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
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
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
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
Monday, May 05, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Shaun Alexander
Name: Shaun Edward Alexander
DOB: August 30, 1977
Occupation: unemployed NFL running back
Hometown: Florence, Kentucky
Current residence: somewhere near Seattle, Washington...I'm thinking Renton-ish, since he goes to church in Sea-Tac
Douchebaggery: I could have written a douchebagging of Shaun Alexander at any point last year, as could probably anyone else who had him on a Fantasy roster. I was fortunate enough not to have selected him, but as a Seahawks fan, I spent the entire decision being keenly disgusted with the prominent way he still managed to figure into our offensive schemes despite the fact that I could probably outrun him. In fact, I think you could dangle a piece of homeless guy shit in the opposing team's end zone and strap a ball to Chingy!'s back, and he'd probably score more touchdowns than Alexander.
I was delighted when the Seahawks signed Julius Jones and T.J. Duckett this off-season. Granted, neither of them are exactly spring chickens, but either has got to be faster than Alexander and their signing meant the inevitable was on the way: Alexander was getting his ass unceremoniously sliced off our roster. I'm not the only Seahawks fan who feels this way. Last week I got an e-mail from Swirly, one of my internet Razzyphiles who was also feeling the hate:
please, oh please, you should really douchebag shaun alexander. after that you should commend the 'hawks for cutting his bible-thumping, ineffective rushing, pass-dropping, over-paid ass. i am so happy to see him leave, i mean GET CUT!!!! shaun alexander, former pro-bowler, getting cut FTW. iLuvIt!Yes, dude, like Young Jeezy, I luv it as well and extend my commendations to the Hawks for finally dropping the axe on Alexander's slow ass. Good fucking riddance. Too bad even though he's probably going to keep a spot on the Bengals' bench warm (something I'm sure my friend and Fantasy rival Unicorn Dick, a die-hard Bengals fan, is going to love almost as much as the decline and fall of Ocho Cinco), Alexander has vowed to remain in the Seattle area. This is because he's beholden to our local born-again Christian cult, the Christian Faith Center. This is one of those mega-churches that includes light shows and other flashy means of compelling the faithful to praise Jesus. Oh, and by "praise Jesus" I mean "open their wallets and get more publicity for their media whore pastor, the Reverend Casey Treat." When the whole Barack Obama-Rev. Wright debacle was occurring last week while I was home in the P-N-Dub, my mother said, "You know, I bet that Casey Treat is watching this thinking, 'Maybe we could do something like this, look at all the publicity that Rev. Wright is getting!'" She's onto something. I think it's only a matter of time before Casey Treat gets his claws into some local politician and pulls some similar stunt. Now that Alexander has generally fallen out of the good graces of the region's 12th men (and his PR stock has been going down since 2006), Casey Treat needs to find a new local celebrity to exploit STAT.
While I'm annoyed that Alexander and his Biblically-named brood (his kids are named Heaven, Trinity, and Eden...LAME) will remain in the P-N-Dub, at least I no longer have to be irritated by Holmgren inexplicably looking to him for a 3rd and 16 conversion (I mean, what the fuck?! He did this during that ill-fated playoff game against the Packers last January. I don't care if your running back is Speedy Fucking Gonzalez, how the fuck do you think that call is a good idea, ESPECIALLY when you have Slow-and-not-Steady Alexander carrying the ball and possibly fumbling it? Really...what the fuck?!?!?!). I'm ready to root for Julius Jones and ready to hear no more evil about Jesus Christ and how he's (not) helping the Seahawks' running game this fall. Much later, Shaun.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, Dear God, NFL football, Seahawks
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Hawking a loogie
Last Saturday, some dude in the not-particularly-storied burgh of Port Orchard, Washington decided to take his daughters out for a burger at a local fast-food joint. He dressed for the occasion by glamming himself up in his finest Pittsburgh Steelers regalia.
