugged out at a reporter for looking "ticked off" during a post-game press conference. This isn't quite up to Jim Mora the Elder "PLAYOFFS?!" standards, but it was his second public freak-out of the day after reaming running back Clinton Portis during the second quarter of the Racial Slurs' summary destruction of the hapless Detroit Lions. Zorn isn't Mora grade YET, but he's learning.
And speaking of Jim Mora, guess where he lives now? That's right...he moved his entire collection of shirts with random triangles out to the great P-N-Dub years ago when he was coaching the aforemention disgrace of the Pac-10 UW Huskies, and has remained there, presumably to mentor a whole new generation of angry NFL coaches. Not coincidentally, when our beloved Mike Holmgren waddles off to whichever tidal pool walruses retire to, Mora's own son Jim Mora the Younger will be taking the helm of the Seahawks. The newer Mora has never quite followed in the footsteps of his old man regarding a penchant for uncontrolled raving to the press, but did have a couple promising outbursts when he was head coach of the Falcons. He has also kept those of us who are big enough losers to have crushes on yeast geneticist-looking defensive coordinators entertained with his sideline theatrics (ie: dropping to his knees in visible agony at missed tackles or dropped interceptions). I can only hope that he's laying the groundwork for an epic press conference for sometime in October 2009 should the Seahawks struggle amongst the other heavyweights in the NFC West. Surely it takes years of preparation to come up with exclamations bearing more impact than "Diddly-poo!", "That was a horseshit performance," and "we SUCKED."
Though I don't see Seattle's sports prospects improving anytime soon, at least I can look forward to years of top-tier press conference rage coming from football coaches originating in the P-N-Dub. Frankly, anyone coming from such dismal sports circumstances has something to be angry about, and since our perennial suckage doesn't appear to be ending any time soon, I anticipate a fruitful golden era of NFL coaches responding to press queries with violent outbursts. At least there's one thing to be excited about.
Labels: Fantasia, NFL football, P-N-Dub, ranting, retard rage, Seahawks, sportsmen
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Chris Cooley is my kind of tight end
Apparently, Washington Redskins tight end Chris Cooley is, like me, a blogger in his spare time. Also like me, he does his best writing when he is in a state of undress. Sunday, he posted a photo of the Skins' playbook for their big game against the New Orleans Saints. Too bad he obviously snapped the photo as the playbook rested on his entirely pantless lap, as immediately noticed by the entire sports blogging world:
Even though my starting Fantasy tight end is Antonio Gates, who is pretty much universally regarded as the premier tight end in the entire NFL, I am almost tempted to start making some wild trade offers to my buddy G-Cat just to get Cooley on my Fantasy team. Any guy who sits around naked is my sort of dude. Any guy who sits around naked blogging about his Fantasy team is my destiny. Seriously, all the man needs is a pepperoni pizza, a sixer of Heineken, and the extended edition Lord of the Rings DVDs and...well, hello, Prince Charming. Marry me.
Labels: Fantasia, internet domination, NFL football, nudity, weiners
Sunday, September 14, 2008
This is what happens when you care too much about Fantasy Football
Last night, I had what should have been a positively lovely night. I went out on a really nice date with a really nice guy (and I must be growing up or something, because I actually seem to enjoy doing this now instead of just getting drunk, screwing someone, and tossing them unceremoniously out of my bed before they can bitch about what a bad housekeeper I am). Then I totally did it like what and went to sleep.
While I should have slept heavily and dreamed of sweet things like puppies and pepperoni pizza and beer, instead I woke up several hours after drifting off in a clammy sweat. I dreamed that my Fantasy roster was all screwed up, and that somehow Bobby Engram got dropped off my injured reserve slot and now I was going to have to battle for him all over again on the waiver wire with the other forward thinking owners in my league, and that LT had inexplicably moved to someone else's team, and all my quarterbacks save Joe Flacco had vanished into thin air. Forget about David Garrard and Derek Anderson, even Tarvaris Jackson was gone from my roster? WHAT THE HELL!
Needless to say, upon waking I immediately grabbed my laptop and checked to make sure that this was indeed a bad dream, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Still, what the hell is the matter with me that instead of dreaming of pleasant thoughts like "I just got a proper dicking" and "I'm satisfied and happy" or "Sigghhhhhhh," I'm having nightmares about my Fantasy team. I need to get a life.
Labels: Fantasia, nerd alert, NFL football
Monday, September 08, 2008
The Lord's day
Many people spend their Sundays in church. They put on their finery and get up early and head to their sacred space of choice for a day of prayer. While I'm a CEO Catholic (Christmas-Easter only), that doesn't mean I don't observe the same tradition of Sunday worshipfulness, except my Sunday best is a Lofa Tatupu jersey, my church of choice is called Josie Wood's Pub, and my religion is the National Football League. I may be a heretical Catholic for cheating on my spiritual faith with a professional sports league, but football is worth the time I might spend in purgatory for that. Anyway, chances are I'm headed for the big brimstone bath downstairs what with all my fornication and abortion-having and eating meat of Fridays in Lent and partial gayness, so skipping Mass for football is basically a no-brainer.
