Sunday, November 22, 2009
Faith Hill is in league with Satan (there's no other explanation)
If there's anything that could fire me up enough to brush the dust off my blog and return to a more prolific state of active bitchery, it's Faith Hill killing my figurative boner for Sunday Night Football. Every week I've been watching this bitch and her tranny equine countenance trying to do her best "sexy Hank Williams" routine to segue between "Football Night in America" and the actual game. And every week I've been getting progressively more pissed off.
Faith Hill's "Drag Queen Kim Zolciak" look is not sexy, it does not make me believe that my rowdy friends have gathered anywhere nearby or accessible, and it most definitely does not get me ready for some football. On the contrary, it gets me ready for a cerebrovascular accident. Faith Hill is so talentless and dumb that she couldn't even write her own football song, and thus shamelessly stole "I Hate Myself for Loving You" from Joan Jett. This song has not been improved with new lyrics reminding me that the Gollum of sideline reporters, Andrea Kremer, will be prowling the sidelines and irritating me even more all evening. The entire atrocity is like when you're about to hook up with a really hot guy, only to achieve trouser access and realize he's rocking a golf pencil. That's hardly the way you want to start out a goddamn football game.
And this isn't just any movie about football, it's a movie about football starring Sandra Bullock, a veteran of about 8,000 shiteous chick flicks. So it makes sense for the NFL to give this movie some free press, as football fans are a demographic teeming with fans of The Lake House. What does not make sense is thinking that featuring Tim McGraw will butch this movie up for the NFL audience. Tim McGraw designed not one but TWO colognes. He probably doesn't even drive a damn truck, or if he does, it only has two-wheel drive. He's certainly no Toby Keith. He
Even worse, Al Michaels and Cris Collinsworth are contractually obligated to constantly name-check this appalling introduction. This evening, the punting unit took the field after a lackluster drive by the Bears' offense, and Al Michaels thought this would be a perfect opportunity to remind everyone what a sour note the game began on, stating, "Unlike Faith Hill, Jay Cutler has NOT been waiting all week for Sunday night...his confidence has definitely been shaken." Thanks for the Faith Hill-based analysis of Jay Cutler's humanity, Al. It really helps me understand the game better. One thing NFL fans has been missing and, in fact, clamoring for is more commentary revolving around FAITH HILL AND HER PLAGIARIZED STUPID FUCKING SUNDAY NIGHT FOOTBALL INTRO SONG!
Really, what marketing executive decided that the key to getting more people to watch Sunday Night Football on NBC was Faith Hill? I forgot that this bitch even fucking existed. Didn't Taylor Swift make her irrelevant? Nonetheless, she seems to be the executive producer of "Football Night in America," since the entire game is filled with Faith Hill references. In fact, it's not just NBC. The NFL can't seem to get enough of Faith Hill-related endorsements. Last week, I received an e-mail from NFL.com touting Tim McGraw's bit part in a movie about football.
I do not understand why the NFL and its affiliates have entered into this unholy alliance with Tim McGraw and Faith Hill. Granted, the NFL has made some questionable marketing choices in the past (such as sending me a Super Bowl XL Commemorative Steelers' Gear Catalog), but I'm completely at a loss as to why the celebrities leading their marketing efforts are these two washed-up pieces of country-fried trash. Seriously, these two must have sold their souls, or are in league with the Freemasons, or found a magic genie-filled lamp at some point, because there's just no other logical reason for them to be on my television ruining football.
Labels: cuntry singers, NFL football, ranting, sluts
Monday, February 02, 2009
Repent, for the end is nigh
My regular Bible reading (snicker) has suffered since I left Catholic school and discovered the joys of boozing and whoring, so I'm a little rusty on the Book of Revelations. I remember it was mostly a bunch of spooky prophetic gibberish about skanky pregnant broads and beasts and scrolls and diadems and sinister cowboys and other typical apocalyptic bullshit like that. And I'm pretty sure that one of the signs of our impending doom apart from from the whore of Babylon giving birth to a monster with seven heads or whatever occurred last night.
The Shitsburgh Stealers won the Super Bowl. AGAIN!!
I don't think I can convey forcefully enough my opinion of this football team. I HATE them. If the Steelers played against Al-Qaeda, I'd root for the terrorists. I fantasize about the entire team dying horribly in a freak plane crash. Or at least all getting injured in a freak bus accident in which they are all transfused with tainted blood and get AIDS. No, AIDS AND hep C! And MRSA! And on the way to the hospital they share an ambulance with a group of refugee Chinese chicken farmers and get bird flu too! Or going back in time and convincing all their mothers to get abortions. Or being hunted down, disemboweled, and consumed by a pack of velociraptors. Or any other gruesome and/or utterly miserable occurence which causes them to suffer mightily as their lives are absolutely destroyed. I hate the Steelers that much. I really, really, REALLY hate them.
That's why I was praying that for the sake of my blood pressure, the Arizona Cardinals would be good NFC West division-mates and avenge the great wrong perpetrated by the Shitsburgh Stealers and NFL referee Bill Leavy's officiating crew against the Seattle Seahawks in Super Bowl XL. I also prayed that Mike Tomlin would come to his senses and realize that as the hottest, most fuckable head coach in the NFL, he would be better served helming a team besides the Steelers (or the Cowboys, Patriots, or Colts). I thought my prayers had a shot, since Kurt Warner is obviously super-tight with Cheese Sauce Chrast. I guess Jesus was either busy or mad at me and Kurt for some reason, because he totally straight-up forsook Raymond James Stadium.
For a brief while, the Cardinals did threaten to make my year and even took a brief lead over the Steelers. I should have known that wasn't going to last. The Cardinals' fate turned grimmer with every camera shot of Brenda Warner and her hideous plastic weave praying fervently from the stands. Satan's triumph was complete thanks to the Steelers' old reliable Super Bowl secret weapon: bad officiating. The Cardinals' advance was thwarted by a referee who doesn't seem to know the difference between a legitimate fumble and an incomplete forward pass, and shortly thereafter the devil's minions rushed forward to seize their second Lombardi trophy IN THREE FUCKING YEARS. To add insult to injury, I was surrounded by bitchy pro-Steeler girls at the party I was at. One chick in a Polamalu jersey kept throwing me reproachful looks and going "HEEEEEY!" in this really annoying, whiny way, like I wasn't allowed to talk shit every time I said something disparaging about anyone in a Steelers uniform. This other broad kept talking to me about Super Bowl XL (big mistake) and advising me to "get over it." Not only do I hate the Steelers, I hate their dumb fans! And I hate their city, their uniforms, their attitude, and their terrible towels. I even hate ketchup, so that means I hate their damn stadium name! I hate the way they're too good to put logos on both sides of their helmets, and I hate the way they front like they're these working class heroes when in reality they are just DESPICABLE CHEATING ASSCLOWNS. I HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE THEM, and that's real talk.