Wearing anything related to the (sonofabitchbastard) Shitsburgh Stealers is not an advisable move in the middle of redneck Seahawks country. It's even less advisable to begin making asshole quips about how the Stealers co-conspired with Bill Leavy's officiating crew to rob the Seattle Seahawks of the Lombardi trophy in Super Bowl XL. This asshole learned this the hard way, and in this case "the hard way" means via saliva comprising the special sauce atop his burger, according to this riveting report from the Kitsap Sun:
A 24-year-old South Kitsap man — and self-proclaimed Seattle Seahawks fan — was arrested Sunday for allegedly spitting on the hamburger he prepared for a man wearing Pittsburgh Steelers attire, according to Kitsap County Sheriff's Office reports.Ah, bless the other Seahawks fans in the P-N-Dub. I'm clearly not the only one clinging to feelings of overwhelming bitterness and resentment with regard to the travesty that occurred February 6, 2006. There are even some fellow Hawks faithful out there who are willing to literally spit on the indignity of having an obnoxious Steeler fan rub it in.
Deputies said the 37-year-old man in Steelers garb took his daughters to a Mile Hill Drive fast food restaurant Saturday evening, and "began trading friendly barbs about his team and their victory over the Seattle Seahawks in Super Bowl XL," reports said.
One employee told the man that he'd "better not say that to the guy that's making your food," but the man thought it was a joke, reports said.
That is, until he opened his "clamshell-style" hamburger container and discovered what he called a "loogie" on his hamburger.
This story gets even better. Apparently spitting in someone's food is considered assault, so the chef showing his disdain for the douchebag assclowns of Heinz Field via loogie was visited by some sheriff's deputies the next day. Like every other foodservice employee from the P-N-Dub I've ever met, this heroic 12th man likes to take the edge off his lingering grief over the Seahawks' postseason misfortunes by indulging in some cannabis. When the deputies showed up, mild hilarity ensued:
A deputy was informed by the manager that the person responsible may be a 24-year-old South Kitsap man who was near his quitting time when the incident occurred. He also failed to show up for work the next day, the manager said.Hatred of the Stealers, willingness to endure a night in jail in defense of the Hawks' honor, and a fondness for smokin' the ganj...it doesn't get more P-N-Dubby than that. This unnamed and now probably unemployed line cook is a true local hero. They should let him raise the 12th man flag at Qwest Field on opening day for his devotion and loyalty, send him on a date to Ivar's or Sea Galley or somewhere similarly classy with the Sea Gal of his choice, give him AT LEAST a complimentary pair of Deion Branch neon green receiver gloves, and let him pet Taima the osprey who flies out of the tunnel ahead of the team during home games. He is the pride of the Pacific Northwest.
The deputy went to the 24-year-old's house, and when he knocked on the door, a voice from inside yelled that he "wasn't buying any ... girl scout cookies," the deputy said.
The deputy told him, "I won't sell you any," and when the man opened the door, the deputy "was immediately confronted with the strong odor of burnt marijuana."
Eventually, the man brought the deputy a bag of marijuana and he was arrested. The man also confessed to spitting in the 37-year-old's hamburger container to "gross him out ... because he was a Steelers fan," deputies said.
Labels: crime and punishment, gross, I LOVE IT, P-N-Dub, Seahawks, Stealers suck, vengeance is sweet
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Gimme Mora
YES! I just read the news that the Seattle Seahawks have announced that this hot piece will be coaching the Hawks once the Walrus retires after next season.
While I'll definitely miss seeing Holmgren's jowly scowls on our sidelines, I can't think of anyone better to replace him that the peerless Jim Mora, Jr. Mora is currently our defensive coordinator, and prior to that he was head coach of the Atlanta Falcons. He would have done better in Atlanta except Michael Vick was an unmanageable, overrated tool more interested in dogfighting than running a consistent or effective offense. Clearly, Jim Mora will do better in Seattle.
He grew up in Bellevue, and went to U-Dub, and has seemed for awhile now like Mike Holmgren's heir apparent. I couldn't be happier that the Seahawks have offered him a contract so far ahead of time so the coaching transition will be seamless. I also expect a great deal of entertainment from him. In case you are unaware of his lineage, Jim Mora, Jr. is the son of Jim Mora, Sr., who may be the most entertaining former head coach in NFL history.