Yesterday, I felt like it was Christmas morning. I woke up early, cruised down to the Village, and was seated at my usual table at my usual football bar by 12:15, catching up with what all the other regulars were up to during the off-season. Then all my boys showed up by the time the 1 pm game started, which was very exciting because my buddy G-Cat is a Bills fan (he showed up in a Lee Evans jersey he claims to have "pulled from the clearance bin"), and that's who the Seahawks were playing. I was busy alternately shit-talking G-Cat and shit-texting another Bills fan in our Fantasy league while I watched the unfortunate manner in which that game unfolded (the Seahawks played like shit overall, Julius Jones can lick my twat because he's sure not doing it for me on the football field so he may as well make himself useful otherwise, and our lack of decent receivers has never been more glaringly obvious), when something amazing happened.
On another TV nearby, the Patriots were playing the Chiefs. Suddenly, the bar erupted in cheers of approval and excitement directed at that television. I turned my attention away from the Bills-Seahawks game and saw a beautiful sight: Mr. Perfect himself, Tom Brady, writhing around on the field clutching his knee and screaming.
Now, while I'm usually not inclined to wish severe, potentially crippling injury on anyone, I have no problem whatsoever doing this on my football enemies. Of those enemies, the ones who draw the vast majority of my evil thoughts are those wearing either a Patriots or a Pittsburgh Steelers uniform. While not everyone is as pissed about Super Bowl XL as I am, almost everyone in New York (and anywhere not in New England) can relate to my anti-Pats sentiments. The mood in Josie Wood's was one of decided elation, save the one dour-looking guy in a Randy Moss jersey and my conundrum of a friend NeisMan, a Giants fan wearing a Jet Favre jersey who stocked his entire Fantasy team with Patriots, including Mr. Perfect. He was so distraught by Brady's injury that in addition to probably frantically attempting to acquire Matt Cassel from the waiver wire, he changed his team name from "Mora's Patriots" to ":-(" in order to better reflect his prospects for Fantasy dominance this season. I got a text from a friend who had been battling the flu and advised me as to his recovery: "I'm somewhat better but mostly because I got to hear Tom Brady screaming in pain. That warmed my evil heart. I mean, he was shrieking like a goddamn woman. It was magnificent."
Now, while I'm usually not inclined to wish severe, potentially crippling injury on anyone, I have no problem whatsoever doing this on my football enemies. Of those enemies, the ones who draw the vast majority of my evil thoughts are those wearing either a Patriots or a Pittsburgh Steelers uniform. While not everyone is as pissed about Super Bowl XL as I am, almost everyone in New York (and anywhere not in New England) can relate to my anti-Pats sentiments. The mood in Josie Wood's was one of decided elation, save the one dour-looking guy in a Randy Moss jersey and my conundrum of a friend NeisMan, a Giants fan wearing a Jet Favre jersey who stocked his entire Fantasy team with Patriots, including Mr. Perfect. He was so distraught by Brady's injury that in addition to probably frantically attempting to acquire Matt Cassel from the waiver wire, he changed his team name from "Mora's Patriots" to ":-(" in order to better reflect his prospects for Fantasy dominance this season. I got a text from a friend who had been battling the flu and advised me as to his recovery: "I'm somewhat better but mostly because I got to hear Tom Brady screaming in pain. That warmed my evil heart. I mean, he was shrieking like a goddamn woman. It was magnificent."
It was indeed magnificent, and most of New York also thought so. According to the New York Times' (lame and boring) NFL Blog, the entire crowd at the Times Square ESPN Zone "roared with delight" when Brady's season bit the dust. The author wonders why, and says that "saying the Patriots are rivals of the Jets, and, to a lesser extent, the Giants is not a great excuse." Sounds like a fine enough excuse to me. In fact, the Patriots are rivals of EVERY team in the NFL to a certain degree, since we all were rooting for those insufferably arrogant cheaters to get their richly deserved karmic due. I've hated them so blindly and irrationally that I made a foolish bet with my Pats-praising ex-boyfriend, which resulted in my total humiliation on the internets last Christmas. Most of the country took great pleasure watching them lose Super Bowl XLII, and I get an extra special thrill of delight thinking of the five spectacular sacks the New York Football Giants' linebackers and defensive tackles laid on his prissy golden ass. I still get just a little bit hot when I hear Chris Berman describe the 2007 Patriots season as "historic but imperfect," so watching the Patriots' icon of vain dickheadery go down in a blaze of girlish screaming is, to say the least, extremely satisfying.
Even though it's little consolation knowing that Brady's going to spend the next year off "rehabbing" (running around in J. Crew turtlenecks and banging Gisele), and Belichick will probably not say a word about Brady's injury and just list him as questionable for the rest of the season, I can't help but laugh with great joy and mirth at this new downturn in the Pats' fortunes. If Sunday football is my religion, then I am shouting "Halle-fucking-lujah!" and "Praise Cheese-sauce!" at the top of my lungs, because I just witnessed the divine at work in Kansas City.