At least I can find some solace in this picture of Michael Phelps taking a bong hit. For some reason, it makes me feel better knowing that Mr. Perfect Gold Medals is just another dumb 21-year-old who likes to pull tubes and party. Thank you, News of the World, for giving me some hope and peace in this time of tragedy and turmoil.
Labels: NFL football, ranting, retard rage, Stealers suck
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Making it rain Simpsons
I guess Adam née Pac Man Jones is really going out of his way to show that he has changed from his boozing, brawling, rainmaking, stripper-head-crushing, bouncer-paralyzing days. The other day he showed up at the (hateful, despicable) Cowboys' practice wearing a cozy, cute pair of Homer Simpson PJs under his practice shorts.
How could a guy with such cute jammies be capable of doing things like spitting in random women's faces, beating up valets and bouncers, smashing a stripper's head on the stage for having the audacity to pick up money he threw at her, and encouraging members of his entourage to exercise their trigger fingers? I guess that's what Pac Man–oh, I'm sorry, I meant ADAM–wants us all to think fresh on the heels of his most recent suspension for drunken violence (which, according to Commissioner Goodell, is really, seriously, no kidding his last chance to behave like a decent human being and keep his job for America's Most Loathsome Team). While this may have the unfortunate side effect of reducing the amount of intimidation he can project at opposing receivers, perhaps that is part of a clever strategy to lull them into a false sense of complacency.
I'm not fooled. In spite of Pac Man's adorable sleepwear/practice gear, I haven't forgotten that people have been paralyzed as a consequence of Pac Man not getting his way, and he primarily likes to direct his violent fits of rage at women who happen to be around. Back in Springfield, Homer Simpson is saying a colossal "d'oh!" that a dickbag like Pac Man Jones is sullying his eminent name and image.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, NFL football
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
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Unthanksgiving
At Thanksgiving, usually people spend a lot of time reflecting on all the fabulous things in their lives. Most people, no matter how hard-hearted or cynical, will at least take a few minutes to acknowledge the fact that it's great their houses haven't gone into foreclosure...yet, or that even if the Seahawks suck at least their number two favorite team the Titans are kicking ass, or that beer, dogs, and pepperoni pizza remain plentiful, or that or they got laid this month. I'm sure I'll have a misty little moment tomorrow when I've got my hand rammed up a giant Butterball's ass as I try to fill its body cavity with a tampon full of Pepperidge Farm stuffing. However, this year that moment will be brief because this year there are so many damn things to be pissed off and not one bit thankful about. In addition to obvious downers like the economy, the job market, my unnecessarily yet perpetually dramatic work environment, my Atlas-caliber workload, and the soul-manglingly depressing fact that I'm still in hell grad school, I've realized that this year, I'm more pissed off at the little things than usual.
Most Thanksgiving-time blog posts will be about the authors' gratitude for happy things like sugar cookies, Jesus and snow and free babysitters and other stuff Mormons like, watching Juno and Mamma Mia instead of dying of typhus in a concentration camp, the joys of making holiday feasts with semen, your ugly, breasticled husband, the inanity of Twittering, or tea, Byzantine costumes, and pussy, Hell, even Duff McKagan is blogging about how he's thankful for his wife, kids, friends, Seattle (which earns an eye-roll with a touch of side-eye from me), "Flight of the Conchords," and something Krist Novoselic wrote once about the '92 VMAs. Therefore, I thought I would take it upon myself to mention a few of the MANY things I am most certainly NOT pleased with, much less grateful for.
Peter Orszag's appointment as head of the Obama Office of Management and Budget
I have no idea what Orszag's job qualifications are to be America's top accountant other than he apparently passed the epic and invasive job application Obama was requiring prospective employees to fill out. One question the comprehensive vetting process missed, however, was "Is your haircut a variation on a nine-year-old boy twenty years ago?" Peter Orszag is like a halfassed Bob Saget impersonator rocking the same bowl-above, shaved-below look my brother rocked to the opening of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movie in like 1990. If he can balance the budget in these trying times, then props to him, but he ought to celebrate with a new style. I hear they make some really fashionable toupeés these days.
Kanye West has a new album out
I've begrudgingly liked a few Kanye West songs in the last year or so, and this has disturbed me. Granted, they were mostly songs that also featured Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter, Clifford "T.I." Harris, or Jay "Young Jeezy" Jenkins, but still...normally I bear such a passionate hatred for Kanye West himself that this precludes me liking anything he's associated with. In fact, after admitting that I LOVED the "Lollipop" remix, I proceeded to convince myself that the "Kanye West" credit on the song was a misprint and it was really Faheem "T-Pain" Najm trying a new setting on his vocorder. Now that Kanye has a new album out, though, I get the feeling I'm going to be hearing a lot of Lil' Wayne, T.I., and Young Jeezy-free Kanye jams, and this doesn't bode well for 2009.
The 'Sprout is out
I've previously discussed my disdain for this blogger going by "Writersprout," because not only is her writing appallingly poor, she really pulled a head-job on my lesbian apprentice Twathopper. And I don't mean she gave Twathopper head; I mean this bitch dragged Twathopper to every open-mic night at every fucking intentionally dingy "performance space" in Williamsburg and the Lower East Side, probably while jabbering incessantly about jogging, subletting, and cupcakes, and then, after Twathopper went through all this pussy-grooming trouble, hooked up with some other bitches instead. People who manage to combine the world's most obnoxiously contrived personality with a track record of doing mean things to my friends are high up on my Enemy List. However despite my utter contempt for her, thanks to Writersprout I've had endless comic material for my friends' amusement, culminating in a recent blog I started paying homage to her upcoming graduate degree in popular fictional creative non-fiction (no joke) via a serious of riveting mystery stories. Sadly, before I could publish the first of the Brooklyn Cupcake Marathon Mysteries, Writersprout went and defaulted on her web hosting bill! How am I supposed to launch a parody Writersprout's insufferable, Roget-augmented wordsmithery when her site redirects to a "Error-Deadbeat Hosting Customer" page? You can still read her lame blog about subletting for fun, but it's just not the same. Thanks a lot, Writersprout, for so cruelly snatching away my dream to spend a lot of time ragging on you hard.
Beyoncé is SASHA FIERCE
This wasn't cool when Garth Brooks did it, so I don't know why Beyoncé thinks she can get away with it. Apart from acquiring a name that sounds even MORE like some kind of tranny hooker, Sasha Fierce and Beyoncé are virtually indistinguishable. They both do the same kind of fat-ass-chunk-shaking dance moves, they both dress like they're on their way to a black-tie leotard formal with the upper crust spice magnates from Dune, and they both sing the same songs about how dumping assholes and buying your own jewelry are the hallmarks of female empowerment. Would Beyoncé/Sasha Fierce please proceed to get Aretha Franklin fat like LL Cool Jew has predicted she will, and stop bothering us with her wack repackaging of the same old bullshit.