Constantly frustrated by the incompetence of those playing for him, Jim Mora, Sr. provided some of the greatest post-game press conferences of all time. These usually got him fired as head coach of both the Colts and the Saints (as did his abysmal record with both those teams), but they were worth every last moment. I could watch his infamous "PLAYOFFS?!" rant over and over again. Just hearing "I don't care WHO you play..." immediately lifts my spirits and puts a smile on my face.
Although he hasn't done anything quite as notorious as that, Jim Mora, Jr. has shown a few brilliant flashes of rage that remind me that somewhere under that cool exterior he has his father's legendary temper. I predict some good times in terms of future Seahawks post-game press conferences, because as much as I love them, if there's anything the Seahawks provide ample source material for it's reasons for their head coach to be frustrated and angry.
Jim Mora is also not bad looking. Along with Mike Tomlin (who I hate and despise forever on account of his coaching the loathsome Shitsburgh Stealers) and Jack Del Rio (who has really grown on me ever since he started rocking his black leather Jags jacket), Jim Mora, Jr. is probably one of the hottest coaches in the NFL. There is no question I would hit that even if he weren't on the Seahawks coaching staff. Good show, Seahawks. I expect our team to run the NFC West for years to come.
While I'll definitely miss seeing Holmgren's jowly scowls on our sidelines, I can't think of anyone better to replace him that the peerless Jim Mora, Jr. Mora is currently our defensive coordinator, and prior to that he was head coach of the Atlanta Falcons. He would have done better in Atlanta except Michael Vick was an unmanageable, overrated tool more interested in dogfighting than running a consistent or effective offense. Clearly, Jim Mora will do better in Seattle.
He grew up in Bellevue, and went to U-Dub, and has seemed for awhile now like Mike Holmgren's heir apparent. I couldn't be happier that the Seahawks have offered him a contract so far ahead of time so the coaching transition will be seamless. I also expect a great deal of entertainment from him. In case you are unaware of his lineage, Jim Mora, Jr. is the son of Jim Mora, Sr., who may be the most entertaining former head coach in NFL history.
Although he hasn't done anything quite as notorious as that, Jim Mora, Jr. has shown a few brilliant flashes of rage that remind me that somewhere under that cool exterior he has his father's legendary temper. I predict some good times in terms of future Seahawks post-game press conferences, because as much as I love them, if there's anything the Seahawks provide ample source material for it's reasons for their head coach to be frustrated and angry.
Jim Mora is also not bad looking. Along with Mike Tomlin (who I hate and despise forever on account of his coaching the loathsome Shitsburgh Stealers) and Jack Del Rio (who has really grown on me ever since he started rocking his black leather Jags jacket), Jim Mora, Jr. is probably one of the hottest coaches in the NFL. There is no question I would hit that even if he weren't on the Seahawks coaching staff. Good show, Seahawks. I expect our team to run the NFC West for years to come.
Labels: hot dudes, I LOVE IT, NFL football, Seahawks
Friday, January 18, 2008
YESYESYESYESYESYESYES!!!!!!!!!!
Today I just saw the joyous news. Super Bowl XLII is going to be the most perfectly officiated Super Bowl in the modern history of the National Football League. YES! MIKE CAREY IS OFFICIATING THE SUPER BOWL!
We can all rest easy now knowing that nothing in Super Bowl XLII is going to be tainted by abysmally piss-poor officiating such as the shamelessly inept railroading of the Seahawks demonstrated by the disgraceful Bill Leavy and his detestable crew in Super Bowl XL. In fact, it's really a pity that the Seahawks aren't going to Super Bowl this year, because then they'd have a fair shot at winning based on superior football skills. On second thought, given the pitiful way the Seahawks performed last week against the Packers, it's probably for the best that they aren't playing the big game beneath the shrewd and eminently professional gaze of Mike Carey.
Mike Carey is going to ensure that this is the most sublimely officiated Super Bowl of all time. He will show up with his mustache impeccably trimmed, his uniform immaculate, his pants hugging his preternaturally young physique (seriously, he's almost 60). We will get to watch his beautifully choreographed, tightly executed official signals, and it will be like watching staggeringly brilliant art happen live before your eyes:
I do believe there was some illegal motion on that play! There's no disputing Mike Carey's ability to deliver a masterful penalty signal. Mike Carey sets the bar for brilliance as a technical official so damn high that God has to look up to see it. The Super Bowl referee crew is chosen based on merit, which means that Mike Carey was the highest ranked official in the entire league. When he goes into that weird instant replay curtain booth thing, one can rest assured knowing that not only will Mike Carey determine that incontrovertible visual evidence exists to reverse the call on the play, but he will do so fairly and with a crystal clear, gesture-based explanation. Super Bowl XLII is going to be a good clean game!