Labels: Fantasia, fuck the Pats, I LOVE IT, NFL football, sportsmen
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
New contributor! YAY!
So you may have noticed that we are welcoming a new contributor into the fold here at RAZZY.org. Ho Rofra is my fellow sufferer in the Coordinated Doctoral Program in the Biomedical Sciences here at Columbia, my friend UnicornDick's girlfriend, and an all-around fun, funny-ass bitch. She was bored this week because UnicornDick is off at some "fantasy baseball conference," where I can only imagine he's trying to pull some egregiously wack trades with the guys in his league. He's probably trying to trade Mariners for A-Rod (and as much as I hate to bust on the Mariners or laud any Yankee, especially Alex Rodriguez, you can't say that wouldn't be a bullshit fantasy trade.) In our fantasy football league, UnicornDick was offering me a ridiculous trade every other day that always involved me giving up Ladanian Tomlinson and/or Antonio Gates for Brett Favre. Before even reviewing his trade offers I would get ready to type "SHA RIGHT." I wasn't the only one, either. All season he tried to get my buddy Neisman to trade Tom Brady, Randy Moss, and the Patriots D/ST for Favre. Ridiculous.
Anyway, since UnicornDick is off doing the baseball equivalent of that somewhere, Ho Rofra had some time on her hands to write, so I welcomed her to this elite literary collective of luminaries writing for this site. I also gave her a name: Ho Rofra, which is short for "Hotter Rosalind Franklin." If you're not a science geek, you probably have no idea who Rosalind Franklin was, but trust that at Smith College they were all over her story since she's the most burned hooker in the history of modern molecular biology. Back in the day, Rosalind was a post-doc in this guy Maurice Wilkins's lab doing X-ray diffraction of various DNA crystals. Don't ask how, because I don't know, but apparently by blasting a crystal of some molecule with X-rays and they scatter and somehow people who are better at biochemistry and math for me can look at the scatter pattern on a piece of film and deduce that molecule's structure. Well, that's what Rosalind was doing back in the fifties, and apparently she was a real drag to be around but she was the hotness when it came to crystallography. So to avoid talking to her cranky ass, James Watson and Francis Crick took a peek at some of her DNA diffraction data and saw this:
Apparently that means "double helix." In fact, the fact that that means "double helix" represents the only crystallography-type thing I know, because I've heard the story of how Watson and Crick fucked Rosalind Franklin over so many times. Again, don't ask me how this translates to "double helix," because I don't fuck with crystallography. I don't fuck around with things like "atoms" or "van der Waals forces" or any of that disturbingly math-physics-chemistry type stuff. Anyway, Watson and Crick took this and went back to their lab, where they picked up their "nitrogenous base" and "sugar backbone held together by phosphodiester bonds" puzzle set armed with this knowledge and Chargaff's rules, and came up with the structure of DNA. They rushed off a Nature paper, made one of the single most important contributions to the field of molecular biology ever, and were awarded the Nobel prize alongside Maurice Wilkins in 1962.
People at Smith used to get all hot and bothered because a woman–and a mousy, disagreeable one, no less–got screwed out of a Nobel prize, but ironically it was her own female bits that actually fucked her up. Rosalind Franklin died of ovarian cancer in 1958, and the Nobel prize isn't awarded posthumously. Watson later acknowledged that her data was essential in their discovery of DNA's structure, and that she probably would have made the trip to Stockholm with the boys club had she been alive.
So what does Rosalind Franklin have to do with Ho Rofra, you ask? Well, Ho Rofra, like Rosalind Franklin, works in a crystallography lab and I have no idea what she does. If you asked me, I'd probably just rattle off a bunch of scientastic nonsensical shit about transcription factors binding the major groove and TATA box binding protein that I vaguely remember from my first-year biochemistry class in 2003. Does it have anything to do with her project? Probably not, but like I said before, I'm not fucking with any damn diffraction patterns. Anyway, Ho Rofra is, like Rosalind Franklin, apparently really good at her job and solves crystal structures and whatever the hell else these hardcore biochemistry/biophysics types do. Except unlike Rosalind Franklin, she's actually attractive. Here's the best picture of Rosalind Franklin that's ever been taken:
Trust that Ho Rofra is WAAAAAAAAAY hotter. And she's probably funnier, too, considering I never got many chuckles out of Rosalind Franklin's Nature papers, which all have titles like "Influence of the bonding electrons on the scattering of X-rays by carbon" or "Location of the ribonucleic acid in the tobacco mosaic virus particle." So welcome to Ho Rofra! Leave her some comments!
Labels: Fantasia, grad school bullshit, Ho Rofra, nerd alert, science
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Meat Loaf was right...