Besides, there's only one R&B superstar who can pull off an alter-ego, and that's only in the context of a musical soap opera about adultery, gay preachers, elderly neighbors with erectile dysfunction, midget-cuckolded highway patrolmen, lesbian diner employees, and mysterious packages. In other words, the only person with the combined musical and acting chops to effect such a feat is none other than the legendary and incomparable ROBERT SYLVESTER KELLY playing the Beretta-wielding Chicagoan Sylvester.
The 2008 Seahawks
The Seachickens are 2-9, and about to get a festive Thanksgiving ass-raping from Tony Romo and T.O. to commemorate Mike Holmgren's final season as coach. I don't think I need to elaborate further.
The 2008 Dallas Cowboys, Pittsburgh Steelers, New England Patriots, and Indianapolis Colts
I would hope that if my team is sucking stank Sasha Fierce balls, at least the teams I loathe would be too. Despite occasional flashes of glee I felt when I thought Tony Romo was out tampon shopping with Jessica Simpson for the season, or I realized that Ben Roethlisberger's abilities are embarrassingly overrated, or Tom Brady went down crying like a bitch in week 1, or Peyton Manning was going to be permanently overshadowed by his younger brother Eli "Fetal Alcohol Syndrome" Manning, these assholes all seem to perservere. All are still in the running for their divisions (except maybe the Colts, but they've still got a very good shot at a wild card slot), and all are still existing solely to piss me off and perturb me. Oh, and did I mention the Cowboys are playing the Seahawks on Thanksgiving? I can only pray that Jessica Simpson shows up at the game and shines her Cowboys-disrupting energy full force on Texas Stadium during the game.
Now I have to go to work, but keep checking back. I am sure that all day I'm going to be thinking of stuff I'm NOT thankful for, so I'll update this list through the next couple days. In the meantime, if you are as depressed as I am with the state of the world today, I urge you to make like me and eat the pain away. Happy Unthanksgiving!
Labels: assholes, gluttony, NFL football, politics, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, rap, Robert Sylvester Kelly, Seahawks
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, October 14, 2008
The silver lining
Where is the tabloid magazine footage of one Ms. Jessica Simpson wearing one of her vile pink Cowboys jerseys marching snottily into the stadium to watch her excessively lauded boyfriend Tony Romo get owned by the likes of the Arizona Cardinals? I was expecting to see Jessica rocking a giant dipteran pair of sunglasses and looking like a heavily Mystic tanned, Cowboys logo-adorned, Barbified version of Gregor Samsa with lots of Texas-sized hair extensions and a fetish for handbags large enough to stow a side of beef in, strolling into her luxury suite ready to spread her myiasitic plague of fumbling, badly held snaps, and interceptions to her man once again.
Oddly, Jessica Simpson was nowhere to be found when the Cowboys lost to the the Cards, as she was off singing cuntry music to rednecks in North Carolina at some lame NASCAR race. I found this hard to believe, since it seems that Jessica will neither shut up about Tony Romo or be fewer than 100 yards from him at any given time, but apparently she needed more money to spend in the NFLshop.com Cowboys team store, so she was off titillating the Dale, Sr.-worshiping elite by suggestively working this nozzle-thingy prior to yowling at them in her affected hick twang:
Proving, however, that she's really got her accursed claws deep into Romo's nutsack, he sprained his pinky in spite of her absence and is out for the month! As Brad Johnson, who is currently competing with Kerry Collins, Jeff Garcia, and Brian Griese for the title of New Vinny Testaverde, will now be taking snaps for the Cowboys, I couldn't be happier. For one thing, I hate the fucking Cowboys. For another, any misery befalling NFC teams besides the absolute disgrace that the Seahawks' season has been thus far is fine by me. I encourage Jessica Simpson to continue dating Tony Romo so that her malignant misfortune can eat him up like a cancer. This is the silver lining to what has been a very depressing first quarter of the NFL season.
Oh, and Jessica...just in case it doesn't work out with Tony Romo, I hear Ben Roethlisberger is single. I'm sure the Shitsburgh Steelers would really benefit from your inherent anti-quarterback destructive powers. I know you and Tony are tight, but just in case he gets sick of sitting on his couch watching his team lose while you jabber about purses and fashion during his convalescence, you might think about giving Big Ben a call. Just a suggestion.
Labels: I LOVE IT, media whores, NFL football, sluts, sportsmen, Stealers suck
Monday, October 06, 2008
My brave, stoic, it's-all-gonna-be-okay face
No, it's not because of the failing economy, the War in Iraq, the lack of affordable health care for all Americans, or any other reason why it sucks to exist in the present era...it's because I had to sit in a New York City football bar after the New York football Giants summarily smote the Seahawks' ruin on the proverbial mountainside while wearing a Seahawks jersey. I think the picture my friend I'mNotRussianGoddammit took of me sometime in the third quarter sums it all up precisely:
I realize that the above photograph is certainly not the most attractive photo of me that's ever been committed to iPhone. However, it is one of the few photographs in existence of me putting on a brave face in spite of the shameful fact that I'm wearing the jersey of and cheering for a team that didn't even show up to play. Nobody took a picture of me after the Seahawks got their asses kicked by the Packers last January, but it would have looked something like this (although I take back what I said about my attractiveness in this state, because if memory serves correctly, .the Seahawks may not have shown up at Lambeau Field, but a hot dude with a thing for blondes showed up at the bar I watched the game at, took me home, and consoled me with an epic dicking). Sadly, I did not get laid by a sympathetic Giants fan, and spent my evening watching the various NFL pundits recap exactly how much stank ass the Seahawks sucked. During "Football Night in America" halftime, Bob Costas announced that "the Giants just CLOBBERED the Seahawks," and I actually thought this was an understatement. The Giants bent the Seahawks over and ass-raped them like a prag in a prison shower.
Hopefully the Sea-chickens will start acting more like the birds of prey for which they are named and save our season by kicking some Cheesehead ass next week, because my mental state can't take many more episodes like the one that occurred yesterday.
Labels: NFL football, Seahawks, tragedy, you're ugly
Sunday, October 05, 2008
Ask not for whom the bell tolls, Dallas Cowboys
...because thanks to your quarterback's love life, it tolls for fucking thee! As of last weekend, the Cowboys are no longer undefeated thanks to the Washington Anti-Native American Racial Slurs, and we all know who to thank. No, it's not the dynamic new offense brought to the Redskins by their new coach, Seahawks legend Jim Zorn (!). It's not the defensive upgrades the Redskins made by adding the likes of Jason Taylor to their roster. In fact, this Redskins victory has nothing to do with the Redskins at all. It doesn't even really have anything to do with the Cowboys directly, at least not with their game on the field.