What's beautiful about Mike Carey is that in addition to the high professional standard he sets is that he has some style with it. Mike Carey has the precision of an atomic clock as a referee, but he also possesses an underlying smoothness that takes him from being merely an admirable professional to a veritable volcano erupting perfectly controlled rivers of molten hotness. Regardless of which teams go to the Super Bowl, the officiating will be discussed for generations at NFL ref cocktail hours and training seminars. Bang-up job, Commissioner Goodell.
Mike Carey is going to ensure that this is the most sublimely officiated Super Bowl of all time. He will show up with his mustache impeccably trimmed, his uniform immaculate, his pants hugging his preternaturally young physique (seriously, he's almost 60). We will get to watch his beautifully choreographed, tightly executed official signals, and it will be like watching staggeringly brilliant art happen live before your eyes:
What's beautiful about Mike Carey is that in addition to the high professional standard he sets is that he has some style with it. Mike Carey has the precision of an atomic clock as a referee, but he also possesses an underlying smoothness that takes him from being merely an admirable professional to a veritable volcano erupting perfectly controlled rivers of molten hotness. Regardless of which teams go to the Super Bowl, the officiating will be discussed for generations at NFL ref cocktail hours and training seminars. Bang-up job, Commissioner Goodell.
Labels: hot dudes, I LOVE IT, NFL football, Seahawks
Monday, January 14, 2008
Daily Douchebag: the Seattle Seahawks
DOB: 1976
Occupation: blowing leads in playoff games
Hometown: Seattle, Washington
Current residence: Seattle, Washington, because their season is over
Douchebaggery: I had really high hopes for this Saturday's NFC Divisional Playoff game between my beloved Seahawks and the Green Bay Packers. I thought for sure that our mighty Sea-Fence could shake up Brett Favre's old ass and triumph over the bastardly Packers, even if we did play at Lambeau in a snowstorm. After all, when he starts getting hurried and hassled, Favre starts throwing interceptions, and we have four dudes on our defense going to the Pro Bowl. Furthermore, Mike Holmgren knows how to coach teams to post-season wins at Lambeau since he himself was formerly the Packers' most lauded coach next to Vince Lombardi. However, my hopes were predicated entirely on the Seahawks actually showing up at Lambeau ready to give their full effort to smoting some cheesehead ruin on the mountainside, which, for whatever reason, they decided not to do.
Things were looking good in the first few minutes of the game. Seattle recovered two Packers fumbles and converted these possessions into touchdowns in the first three minutes of the game. While initially very excited, I still had a bad, bad feeling about this. After all, blowing two score leads on the road isn't anything new for the Seahawks. Sure enough, that's immediately what the Seahawks did. Green Bay scored four fucking touchdowns in the first half, rookie Ryan Grant who should have been sitting on the sidelines crying about two lost fumbles rushed for three touchdowns and over 200 yards, and Brett Favre basically did whatever the hell he wanted for the entire game, throwing three touchdowns and no interceptions. By the time the fourth quarter was winding down, Favre was throwing playful snowballs at his teammates.
If Jim Mora, Sr. were the Seahawks coach, I can only imagine what the post-game press conference would have been like. It probably would have provided material for season upon season of playoff Coors Light commercials for years to come. Certainly our offense didn't do diddley poo, and the term "coulda, woulda, shoulda" was invented to describe our defensive performance.