...in his inherently wise musical proclamations (and I'm not talking about "Paradise by the Dashboard Light", although I can relate to that jam too). And God, Meat Loaf is a hot piece, for a long-haired proto-Jack Black wind machine aficionado who changed his name from Marvin Aday to Meat Loaf to enhance his a-little-bit-Dungeons-and-Dragons, a-little-bit-Hell's Angel, a little-bit-Grand-Ole-Opry mystique, anyway:
It's true that two out of three ain't bad. In spite of the sting of defeat related to my loss in the whole Dolphins-Patriots debacle, I have still been mostly winning. I was right about Jessica Simpson being the key to Tony Romo's downfall awhile back (and I know the Cowboys won this week in spite of a crowd of Panthers fans wearing the Jessica Simpson cutout masks being promoted by RuinRomo.com, but that had more to do with Marion Barber's 110 rushing yards than Tony's getting his shit together...Romo still threw an INT and I attribute that to Ms. Simpson being at the game in spite of the cameras not being able to spy her hideous and disgraceful pink jersey). I was also right about my prospects in the Columbia Ballers Fantasy League Ballers Bowl V!
Yes, bitches, I defeated the Js and the Ps (AKA the Bills of our league, as this is the third Fantasy Super Bowl he's lost) 92-80 to claim my first fantasy league championship. Now I am both league commissioner AND league champion, and I'm proud to say that I never once used my powers as commish (ability to fuck with draft orders, edit box scores, steal players from other teams, etc) to make this happen. Unlike those assholes in Shitsburgh, I don't need to cheat (or at least rely on some HIGHLY questionable officiating) to win a Super Bowl. That means I've got 250 clams coming my way, or, when converted to the currency of choice in Razzyland, 25 sixers of Heineken! I can simultaneously drown my sorrows about losing my Patriots-Dolphins bet to Benzo and celebrate the triumphs I have enjoyed. YESSSSSSS! Victory is sweet enough to make me forget about losing. Feel free to send me congratulatory sentiments and expressions of your awe and reverence at your leisure.
Yes, bitches, I defeated the Js and the Ps (AKA the Bills of our league, as this is the third Fantasy Super Bowl he's lost) 92-80 to claim my first fantasy league championship. Now I am both league commissioner AND league champion, and I'm proud to say that I never once used my powers as commish (ability to fuck with draft orders, edit box scores, steal players from other teams, etc) to make this happen. Unlike those assholes in Shitsburgh, I don't need to cheat (or at least rely on some HIGHLY questionable officiating) to win a Super Bowl. That means I've got 250 clams coming my way, or, when converted to the currency of choice in Razzyland, 25 sixers of Heineken! I can simultaneously drown my sorrows about losing my Patriots-Dolphins bet to Benzo and celebrate the triumphs I have enjoyed. YESSSSSSS! Victory is sweet enough to make me forget about losing. Feel free to send me congratulatory sentiments and expressions of your awe and reverence at your leisure.
Labels: Fantasia, I LOVE IT, NFL football, Razzification, Stealers suck
Friday, December 21, 2007
GO DOLPHINS!
This Sunday, several epic battles will be decided via the greatest sport ever: football, and no, I don't mean bitch-ass soccer. First, I am going to get the $300 I justly deserve for laying waste to the other fools in the Columbia Ballers Fantasy League when I destroy the Js and the Ps in C-Ballers Bowl V. While that will be satisfying and while the cash will buy this alcoholic bitch a lot of Heineken, even more awesome will be when I win a little gentlemen's wager I made with my ex-boyfriend Benzo who is both a native of Assachusetts and a die-hard New England Patriots fan (like every other Pats supporter, he's been a hardcore fan since 2001). This wager concerns the impending epic week 16 battle between the 1-13 Miami Dolphins and the 14-0 Patriots:
I predicted that the Dolphins will beat the Patriots this Sunday, thus ensuring that they remain the only team in the Super Bowl era with a perfect record. I think this is even more likely now that Miami is coming off their first triumphant win of the season last week. They are primed and ready to keep the winning streak alive! Look at how fired up Joey Porter is in spite of his absolutely hideous countenance! He's ready to lay some bitches out in Foxborough. Benzo scoffed at me, as did every other New England-loving Masshole who heard of this. "Miami doesn't play well late in the season on the road," they say. "Ricky Williams is out," they say (because Ricky Williams has done SO much besides smoke pot, do yoga, and sit on his hippie ass the last few years...who cares?). "Cleo Lemon is starting," they say. I say "SO FUCKING WHAT?" back. Stranger things have happened in the NFL. My prediction about Jessica Simpson ruining Tony Romo was correct, and like the Dolphins, I'm gearing up for a big old winning streak!
Anyway, since the terms of this wager will be borne out on the blogosphere, here's what you all have to look forward to.
GO RAZZY!