No, Tony Romo's girlfriend AKA the Cowboys' bad luck charm showed up to work her nefarious magic on their record:
Though she's not wearing that loathsome pink jersey which originally cursed the Cowboys and drew the disdain of the highly opinionated Terrell Owens, it appears that Jessica showing up AT ALL is enough to usher in a Cowboys loss. I sincerely hope that Jessica shows up for every Cowboys game for the rest of the season because a 3-14 Cowboys season is something that will always make me smile contentedly. Please continue standing by your man, Sloppy Tits.
Labels: celebrities, media whores, NFL football, sluts
Saturday, September 20, 2008
The Cowboys' offense can start sucking any time now
The other night Jessica Simpson, a woman whose existence I like to block out of my mind altogether, was performing at some show in Vegas. Yes, for some inexplicable reason, some presumably hearing-impaired people actually pay to listen to this bitch sing, and she takes the opportunity between songs to gab about her love life.
Tony is a great quarterback, but he's a better boyfriend. I'm seriously proud of myself for letting him into my life. Through all the chaos and torment and everything I go through, I can lay in his arms and finally rest.Chaos? Torment? Since when was Jessica Simpson a fucking character in a Greek tragedy? Bitch, the last time I checked you were not named Iphigenia or Hecuba or anything like that! The only Jessica Simpson-related thing that can accurately be described as "chaos and torment" is watching one of her acting performances. Getting slaughtered by the US Weekly fashion police for wearing some heinous polyester Ken Paves extensions may be a little embarrassing, but it's hardly worthy of being described with such grave, dramatic language. The last time I checked, Jessica was famous for the undeserved feat of being a big-titted caterwauling dumbass, not suffering for all eternity in perdition. Frankly, the closest she's come to meeting those standards are perpetuating horrifying scenes such as this one with her beloved:
Furthermore, I guess Jessica should be proud of herself for her taste in boyfriends, since Tony Romo is assuredly an upgrade from her previous paramour, King of the Douchebags John Mayer. She should also be proud for getting Tony to stick with her in spite of the fact that she is a game-killer of the highest order. Last year, her pink jersey-wearing presence fucked up Tony's passing game so severely that even T.O. complained about it. In fact, her attendance at Cowboys games was so universally regarded as the cause of Tony Romo's late-season fuckups that The Onion wrote an extra-believable story about it and an entire website was founded dedicated to supplying fans of teams opposing the Cowboys with Jessica Simpson masks. Even Perez Hilton was supporting this opinion, and trust me when I say that ridiculous gossip fags are not known for their NFL coverage.
Given her history of being viciously reviled by the notoriously, obnoxiously bellicose Cowboys fans, Jessica Simpson has some cojones to be flapping her big frog mouth publicly about Tony Romo letting her "lay in his arms and finally rest." Well, either she has stones of steel or she's too stupid to realize that every last despicable human being wearing a despicable Cowboys jersey will seek to hang her head from the ramparts of Texas Stadium if Tony Romo throws any picks after spouting off about this. Since Romo is not on my Fantasy team and I hate the Cowboys, that can't happen soon enough. Keep up the good work, Jessica.
Given her history of being viciously reviled by the notoriously, obnoxiously bellicose Cowboys fans, Jessica Simpson has some cojones to be flapping her big frog mouth publicly about Tony Romo letting her "lay in his arms and finally rest." Well, either she has stones of steel or she's too stupid to realize that every last despicable human being wearing a despicable Cowboys jersey will seek to hang her head from the ramparts of Texas Stadium if Tony Romo throws any picks after spouting off about this. Since Romo is not on my Fantasy team and I hate the Cowboys, that can't happen soon enough. Keep up the good work, Jessica.
Labels: media whores, NFL football, retard rage, sluts
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
NFL Field Pass isn't going to help you here
I was just doing my usual Sunday morning last minute NFL catch-up before finalizing my Fantasy roster and heading off to my regular bar in the Village of the West. I was reading some article about how Kerry Collins is making his 15th comeback as a NFL starter to replace Vince Young in Tennessee and was snickering to myself about how all of a sudden veteran backups are in vogue. Pat Kirwin seems to think Matt Cassel is a disaster waiting to happen, but that (Puyallup native) Damon Huard, Kerry Collins, and Brian Griese are going to turn the Chiefs, Titans, and Bucs into offensive powerhouses. I was distracted from jokes I was making in my head about the Patriots jumping on board the grizzled old QB bandwagon and signing Vinny Testaverde when I noticed the ad on the side of the page that turned my smile into a really, really, REALLY pissed-off frown. The ad was touting NFL Field Pass, the NFL's online radio broadcast-on-demand service, for fans who live away from their team's city. I have to say, they couldn't have picked a better example of a fan living in a city downright hostile to his team:
If you are a fan of the Shitsburgh Stealers residing in the 253, 206, or 360 area codes, then you have bigger problems than not being able to hear your games broadcast on local sports radio. I've heard a couple people say things like, "Oh, there are hardly any Seahawks fans. Nobody cares about the Seahawks." NOT TRUE. In the glorious P-N-Dub, people are obsessed with the Seahawks. We fly the 12th man flag atop the Space Needle, the Tacoma Dome, and any other imposing structure we can think of. People travel from Canada and Oregon to go to Seahawks games. Qwest Field is consistently at capacity and full of Hawks fans in their full regalia. The Rainier flows as freely as the rain the Pacific Northwest is famous for. We invest large sums of money in jerseys no matter how dire the season (I own a BROCK HUARD jersey, for God's sake) and neon green Deion Branch gloves and beer cozies and every other bit of Seahawks crap you can think of. And if there is one team we uniformly HATE in Seattle, it's the fucking Steelers because of their CLEARLY rigged victory in Super Bowl XL. Granted, they won mostly because of bad penalty calling, but it's a lot easier to hate the Steelers than Bill Leavy and his crew of inept officials. Besides, the Steelers were assholes about it! They acted like they actually won fairly, rather than reaped the benefits of fake touchdowns given to Ben Roethlisberger and legitimate touchdowns taken from the Seahawks thanks to phantom offensive pass interference calls.
If you are the dude in the above ad, you better thank God you can listen to NFL Field Pass in the comfort of your own home, because there's no way you are walking out among the Washingtonians with your Steelers laptop dressed in your generic Steelers jersey and wielding your giant black-and-yellow foam finger. Venturing out in public like that would virtually guarantee that some Vitamin R-swilling 12th men probably whip your ass mercilessly with your own Terrible Towel, especially if you dared do so outside the city limits of the comparatively more pussified, politically correct Seattle proper. In my hometown of Puyallup, for example, daring to wear such an outfit at the Roadhouse Tavern would probably ensure that some scowling pick up-driving redneck would drag you away from the pull-tab bar to give you a vicious beatdown in the privacy of the outdoor smoking shelter. At the very least, some Seahawks loyalist would spit on your food. If you are a Steelers fan in Seattle, how about rather than subscribing to NFL Field Pass, you GO BACK TO FUCKING PITTSBURGH?!