Excepting the first three minutes (in which, frankly, the Seahawks got lucky), the entire game was a total disgrace. I love my Seahawks, and I have high hopes that next season they'll make the offensive line acquisitions we need to actually have a running game (and also put Shaun Alexander's washed-up ass out to pasture where it belongs), shore up our defense, replace Marcus Pollard, and come back next season ready to stomp the NFC West. But even a diehard 12th man like myself can't blame this playoff loss on anything but the Seahawks deciding that they were going to put as much effort into a divisional playoff away game at possibly the most brutal road stadium in the entire National Football League as they put into their regular season losses to such storied losers as the Arizona Cardinals and the San Francisco 49ers. Certainly, I can't blame the officiating as I'm prone to doing with regard to a little game known as Super Bowl XL, as the ref was none other than the faultless, impossibly precise, mustachioed hotness known as Mike Carey. No, this loss was due to the fact that we had ZERO running game (even when Maurice Morris replaced our aging fundamentalist Christian running back), our receivers could barely catch a pass (and again, Marcus Pollard can lick my twat for dropping certain touchdowns and losing fumbles in what was the most pathetic performance of an unremarkable season), and our defense failing to stop either the Packers' receivers or their rookie running back, who should have had his face planted in the snowy turf for the majority of the game. I will place blame where blame is due, and in this case, it rests solely on the pacific blue/neon green shoulders of the Seahawks.
I'm embarrassed that the Seahawks ended their season with such a monumental whimper. Even worse, then the detestable Patriots went ahead and won, and that means I won't get to see any more of David Garrard plodding his gigantic ass around and Jack Del Rio heating up the sidelines in his sexy leather Jags jackets this season. If I hadn't watched some "Beverly Hills, 90210" with Senioritis earlier that day or gotten laid later that night, the day would have been a total loss in the awesomeness department.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, NFL football, Seahawks
Monday, January 07, 2008
Recipe for a perfect Saturday
1. Wake up. Note time.
2. Masturbate. Take tonsil meds. Haul sorry ass out of bed.
3. Shower and get ready while watching the Saturday morning lineup of "Beverly Hills, 90210" on SoapNet. Get excited because they are showing the episode where Dylan's dad, disgraced crooked financier Jack McKay AKA Roman from "Days of our Lives", gets blowed up in a car bomb. Of course, it turns out in six years that Jack McKay actually just faked his death to enter the witness protection program, and that sends Dylan spiraling out of control once again into the substance abuse drama that has tormented him throughout his brooding, privileged life, but that's another story. The scene where Jack McKay supposedly explodes is awesome because it features many shots of Luke Perry screaming "DAAAAAAAD!!!!! WHHYYYYYYYYY?!" like Nancy Kerrigan.
4. Walk dogs.
5. Go to JerseyGirl's apartment.
6. Watch three episodes of "Beverly Hills, 90210" season three with JerseyGirl, Senioritis, Rack, and FalloniusMonk. Make fun of when Brenda pretends to be French to impress Dean Cain. Get hot and bothered about the sexual tension between Dylan and Kelly. Laugh hysterically when Donna Martin says things like, "Je suis AMERICAN. And if you don't like it, then too bad!" Eat an awesome club sandwich and fries. Consume Heineken.
7. Go to P.D. O'Hurley's, the bar that is practically downstairs from JerseyGirl's apartment, and meet your (Redskins fan) friend MultipleScorgasms for NFC Wild Card playoff football. Wear your new Julian Peterson Seahawks jersey. Look totally hot. Explain that Jamie Moyer is a beloved former Mariners pitcher when his physically enthusiastic raising of the 12th man flag before the game prompted JerseyGirl to ask, "Dude, why is that guy like totally wildin' out?"
8. WATCH AS THE SEAHAWKS LAY WASTE TO THE REDSKINS. Laugh in MultipleScorgasm's face as this occurs. Convince all your Bev Niner friends--who aren't really paying attention to the game--that they should say things like "Go Seahawks!" at opportune moments. Okay, so there were a few tense minutes in the fourth quarter where things weren't looking so great for Seattle, but I knew they could pull it out and they did. How can you beat Seattle? We have the 12th man. And we have our mighty Sea-Fence.
9. Go back to JerseyGirl's apartment to drink more and watch two more episodes of "Beverly Hills, 90210." Let Senioritis convince you to accompany her back to P.D. O'Hurley's to watch the end of the Pittsburgh-Jacksonville game, because, like T-Pain, she likes the bartender and apparently did him once, she needs a wingman, and she knows that I am always easily persuaded with the prospect of watching football. She planned to work this into free drinks for us.