If I win this bet, Benzo has to not only buy me large volumes of scotch, he will have to take a picture of himself holding one sign that says "PATRIOTS SUCK" and another that says one of the following (totally true) statements:
1. BELICHICK SUCKS DICK
2. BRADY SUCKS DICK
3. BOB KRAFT SUCKS DICK
4. PATRIOTS CHEAT
This picture will then be posted on this very blog, along with a lot of gloating sentiments from me. I tried to also make him wear a Yankees cap and stuff his junk between his legs Buffalo Bill-style as a revolting shot at the tuck rule, but he drew the line at doing those things. Oh well. I guess I'll take free scotch and the satisfaction of seeing Benzo implying that one of his Hatriot idols is exceptionally competent at fellatio.
GO BENZO!
If the Patriots win for Benzo, then I will take a picture of myself topless with "PATRIOTS RULE" written on my tits. I will also write a lengthy blog posting to accompany said photo extolling the Patriots' many virtues and discussing their excellent prospects for continued domination without any sarcasm. I will subsequently tolerate any comments from pro-Assachusetts bastards rubbing in how great the Patriots are. On that post, anyway.
But like that's going to happen. I'm already looking forward to the drinks Benzo will be buying me, as well as seeing his handsome rosy-cheeked visage holding a sign that says, "BELICHICK SUCKS DICK." Prepare to be owned, Benzo.
Anyway, since the terms of this wager will be borne out on the blogosphere, here's what you all have to look forward to.
GO RAZZY!
If I win this bet, Benzo has to not only buy me large volumes of scotch, he will have to take a picture of himself holding one sign that says "PATRIOTS SUCK" and another that says one of the following (totally true) statements:
1. BELICHICK SUCKS DICK
2. BRADY SUCKS DICK
3. BOB KRAFT SUCKS DICK
4. PATRIOTS CHEAT
This picture will then be posted on this very blog, along with a lot of gloating sentiments from me. I tried to also make him wear a Yankees cap and stuff his junk between his legs Buffalo Bill-style as a revolting shot at the tuck rule, but he drew the line at doing those things. Oh well. I guess I'll take free scotch and the satisfaction of seeing Benzo implying that one of his Hatriot idols is exceptionally competent at fellatio.
GO BENZO!
If the Patriots win for Benzo, then I will take a picture of myself topless with "PATRIOTS RULE" written on my tits. I will also write a lengthy blog posting to accompany said photo extolling the Patriots' many virtues and discussing their excellent prospects for continued domination without any sarcasm. I will subsequently tolerate any comments from pro-Assachusetts bastards rubbing in how great the Patriots are. On that post, anyway.
But like that's going to happen. I'm already looking forward to the drinks Benzo will be buying me, as well as seeing his handsome rosy-cheeked visage holding a sign that says, "BELICHICK SUCKS DICK." Prepare to be owned, Benzo.
Labels: Assachusetts, Benzo, comeuppance, Fantasia, fuck the Pats, intentional buffoonery, NFL football, Razzification
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Adrian Peterson
DOB: March 21, 1985
Occupation: running back for the Minnesota Vikings
Hometown: Palestine, Texas
Current residence: Eden Prairie, Minnesota
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Thanks to Adrian Peterson's performance against the Bears last night, I do not have to play my friend NeisMan's all-Patriots team in the Columbia Ballers fantasy league Super Bowl V. Oh, right...I guess I should
Now, I just need Adrian Peterson to get in some sort of horrible car accident that causes a broken leg or some other season-ending injury before next Sunday so that I can defeat the J's and the P's. Last time I played them, I
Oh, and Adrian Peterson's not too bad looking, either. I'd hit that. More than once.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Fantasia, hot dudes, NFL football, United States of Asskickery
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Lofa Tatupu
DOB: November 15, 1982
Occupation: Seahawks middle linebacker, hot piece
Hometown: Wrentham, Assachusetts
Current residence: Seattle, Washington
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: ELEVEN TACKLES AND THREE INTERCEPTIONS. Take that, Philadelphia Eagles! Every turnover benefiting the Seahawks yesterday was courtesy of the hotness known as Lofa Tatupu. Sitting at my usual football bar, surrounded by a horde of obnoxious Eagles fans sporting their "Bleed Green" shirts, I was the lone 12th man in the establishment, with nobody to share my love of the Seahawks save my P-N-Dub buddy HotLawyer, with whom I exchanged a variety of texts along the lines of "put in Maurice Morris" and "Alexander sucks" throughout the game. The fact that I was wearing my Lofa Tatupu jersey, however, was enough to make me almost visibly swell with pride every time Tatupu picked off A.J. Feely.
Although J-Sexy, who came for the beer and wings, initially agreed with me about Tatupu's hotness, she revised her position upon catching sight of his thick neck.
"Dude, everyone in the NFL has a thick neck," I said. "Their asses are still hot." J-Sexy had been rhapsodizing about certain players' asses prior to narrowing her attention to my man Lofa, and speculating whether or not some of them wore ass padding in their "ridicolos white pants."
"I do not like it when the neck is wider than the head," she added. "His neck is very thick."