Labels: NFL football, P-N-Dub, retard rage, Stealers suck
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
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
I think I'll stick to the sit-on-my-ass-drinking-beer-and-occasionally-getting-laid workout plan
Today for some reason, Gmail's contextual ad serving software read all my football-related e-mails and decided that this would be a link I might click on:
Wow, I bet that's a grueling workout. I've always wondered how the last couple seasons former Seahawk Shaun Alexander has managed to be about as fleet-footed as a lame old cart-horse plodding along on its final journey to the glue factory. Seriously, he should rename himself "Boxer" after that Orwellian horse who found himself removed to "the knackers" or whatever thanks to this "football training and speed program." Thanks to Google's ads, I too can have the dragging, sputtering speed of the NFL's slowest unemployed former top-tier running back. The stack.com Shaun Alexander Workout is exactly what a stud tailback needs in order to follow a league MVP-caliber season with a year of mediocrity, a contract release, and headlines like these:
Wow, I bet that's a grueling workout. I've always wondered how the last couple seasons former Seahawk Shaun Alexander has managed to be about as fleet-footed as a lame old cart-horse plodding along on its final journey to the glue factory. Seriously, he should rename himself "Boxer" after that Orwellian horse who found himself removed to "the knackers" or whatever thanks to this "football training and speed program." Thanks to Google's ads, I too can have the dragging, sputtering speed of the NFL's slowest unemployed former top-tier running back. The stack.com Shaun Alexander Workout is exactly what a stud tailback needs in order to follow a league MVP-caliber season with a year of mediocrity, a contract release, and headlines like these:
From NFL.com:
From the Seattle Post-Intelligencer:
From CBSSports.com:
While it's nice that Shaun Alexander really wants a new job and is doing everything in his power to convince the sports reporters of the world that he's a hot commodity (right down to implying that he's going to sign with the Bengals and start answering to "tres siete"–groan), he has yet to make it official with any team. That's likely because the "Shaun Alexander Workout" has resulted in so much speed and agility that I could probably outrun and outcut him. In fact, I could do so while smoking a cigarette and eating a slice of pepperoni pizza.
I figure that if Shaun can sell a workout in spite of his failed NFL career, I might as well get on board. I love any kind of workout that leads to unfit slowness, and I'm always on board for a good old-fashioned improbable get-rich-quick scheme. So keep an eye out atop your Gmail for the "Razzy Workout." This consists of Heineken-to-mouth arm curls, aerobic television watching, and cardio-fucking. As an added bonus, I'll throw in some tips on how to boost metabolism (ie: give in to your unfettered rage at stupidity) and protein shake recipes (read: advanced fellatio techniques). Frankly, this is probably as if not more effective than Shaun's exercise regimen. Certainly it will at least allow you to make up stories about flirting with the Saints, Bengals, and Broncos to make your slow ass seem more employable like Shaun is doing. I think it's going to be a big hit.
Labels: exercise drama, fat fucks, intentional buffoonery, NFL football, Razzification, Seahawks
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
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Don't hate the player; steal his bags
Tatum Bell is one of those running backs whose actual career in the National Football League parallels his career in virtually everyone's Fantasy league. Overblown news blurbs touting his potential (but never seen) abilities on-field result in his starting the season comfortably on someone's roster. Then, after his inability to do anything besides fumble the ball results in negligible offensive production, his ass is disgustedly and unceremoniously flung back to the mercy of the waiver wire.
Well, it seems after learning that the Detroit Lions had replaced his useless ass with Rudi Johnson following yet another lackluster preseason, Tatum Bell was a little pissed off that he wasn't going to be allowed to consistently rack up negative yardage this year. Instead of getting together with (Central Washington University alum and former Seahawk) Jon Kitna for some serenity prayers about the situation, he decided to respond with all the grace and tact of an irascible third grader.
Tatum stole Rudi's bags and drove them to his girlfriend's house. I can just imagine Tatum Bell rubbing his hands sinuously, or perhaps stroking his goatee with a villainous air, saying, "Rudi Johnson, you may have taken my job, but I'm about to take your precious Perry Ellis boxer shorts! Mwahahahahaha."
Too bad for Tatum's diabolical scheme that the Lions have video surveillance in their team headquarters, and he was quickly pegged as the culprit. His girlfriend brought back the bags, after Tatum emptied them of Rudi's unmentionables, $200, and some credit cards. Rudi later claimed it was "real shyster, conniving stuff." I would disagree that the plot was actually pretty poorly conceived and may have even been a big misunderstanding, if you believe Tatum's feeble protests of "I ain't no thief." Rudi Johnson does not.
This all bodes ill for Tatum Bell. After being released by the Lions and painted as a petty underwear thief, I doubt he's going to get picked up by any other team anytime soon. There's also the matter of him being a totally shiteous running back. Shaun Alexander is going to find a home for 2008 before Tatum Bell's bitch ass does.
Labels: crime and punishment, NFL football, ridiculous absurdity, vengeance is sweet
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
The Matt Leinart of morbidly obese stank-ass dogs
I've been so busy laboring over Labor Day weekend that I've been missing lots of important news. I did manage to hear about Sarah Palin, but somehow I missed the fact that Chad Johnson legally changed his last name to Ocho Cinco! Such an oversight is inexcusable, so I resolved last night to catch up on much of the news I missed.
Another piece of news I missed thanks to my overworked state is the fact that Matt Leinart lost out on the starting job in Arizona to Kurt Warner. KURT FUCKING WARNER! I have a lengthy history of scoffing derisively at Kurt Warner, beginning in 2002 when I wasted my first round Fantasy draft pick on him, only to have him break his pinky and spend the rest of the season on the bench seeking solace in Jesus and pouting. I'm not sure what better says "first-round bust" than Kurt Warner's Chunky Soup-cursed, aged, Bible-thumping, power lesbian-controlled self is beating Leinart out for the number one slot in trading camp. Consequently, there are a few articles about boo-hoo, it's hard for young quarterbacks to adjust to playing at the professional level, and don't call Matt Leinart a first-round bust QUITE yet.
Even former Seahawk Trent Dilfer shows up in an article to make excuses for Leinart's lackluster performance so far, noting that he could never have won a Super Bowl with the Baltimore Ravens if he had listened to those critics. He omits the fact that his team ran roughshod in that Super Bowl thanks to total defensive domination that would have shut the Giants out if they hadn't gotten lucky on a kickoff return. The bulk of the Ravens' scoring in that game came from Jamal Lewis running the ball, long-yardage Matt Stover field goals, returned interceptions, and a stellar kickoff return to answer the Giants' sole return TD. Trent Dilfer won the Super Bowl by bringing the same mediocre offense he had been known for all season, so if I were Matt Leinart, I would encourage Trent Dilfer to cease and desist with the comparisons. The last time I checked, Ray Lewis, Tony Siragusa, and Sam Adams were not playing for the Cardinals, so unlike Dilfer, Leinart can't even pretend at greatness on the back of a more talented defense.