10. LAUGH AS THE SHITSBURGH STEALERS LOSE! And drink scotch while chatting up some hot fellas watching the game nearby. They showed a surprising lack of obnoxious jackassery considering they were New England fans. One of them said I looked hot in my NOT PINK Seahawks jersey. Truth. I thanked him and conceded that at least I don't hate the Patriots as much as I hate the Stealers. Then I tapped my bottomless reserve of hatred for anyone wearing yellow and black and went off on one of my predictable tirades about the officiating in Super Bowl XL. I then reveled when the Jags smote the Steelers' ruin upon Heinz Field thanks to key plays like this one where Najeh Davenport gets totally owned by Rashean Mathis:
Then I noted that Jack Del Rio is kind of a hot piece. He really works that challenge flag.
Now that he's lost his typical funeral suit with garish Jags-colored tie, I'd hit that. Usually I like a man in a suit, but Jack Del Rio has bad taste in suits and looks stupid wearing them on the sidelines. I appreciate his effort to class it up, but he just doesn't wear a suit well with his giant Motorola headset. It doesn't work. Also, he has a real problem with wearing these Oakleys that are straight out of 1997, and it's not a good look for him. He needs to wear outfits like this leather jacket number more often. It gives him that kind of rugged, middle-aged bad boy dad look that Steve Mariucci used to rock to great effect back when he was tearing his hair out over Joey Harrington's passer rating in Detroit.
Then I polished off the last of my Johnnie Walker, saluting both Jack's good looks and his team's owning of Pittsburgh (who promptly started complaining about the officials ignoring holding penalties committed by the Jaguars...isn't karma a bitch?), and went home.
Unless somehow you figure out a way to make my tonsil feel 100% back to normal and include R. Kelly showing up in a trenchcoat ready to pull a switcheroo and strip for me with a pepperoni pizza and the director's cut of Total Recall, that is about as close as you get to a perfect Saturday: Seattle wins, Pittsburgh loses, and ample Bev Niner in between. Good times. And watch out, Green Bay...because Seattle's going to be kicking some cheesehead ass this coming weekend! Trust!
2. Masturbate. Take tonsil meds. Haul sorry ass out of bed.
3. Shower and get ready while watching the Saturday morning lineup of "Beverly Hills, 90210" on SoapNet. Get excited because they are showing the episode where Dylan's dad, disgraced crooked financier Jack McKay AKA Roman from "Days of our Lives", gets blowed up in a car bomb. Of course, it turns out in six years that Jack McKay actually just faked his death to enter the witness protection program, and that sends Dylan spiraling out of control once again into the substance abuse drama that has tormented him throughout his brooding, privileged life, but that's another story. The scene where Jack McKay supposedly explodes is awesome because it features many shots of Luke Perry screaming "DAAAAAAAD!!!!! WHHYYYYYYYYY?!" like Nancy Kerrigan.
4. Walk dogs.
5. Go to JerseyGirl's apartment.
6. Watch three episodes of "Beverly Hills, 90210" season three with JerseyGirl, Senioritis, Rack, and FalloniusMonk. Make fun of when Brenda pretends to be French to impress Dean Cain. Get hot and bothered about the sexual tension between Dylan and Kelly. Laugh hysterically when Donna Martin says things like, "Je suis AMERICAN. And if you don't like it, then too bad!" Eat an awesome club sandwich and fries. Consume Heineken.
7. Go to P.D. O'Hurley's, the bar that is practically downstairs from JerseyGirl's apartment, and meet your (Redskins fan) friend MultipleScorgasms for NFC Wild Card playoff football. Wear your new Julian Peterson Seahawks jersey. Look totally hot. Explain that Jamie Moyer is a beloved former Mariners pitcher when his physically enthusiastic raising of the 12th man flag before the game prompted JerseyGirl to ask, "Dude, why is that guy like totally wildin' out?"
8. WATCH AS THE SEAHAWKS LAY WASTE TO THE REDSKINS. Laugh in MultipleScorgasm's face as this occurs. Convince all your Bev Niner friends--who aren't really paying attention to the game--that they should say things like "Go Seahawks!" at opportune moments. Okay, so there were a few tense minutes in the fourth quarter where things weren't looking so great for Seattle, but I knew they could pull it out and they did. How can you beat Seattle? We have the 12th man. And we have our mighty Sea-Fence.