I disagreed that this was very noticeable, but J-Sexy was being very mulish on this point. Her fixation on this irrelevant superficial quality reminded me of my dad, who sees Tatupu (or any player with lots of ink on his arms) and grouses, "Well, he'd be a good-lookin' guy if it weren't for all those stupid tattoos!" My dad hates tattoo sleeves to the point where it merits at least one mention whenever he catches sight of Tatupu, and no amount of "He's Samoan, dad, it's cultural," will change his mind on the matter. Watching a NBA game with him is almost intolerable; if only there were a way to adequately capture in prose the epic eye rolls my brother Lil' Tevie gives my dad's anti-tattoo harangues during Sonics games. Those frivolous details are irrelevant to me, though. When Tatupu is getting his Sea-fence on, I don't give a damn about his neck or his body art. I care exclusively about watching that hot piece make the Eagles offense his bitch, thus benefitting my fantasy team immensely as I was playing the Seahawks D/ST.
Yesterday's performance was even more impressive than usual, since Lofa was playing with sore ribs and hadn't practiced all week. Nevertheless, a couple of bitch-ass ribs didn't stop him from saving the game when the Seahawks idiotically punted the ball to Brian Westbrook in the last minute or so of the game and allowed him to return it 64 yards to put the Eagles in scoring position. Tatupu said "fuck you" to his ouchy ribs and promptly executed a spectacular pick. Game over. Then he took his sore ribs, fashioned a slutty ho out of them, and banged the hell out of her in his Philly hotel room. Okay, I made up that last part, but Tatupu is such a magic man that I wouldn't put it past him. Now, if I could only make some headway with J-Sexy about the thick neck issue, I could put up the world's dopest clock in lab:
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Fantasia, hot dudes, HotLawyer, NFL football, P-N-Dub, Seahawks
Monday, November 19, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Josie Woods Pub
DOB: Established 1999
Occupation: dopest Sunday football bar EVER
Hometown/current residence: 11 Waverly Place at Mercer Street, Greenwich Village, NYC
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Every Sunday, I watch football all day at Josie Woods, usually with my boys Js and Ps, NeisMan, and Unicorn Dick. NeisMan treats us to his excellent impersonation of John Madden extolling his man-love for Brett Favre, Js and Ps waxes poetic about the mighty Lions, and Unicorn Dick makes a lot of smartass comments about everything. Then we eat nachos, cheeseburgers, and wings, and get day-drunk on their Sunday football discounted Bud Light pitchers. Our waiter, Alex, has been taking care of us every week for the past three years, and always gives us some free beers and turns on the Seahawks on whichever TV I ask him to. I've even seen him go to bat for my Seahawks game against a table full of loud, obnoxious Giants fans. He always ensures that myself and any other 12th Men who happen to be around don't have to strain our eyes while we watch Hawks fans on TV holding up their Sea-Fence signs.
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Fantasia, NFL football, NYC
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Maurice Morris
DOB: December 1, 1979
Occupation: Seattle Seahawks backup running back
Hometown: Chester, South Carolina
Current residence: Seattle, Washington
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: For starters, although he lost a fumble, Maurice Morris did great things for my Fantasy team last night. I picked up Maurice earlier in the season off the waiver wire and held onto him, because I had a feeling that Shaun Alexander's decline was going to become more precipitously obvious as the season went on, and it was only a matter of time before Jesus stopped smiling on him. Sure enough, Shaun's visits with Pat Robertson have been fruitless lately, because dude got injured. Although whether or not Alexander would play was a game-time decision, I took a chance and started Mo. This caused me great tredipation, as I was playing my friend Unicorn Dick this week, and he is one of the biggest shit-talkers in our league. Every week I get some sort of snarky email from him. This week he was actually singing the praises of his own quarterback ("Brett Favre....thirty-nine years young!"), but usually he likes to trash on the Seahawks. I feared that if Alexander did play, Unicorn Dick would be blowing up my inbox with e-mails along the lines of "Put Maurice in, Walrus!-Razzy" and things like that.
When I got to JerseyGirl's house for "I Love New York 2" and "The Hills" last night and forced the ladies to watch the Seahawks-Niners game during commercials (despite protests which were silenced when I retorted to JerseyGirl, "Never forget that you made me watch a fucking Yankees game once!"), I was relieved to see Alexander bundled up in his apostolic white Seahawks sweatsuit on the sidelines. Not only was Maurice Morris playing, he scored a touchdown and rushed for 87 yards. I not only smoked Unicorn Dick, but the Seahawks kicked some 49er ass and trounced them 24-0.
Oh, and even if he wasn't wearing the hallowed and much-beloved Seahawks uni and wasn't carrying Tha Razzies to Fantasy victory in the Columbia Ballers league, I'd hit Maurice Morris anyway because HE'S FUCKING FINE. He's got short hair, a handsome face, and one of those short little beard things that I like, and as a professional athlete, I'm sure his body is banging. Mo Morris could pretty much hit himself some Razzy whichever way he so desired. Hell, I'd grit my teeth and let him do me up the butt if he wanted. ON THE FIRST DATE ("date"=Razzy for "cross paths while drunk at a bar and stagger home together"). I've got mad love for Maurice.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Fantasia, hot dudes, JerseyGirl, NFL football
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Js and Ps
DOB: June 15, 1977
Occupation: grad student, studly marathon runner, one of Germany's finest expats
Hometown: Hamburg, Germany
Current residence: Washington Heights, New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Well, I can't really hit Js and Ps's hotness because he's got a serious girlfriend who is also in grad school, and who I like quite a lot. She comes to my lab sometimes to use our analytical balance and tells me all sorts of stories about weird Drosophila mutations (gay flies, hypersexual flies, etc.) and fun tales of college debauchery in New Zealand. However, Js and Ps is nonetheless a fine fellow and my good Fantasy football buddy.