I've been calling Matt Leinart a first-round bust since he first blazed into the NFL, because at the very least I suspect Paris Hilton's crabs can wreak some serious havoc with a player's game, even if he is a product of the NFL-friendly USC system. Nonetheless, professional and amateur pundits alike have been defending Leinart as the future of the Arizona Cardinals. I can only hope that's true, because it's partly thanks to the Cards' perennial ineptitude that the mighty Seahawks have taken five straight division titles. The Cards' consistent ass-sucking has made the NFC West into the notoriously pathetic shitshow it is today, and any future in which Leinart is allowed to continue with his lack of offensive production is one I can eagerly anticipate. The Seahawks may have one of the hottest defenses in the NFL right now, but I'd be deluding myself if I made similar claims about their offense right now. We have no wide receivers, an unproven rookie tight end, a kicker controversy (which until now I had never fathomed would even exist), and an untested two-back (or three, depending on what happens with T.J. Duckett) running game that I'm frankly awfully nervous about. Nonetheless, our patchy offense is going to STILL destroy Arizona, because they can always be counted on to suck that bad. Thanks to Trent Dilfer comparing Leinart's weak arm strength to Joe Montana and Steve Young, there are still a lot of people who will doggedly expect Leinart to be a Hall of Fame quarterback someday, and this all but guarantees Arizona will be in the trash heap of the NFC for years to come. I disagree, and rather than a berth in the Hall of Fame, I expect Leinart will be known by the three I's: interceptions, injuries, and infections from Paris Hilton's herpetic cooze. The Cardinals have no hope. I look forward to this bright and cheerful future.
In all this contemplating Matt Leinart's already unremarkable career, however, I realized that he reminds me of something. At first, I couldn't think of what it is, but I knew it wasn't my jeep, my sound, my car, or my bank account (okay, maybe the bank account, since it's EMPTY). Then it hit me: Matt Leinart reminds me of my nefarious pug Chingy!
This similarity isn't because they really look alike, but essentially they are kindred spirits. Chingy! and Matt Leinart are both disgusting assholes. They both think they are hot shit, despite the fact that facts demonstrate otherwise. They are both useless in terms of making any meaningful contributions to their teams. They both stink, and I've never smelled Matt Leinart, but I have smelled eau de men's locker room, and I think it's a safe assumption that when he doesn't smell like sweaty jock straps, he submerges himself in Drakkar. Frankly, even if he smells like fresh baked cinnamon rolls all the time, his stats warrant the use of the term "stinks" so it all applies. They are both encouraged in their arrogance by fawning admirers who rave about how cute and wonderful and underrated they are and make excuses on their behalf. In fact, when they behave badly (by, say, eating homeless guy shit, vomiting up used tampons, ejaculating on my living room floor, or partying in a hot tub full of Arizona skanks instead of rehabbing one's shoulder), their admirers excuse and venerate it. If the aforementioned floor ejaculation incident hadn't motivated me to get Chingy! neutered, I'm certain that like Leinart he'd be fathering bastard Pug mixes all over my neighborhood.
I think I could go on all day about this, but unfortunately I now have to take Matt Leinart for a stroll around the park, where most likely he'll eat decomposing rodent, injure himself, or disdainfully wander off, forcing me to scale a hill or break into a construction site to retrieve him.
CHONGAY CHONG, Matt Leinart!
Labels: assholes, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross, NFL football, retard rage
Friday, August 29, 2008
TGIAlmost NFL SEASON!!!
The last couple days I've been battling an annoying cold, and so have been taking it easy. I'm used to colds, as they are an occupational hazard of being in the rhinovirus business, but that doesn't mean I enjoy being stuck in my hovel of an apartment nursing one. To distract myself from feeling crummy, I decided to rely on my most treasured remedy for boredom and discontent: sweet, sweet television. There wasn't much on, so I spent my time flipping back and forth between the Jets and Giants games.
Preseason football never does much for me. It's mildly useful for deciding which eleventh round picks to make in my fantasy draft, but otherwise, watching the commentators scramble for background on the likes of Erik Ainge (he was an All-American in high school and Danny Ainge is his uncle!) and Mario Manningham (he smoked pot in college and scored a pitiful 6 on his Wonderlic exam) in lieu of actual stats is pretty boring. I tried hard to glean some useful information from these games, and this is what I got:
- Holy shit, LaMont Jordan plays for the Pats now? I was so disgusted with this asshole that I had hoped he'd be forgotten in the purgatory of Oakland for time eternal. Every year that fool is ranked as a top running back, and every year he averages around 15 yards per game with a measly one or two touchdowns all season. I know this from personal experience, since I wasted an early fantasy draft pick on LaMont Jordan two years ago and his woeful underperformance along with a string of unlucky quarterback injuries singlehandedly sunk my team to second-worst in the league. I think at one point that year I was so frustrated with his consistent lack of production that I actually benched him in favor of Correll Buckhalter, and it doesn't get much more pathetic or desperate than that. Oakland's stadium, the Black Hole, is aptly named with regard to the Raiders LaMont Jordan-reliant running game (and, actually, their entire offense). I can only hope that he brings some of that entirely overrated ass-suckery to poison the loathsome Patriots.
- David Carr is awesome as a preseason quarterback who will see no playing time unless Eli "Fetal Alcohol Syndrome" Manning is grievously injured. Since FAS doesn't have to worry about losing his mental sharpness to if he gets banged up on account of not having much to begin with, he'll have to suffer some sort of Theismann-esque injury for Carr to take the field again and bring the offense that made me forget the Texans even existed.
- The Giants have a tackle named Guy Whimper, which is quite possibly the least intimidating football name I've ever heard. I guess as long as the NFL can accommodate players with inordinately awesome names like Mack Strong, they can bring in the polar opposite too. Not surprisingly, Guy Whimper lasted only a couple of plays before being carted back to the locker room with turf toe.
- Watching New England's third string and practice squad guys lose in the preseason is infinitely less satisfying than watching their starters lose in the Super Bowl.
- Jet Favre manages to annoy me even when he's just standing on the sidelines, as the Associated Press puts it, "arms folded, jersey slightly untucked, and safe from harm." He truly deserves a spot in the hall of fame, as he's managed to accomplish what few others have: he can piss me off without doing anything at all.
- Jets commentators can still find approximately 45 minutes worth of play-by-play regarding the nothing that Brett Favre is engaged in. "You see a cagey veteran like Favre really knows how to watch the game with a critical eye" and "He's really made the transition well into that green Jets uniform" (as opposed to the dramatically different Packers green uniform) were among the deft observations made last night by Greg Buttle during the broadcast.
- PRESEASON FOOTBALL–ESPECIALLY IN WEEK 4–IS FUCKING BORING NO MATTER HOW HARD YOU TRY TO LIKE IT OR HOW MUCH YOU LIKE FOOTBALL IN GENERAL!
Once I got too bored to continue, I decided to go to the trusty internets and read about football instead. The cherry on top of my relatively boring night of trying to care about the deepest recesses of the Jets and Giants rosters was seeing ESPN's predictions concerning the 2008 Seahawks:
YES!!! Once again, the Hawks are heralded to take a division title! Okay, so it IS the NFC West, which is probably the most cream puff division in the entire National Football League, but I am always excited to see a Seattle sports team get a positive preseason write-up from non-Seattle media. I always like hearing phrases like "the Seahawks should feast on a weak division in Mike Holmgren's final year" and "This is Mike Holmgren's final year as Seahawks coach...expect him to go out in style." Certainly seeing the Seahawks characterized as "always consistent" and "one of the finer teams in the NFC" is a considerable improvement upon recent preseason predictions for other Seattle sports teams ("Mariners poised for disappointment" and "Sonics move to Oklahoma City.") Besides, winning is still winning, even if it's only against the dregs of the NFL better known as the 49ers and the Cardinals. I also wholeheartedly endorse any instance of (Tacoma native) Marcus Trufant being featured as the face of the Seahawks.
The next nine days are going to fucking CRAWL by. September 7th cannot come fast enough.
Labels: I LOVE IT, NFL football, Seahawks, sportsmen, TV
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
May the fattest ass win
I don't watch "Dancing with the Stars" because dancing is dumb and stupid, especially that ballroom crap. I remember one time I was forced by some girls to watch Strictly Ballroom and I wanted to strictly murder everyone in the movie. Watching it with a bunch of has-beens (even totally awesome alumni from the greatest show in the history of television like Jennie "Kelly Taylor" Garth and Ian "Steve Sanders" Ziering) does nothing for me save elicit homicidal impulses, so I haven't watched more than five minutes of this show for the good of my fellow man.
In spite of my reaction to "Dancing with the So-Called 'Stars,'" a lot of people love this shitshow and thus even CNN writes articles about who is going to be on it. This season there's mostly a bunch of people I don't care about fitting the traditional DWTS archetypes. There's the gay ex-teen heartthrob (Lance Bass), the aging soap star (Susan Lucci), the failed vocational reality stars (Rocco DiSpirito), some comedian nobody's heard of (Jeffrey someone), old people you forgot were even alive (Cloris Leachman, Ted McGinley...although I have mad love for Frau Blücher and I'm glad she's keeping busy), random athletes (the hot-ass Misty May and the already forgotten Maurice Green), a retired NFL player (Warren Sapp), some former TV host/Maxim bikini slag (Brooke Burke), and some undeservedly famous slut (Kim Kardashian). I would like to know why of this entire crowd, Kim Kardashian's fat skank ass is getting the top billing when WARREN FUCKING SAPP is on it! For one thing, I doubt Warren Sapp will have the debonair grace that a classy guy like Jerry Rice brought to the show. For another, Warren Sapp is going to be the most entertaining contestant on DWTS of all fucking time.
I love Warren Sapp because he deserves a place of honor in the NFL's shit-talking hall of fame. This is a man who once claimed that opposing fans across the country were conspiring to poison his food to the point where he forced his friends to switch plates with him at restaurants. He once called Packers coach Mike Sherman "a lying shit-eating hound" and threatened to kick his ass. He incurred the rage of normally smiling (but nonetheless loathsome) Shitsburgh running back Jerome Bettis by skipping through a line of warming-up Steelers, and proceeded to do the same thing later to the Colts. He roughed up referees and then comparing them to slave masters. He's called out everyone from Jerramy Stevens to Michael Strahan to Brett Favre, and was one of the hardest-hitting defensive tackles in the NFL before he retired from the woeful Oakland Raiders at the end of last season with the comment, "It would've been real nice to retire with 100 sacks and all that, but I'm okay with 96.5. It's still triple digits, right?"
This also seems a good opportunity to address Warren Sapp's forays into the world of song-and-dance-related entertainment, specifically his role as Trina's philandering boyfriend in her video for "Da Baddest Bitch." Okay, so he may not have danced or done anything besides sit in his home theater and smoke a stogie watching game tape in the video, but conceivably one could dance to this song. The premise of this video asks us to believe that not only are Trina and Warren Sapp cohabitating, but that they use a Brett Favre Packers jersey for their doormat and have lots of cute pictures of them snuggling around the place for Trina to trash in response to his supposed infidelity. Given Trina's self-conferred title, it was decidedly unwise for Warren to supposedly cheat on her, thus prompting her to lay waste to all his prize possessions. Surely, however, Warren's collection of framed Buccaneers' jerseys are expendible when faced with the prospect of Trina's threats to "make you eat it with my period on." Frankly, I'd rather have a bioterrorism-inclined Eagles fan spit hep A on my porterhouse any day than earn my red wings with a hypercritical, Wedgwood china-throwing "curious bitch who took off to get broke off by the baby's dad."
Kim Kardashian doesn't have a shot in hell. I might even have to break out my old Bucs #99 jersey to show my strength of conviction on this matter. ONWARD TO VICTORY, WARREN SAPP!
Warren Sapp was one of the most entertaining NFL players of all time, so I can't believe that Kim Kardashian is getting more press for being on DWTS. The only thing that bitch can bring as far as game is the fact that she's got a sex tape, she's ruined my boyfriend Reggie (Get in My) Bush with her syphilitic twat, and she's rocking the most famous ass implants in the world. Warren Sapp is not only a hilarious loudmouth, I'd take his monster gut over Kim's infamous posterior in any kind of contest any day.
Certainly Warren's gut is striking more fear into Philip Rivers than Skank Kardashian's ass is in Reggie Bush. Philip Rivers is doing some obviously frightened gladhanding and backing off like a bitch, while Reggie (Get in My) Bush is breaking out some halfhearted frat boy raise-the-roof moves to match the cell phone clipped to his belt loop in terms of douchebaggery. Warren is going to lay a blistering verbal smackdown on the Z-list ballroom set as he once did on the Packers offense, while Kim is merely going to back her bloated ass up and inspire her partner to apathetically surrender. In terms of a fat kid shimmy contest, my money's on Warren.
Kim Kardashian doesn't have a shot in hell. I might even have to break out my old Bucs #99 jersey to show my strength of conviction on this matter. ONWARD TO VICTORY, WARREN SAPP!
Labels: fat fucks, hot dudes, NFL football, Reggie (Get In My) Bush, sluts, Stealers suck
Monday, August 18, 2008
Daily Douchebag: lame Olympic sports
DOB: various
Occupation: stealing NBC TV time from sports I actually care about and/or Bela Karolyi hating on China
Hometown: various
Current residence: Beijing, China
Douchebaggery: I haven't shut up about the Olympics, partly because I just like writing shamelessly jingoistic trash talk about how America rules and China sucks, and partly because I enjoy the spectacle of world-class athletes demonstrating their abilities in the world's premier international sporting competition. Unfortunately, some of the specific sports involved don't really do it for me. While I'm always good for a few ardent cries of "U! S! A!" and diplomatic sentiments like "That's what you get for hating freedom, you pinko human rights violators!" and "SUCK ON IT, FOREIGNERS!," I find that my nationalistic chauvinism loses a little steam while trying to get excited about shit like archery or judo.