Every Sunday, without fail, Js and Ps is parked at the bar with me consuming large quantities of Bud Light. Over the years, Js and Ps has provided me with many hilarious catchphrases. In years past, his mantra was "Throw it to Alge!" Every year at the draft, I beg him to take Alge Crumpler so he can continue shouting that. Alas, Alge Crumpler is no longer involved with the Js and Ps's fortunes, but this year he won't shut up about "the mighty Lions." Here's a fun video of Js and Ps waxing poetic about the mighty Lions and the mighty Jon Kitna, the hot Tacoma, Washington native leading them both to touchdowns and to Jesus Christ.
There was one exception to Js and Ps's dedicated football watching and beer swilling: last Sunday, in which he ran the New York City marathon in 4 hours, 6 minutes, 59 seconds, finishing in 13,837th place. Not too shabby for a race that 39,000 people run every year! And to add to his accomplishment and general awesomeness, he showed up at the bar after running it! That is dedication.
Anyway, even though I smoked him in Fantasy football two weeks ago and I'm not sure he's forgiven me for taking his favorite running back in the world, LaDainian Tomlinson, in the draft this year for our keeper league, Js and Ps is a hot piece who is a wealth of knowledge about both the NFL and the now-defunct NFL Europe (and really, NFL Deutschland...the Germans love them some real football!) World Bowl champions the Hamburg Sea Devils. And he's a big old Razzyphile, and he has a Nature paper, too! Next to Beck's beer, he's Germany's finest export EVER.
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Fantasia, grad school bullshit, NFL football
Thursday, September 06, 2007
It's the most wonderful time of the year...
That's right...the National Football League officially begins its 2007 season in less than one hour, and I couldn't be more fucking stoked. Today, I got this e-mail in my inbox, and it served to increase my frenzied excitement (as well as almost lick my computer screen, until I remembered that I work in a lab full of live viruses and it's inadvisable to put my tongue on anything in here):
I'm not sure which of these two wants it more, but I can tell you which one I WANT more, and I'll give you a hint...it's not FAS* Manning's big brother. (*FAS="fetal alcohol syndrome")
The only thing that makes me take a break from my swooning over the hotness that is Reggie (Get in My) Bush for one second is the sting of knowing that he's not on my fantasy team. In spite of my leaguemate Unicorn Dick's attempts to trick me into drafting with my pussy rather than my years of Fantasy Football experience, I begrudgingly passed over Reggie to fill out my team with LaDanian Tomlinson. LT's hot too, and as an added bonus he hasn't stuck his dick in Kim Kardashian, but he just doesn't have that same debonair, seductive appeal that Reggie brings so effectively. Alas...Bush got snapped up in the first round before I could add him to my roster.
At least I'll get to watch his fine ass cutting all over the field in the face of the pathetic and hapless Colts defense. Seriously, Reggie can outrun and outblock a Pepsi machine. I think he's going to stomp his fly-ass cleats all over Indianapolis's pathetic excuse for a run defense. On the sidelines, Peyton's going to be pissed, shouting "fuck!" to himself as he is wont to do on every occasion where he can't shout his favorite derogatory alternative to the f-bomb ("idiot kicker!"). It's going to be awesome. I CANNOT WAIT!!!! I'm so ready for some football!
The only thing that makes me take a break from my swooning over the hotness that is Reggie (Get in My) Bush for one second is the sting of knowing that he's not on my fantasy team. In spite of my leaguemate Unicorn Dick's attempts to trick me into drafting with my pussy rather than my years of Fantasy Football experience, I begrudgingly passed over Reggie to fill out my team with LaDanian Tomlinson. LT's hot too, and as an added bonus he hasn't stuck his dick in Kim Kardashian, but he just doesn't have that same debonair, seductive appeal that Reggie brings so effectively. Alas...Bush got snapped up in the first round before I could add him to my roster.
At least I'll get to watch his fine ass cutting all over the field in the face of the pathetic and hapless Colts defense. Seriously, Reggie can outrun and outblock a Pepsi machine. I think he's going to stomp his fly-ass cleats all over Indianapolis's pathetic excuse for a run defense. On the sidelines, Peyton's going to be pissed, shouting "fuck!" to himself as he is wont to do on every occasion where he can't shout his favorite derogatory alternative to the f-bomb ("idiot kicker!"). It's going to be awesome. I CANNOT WAIT!!!! I'm so ready for some football!