I certainly respect the fact that the abilities of the athletes competing in these sports are light years beyond mine, and I don't mean to diminish their prowess at their sports. Obviously if I were to attempt to outfence the Olympic rapier team I'd be summarily stabbed. However, a lot of these sports are a total snorefest to watch. I get so bored that I even forget to root obnoxiously for America, and that's when I know it's time to change the channel and watch a rerun of "Project Runway" or get a little hot Mark Schlereth action on "Inside the NFL."
Archery: If this sport included more Lord of the Rings-type stuff, like dudes climbing up the sides of massive elephants to shoot entire squadrons of wild-eyed Haradrim from the southlands prior to taking out the elephant itself and sliding down its trunk while it collapses in its death throes as a final display of showmanship and finesse, I'd be more into it. Unfortunately, Olympic archery is just a bunch of balding dudes standing around shooting at a target. They don't even do that arrow-splitting thing that Robin Hood used to pull off. Unless archery is changed to involve either something like that, elves from Middle Earth, or Ted Nugent stalking a bunch of elk around some remote Michigan forest, I want no part of it.
Canoeing/Flatwater Kayaking: The only thing more lame than doing competitive rowing is doing it in a CANOE. Unless your name is Meriwether Lewis or William Clark, I am not going to be impressed by any feats of canoeing. Call me when you get involved with a real sport that Boy Scouts don't get merit badges for learning.
Equestrian: Having long gotten over the horse-craziness many girls experience during their prepubescent years, I could give a fuck about how well bitches in jodhpurs can trot a horse around a stable. They need to add a rodeo event or an actual RACE or something to spice up the snorefest that is dressage.
Fencing: I'd normally love anything that involves sabers and swordfighting, because those things remind me of pirates. Unfortunately, fencing doesn't involve wearing plumed hats, carrying a blunderbuss for show, or doing any sort of swashbuckling. Instead, fencing appears to be about wearing an outfit that looks like a cross between Hannibal Lecter's anti-cannibalism muzzle and Bender from "Futurama," and they always stop people from actually stabbing each other. That kind of takes all the fun out of swordfighting, if you ask me.
Judo: It's like wrestling, except MORE boring. I don't care if this is a martial art; two seconds of judo make me wish I were at a tax seminar.
Marathon: On Saturday, I went out drinking, and while I waited for my companion in this laudable pursuit to arrive, I was watching the Olympics on the bar TV. The women's marathon was on. I got bored after about thirty seconds, when I realized there was still another three fucking hours of endurance running. I appreciate the physical feat of running 26.2 miles in just a few short hours, but that shit is not fun to watch. Showing the last minute of the race and briefing me about anyone who threw up or died en route to the finish line is perfectly adequate marathon coverage as far as I'm concerned. I got so bored with what LL Cool Jew referred to as "SNORE...running in panties." I turned my attention to the preseason Jets-Redskins game, which wasn't so much a football game as a testament to how many of the (pitiful) Jets fans in attendance already forked over cash for "Jet Favre" jerseys. You know you're in trouble when two of your favorite sporting events are on TV (Olympics and NFL football), and the overriding thought in your mind is "I hope the camera pans over to the Redskins bench so I can feast my eyes on Seahawks legend Jim Zorn."
Rhythmic gymnastics: I am staunchly opposed to any "sport" that involves ribbon twirling. The only reason to watch gymsnatchtits is watching freakishly built children perform feats of agility and athleticism that seem physically impossible. Replacing said impressive gymnastic moves with balls and sashes defeats the entire purpose.
Rowing: This should be fun, because it's a race, but I always hated crew people. My high school ex-girlfriend rowed crew, and not only was she a really shitty girlfriend, I hung out with her "crew people" in college once. They ROYALLY sucked on account of attending Harvard, and being snobs about being on the fucking Harvard sculling team or whatever. The best part of that night was watching my ex-girlfriend puke into a Harvard Coop bag while getting shafted by the dumb bitch she was drunk dialing. Karmic reward is sweet, but crew is not. The Smith crew lesbians weren't any better. They were always whining about those of us engaged in the sports of alcoholism and revelry about how they had to get up at 5 a.m. for practice. I would tell them to either fuck off and go stay at their girlfriends' lame dorm where people drink a nip peach schnapps once a month (and that's on a crazy month) and are generally more silent than a room full of deaf-mutes, or tell them they should have thought about the fact they were in college before they joined the crew team. Sometimes I'd blow a lungful of Parliament Light smoke in their faces because I'm an asshole like that. Crew sucks.
Sailing: I guess the WASPs who don't get into tennis have to have some sport to compete in. Nonetheless, I can't get behind any "sport" that involves wearing Nautica clothes and topsiders.
Soccer: Soccer (which I refuse to and will NEVER refer to as "football") is the stupidest sport on earth, and it is a testament to America's greatness that most of us here in the United States of Asskickery could give two shits about it. Who needs to get with a sport that is every European's favorite thing? Europe blows.
Shooting: I love guns, so I SHOULD like shooting. However, it's not only a bunch of shooting at targets rather than game trophies, terrorists, or mutant aliens, the commentators always get really hung up on how to do use guns safely. I can sum that up in one sentence: IT'S CALLED A SAFETY, morons. Don't point the gun at your competitor when that's off, and voila! Safe gun use. Get over it.
Tae kwon do: Wait, they DON'T actually beat the shit out of each other during a tae kwon do contest? I thought they were supposed to "sweep the leg" and "put him in a body bag," all the while having "no mercy." At least that's what I learned from the Kobra Kai dojo. Unfortunately, real Olympic karate or whatever doesn't involve anything like that, or any ass-kicking at all. It's more about shit like "form." Who cares?
Wrestling: I normally like latently homoerotic sports in which grown, usually aggressively heterosexual men writhe around in singlets, but unless there is trash-talking and some member of the McMahon family involved, I get bored quickly. In "serious" Olympic wrestling, there isn't a whole lot of trash talking save that Swedish guy who renounced his bronze medal and stormed off, and there is virtually NO entrance music. In fact, the only time I've cared about an Olympic wrestler is in this context.
Oh, it's true, it's true. The only reason I cared about Kurt Angle's Olympic gold was they gave him ample cause to continually replay his awesome entrance music circa 2001 and throw a hissy fit about fans who chanted "you suck!" to it in spite of his ascending the medal podium in Atlanta. I mean, come on, his name is Kurt Angle, and what the heck...he won a gold medal and it's around his neck! Olympic wrestling should have more of that hotness.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, NFL football, Olympics, sportsmen
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