Labels: Fantasia, hot dudes, NFL football, Reggie (Get In My) Bush
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Ori Schwartz
DOB: 1981?
Occupation: computer nerd
Hometown: New York, New York
Current residence: New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Ori graduated from Boston University in 2003 and went to work at IBM as a programmer for awhile. However, he decided to give the finger to corporate America, and spend all his time nerding out at one of his favorite pursuits: fantasy football. Thus, he combined both his expertise as a code-crunching nerd and a NFL stat-crunching nerd and developed FleaFlicker.com, a free software program for managing one's fantasy league. Being that I am the commissioner of my league, the Columbia Ballers, I give a flying fuck about these things.
In years past, my fantasy league has always relied on one of the free major fantasy football sites, either NFL.com or Yahoo.com. However, last year, this other guy started a league at school, and it became apparent that in the world of Columbia grad school fantasissimos, there were two divisions of play: the just-have-fun league, and the super hard core league. Obviously, my league is the latter. It has gotten this reputation because in years past, I've booted people from the league for not showing adequate dedication or level of play. I gave LL Cool Jew and BigBagel their walking papers two years ago for letting too many weeks go by where they let players on bye weeks take up active roster space. I rule with an iron fist, and anyone not up to snuff can go back to playing the fantasy equivalent of Pop Warner. As a result, the Columbia Ballers league is now full of expert fantasy players who trade, talk smack, and compete something fierce. The other league at school...well, let's just say that in their inaugural season, one guy released his entire team halfway through the season because he wasn't winning, and another guy who won the league only did so because, not knowing anything about football, some blog told him to take LaDanian Tomlinson in the draft and he coasted solely on LT's rushing production for the entire year. Amateurs.
Anyway, to further distinguish our league's prowess, we decided that this year, the Columbia Ballers were taking the next step and going keeper, which for all you non-fantasy ballers out there means we keep players in our rosters from year to year. That means a lot more work for me as commissioner and a more tricked-out software package to handle it (because God knows I ain't doing that shit on an Excel spreadsheet). In the past, being commissioner meant signing up for a NFL.com league and inviting everyone, and that's about it. Now I have to decide on scoring rules, keeper rules, trading rules, waiver wire rules, drafting rules, etc., and manage this in a way that doesn't cause an uproar with the other highly opinionated team owners. I don't mind the extra commissioner tasks, but the software I was much less sure about. The only way to run a keeper league through NFL.com is to pay $130 for their super fancy deluxe commissioner package, and even the people in our league who have graduated and thus have real jobs were reticent to cough up $12 for a share in that. However, someone tipped me off to this FleaFlicker.com site, and once I got there, I realized that I had found a brilliant solution to accommodate our needs while placating the cheapskates. There were a variety of reviews lauding FleaFlicker (especially because during the 2005 season, a lot of the major fantasy sites crashed due to an inability to handle the traffic, but FleaFlicker stayed operational and thus hot).
After taking a tour of the site and enjoying the artwork featuring a lot of cranky-looking, football-playing fleas, I was still unsure as to whether it could fulfill our keeper needs (check it year round, execute trades in the off-season, etc.), so I e-mailed my questions. Ori responded to me PERSONALLY. When I checked out his picture and saw that he looks like a skinnier, tech geek version of Vin Diesel, I made my first decision as commissioner for the 2007 season and opted for FleaFlicker. Besides, any website named after one of my favorite gimmick plays of all time rules. The flea-flicker play, in which the QB passes off the ball to a running back, who then laterals the ball back to the QB for a forward pass, has provided some of football's greatest moments. The gnarliest sports injury of all time--the snapping of Joe Theismann's femur--was during his attempt at executing a very ill-advised flea-flicker in the face of a blitzing, Lawrence Taylor-containing Giants defense. If you haven't seen this, you should, because it is some NASTY shit watching Theismann's career end as his shin literally breaks in half beneath the original LT's massive weight:
Anyway, props to Ori for making some dope-ass fantasy software and naming it after this. Oh, and did I mention that my fantasy draft is tonight? I got the number one pick in the random draft order, which is SO AWESOME! Hmmm...will I take LaDanian Tomlinson, or will I take Reggie (Get in My) Bush??? I have to be careful, because the last time I had a number one pick in the draft was in 2001, and that year I selected Kurt Warner, who promptly broke his fucking finger and spent the rest of the season reading his Bible and being whipped by that evangelical power lesbian he's married to, thus leaving me switching every week from pathetic quarterback to pathetic quarterback. With considerably more fantasy expertise under my belt at this point and the stinging memory of that season (as well as last season, when thanks to my lack of running backs and my roster being devastated by injuries, led me to finish second-to-last in the league), I have high hopes that I will not be doomed to repeat past mistakes. Rest assured, I will NOT be picking Kurt Warner ANYWHERE in the draft.
Labels: computer incompetence, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Fantasia, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, internet domination, nerd alert, NFL football, Reggie (Get In My) Bush
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