9. Go back to JerseyGirl's apartment to drink more and watch two more episodes of "Beverly Hills, 90210." Let Senioritis convince you to accompany her back to P.D. O'Hurley's to watch the end of the Pittsburgh-Jacksonville game, because, like T-Pain, she likes the bartender and apparently did him once, she needs a wingman, and she knows that I am always easily persuaded with the prospect of watching football. She planned to work this into free drinks for us.
10. LAUGH AS THE SHITSBURGH STEALERS LOSE! And drink scotch while chatting up some hot fellas watching the game nearby. They showed a surprising lack of obnoxious jackassery considering they were New England fans. One of them said I looked hot in my NOT PINK Seahawks jersey. Truth. I thanked him and conceded that at least I don't hate the Patriots as much as I hate the Stealers. Then I tapped my bottomless reserve of hatred for anyone wearing yellow and black and went off on one of my predictable tirades about the officiating in Super Bowl XL. I then reveled when the Jags smote the Steelers' ruin upon Heinz Field thanks to key plays like this one where Najeh Davenport gets totally owned by Rashean Mathis:
Then I polished off the last of my Johnnie Walker, saluting both Jack's good looks and his team's owning of Pittsburgh (who promptly started complaining about the officials ignoring holding penalties committed by the Jaguars...isn't karma a bitch?), and went home.
Unless somehow you figure out a way to make my tonsil feel 100% back to normal and include R. Kelly showing up in a trenchcoat ready to pull a switcheroo and strip for me with a pepperoni pizza and the director's cut of Total Recall, that is about as close as you get to a perfect Saturday: Seattle wins, Pittsburgh loses, and ample Bev Niner in between. Good times. And watch out, Green Bay...because Seattle's going to be kicking some cheesehead ass this coming weekend! Trust!
Labels: alcoholism, Bev Niner, comeuppance, FalloniusMonk, JerseyGirl, NFL football, Rack, Razzification, Seahawks, Senioritis, Stealers suck
Thursday, December 20, 2007
T.O. also hates pink jerseys
Yesterday, I had the following Gchat with HotLawyer:
At least one dude agrees with me on the pink jersey and the Jessica Simpson issue. At least one man, a bold soul named Terrell Owens, is brave enough to stand up and say that he doesn't appreciate pink Romo jerseys one bit, at the very least because there is only room for one ridiculously dressed fag hag in Texas Stadium, and that ain't Jessica Simpson. She's pouty because not only did her dumbass, overrated boyfriend deliver the worst performance of his career thanks to her game-killing presence, but because T.O. looks waaaaaaay cuter than her in his sexy women's wear from NFLshop.com:
T.O. had some choice words for Jessica:
Keep in mind this is coming from a guy whose love for drag queenish blondes is so legendary that it became the most controversial opening for a Monday Night Football game ever. Remember that shit where T.O. ditches the game to go bang Nicolette Sheridan in the Eagles' locker room from two years ago? Here's the YouTube to refresh your memory (and I dare you not to snicker when T.O. says, "Donovan needs me." Hilarious.)
Given Terrell's susceptibility to seduction by such bitches who look like they have to pull a Buffalo Bill-style weiner tuck before getting some pregame ass in the locker room, I'm surprised he's not competing with Tony Romo for Jessica's attention. I would say that it's both because her ass was preventing Romo from completing passes to T.O. in triple coverage, and because he can't get past that fugly, embarrassing, despicable pink Romo jersey! If she'd worn nothing but a towel to ruin the Cowboys' offense in, maybe he'd be more sympathetic.
In any event, T.O. promises more good times in the coming weeks:
Oh, and I have a message too: GO SEAHAWKS!
HotLawyer: RazzyI consulted also with my ex-boyfriend Benzo, and he was of the opinion that pink jerseys aren't awesome, but he doesn't care one way or the other. "If I see a hot chick wearing a pink jersey, I'm not going to ignore her just because she's got a pink jersey on." I was totally annoyed that my boys didn't share my staunch anti-pink jersey sentiments. Then again, I can't be too annoyed at a man who squires his lady around Tacoma wearing his-and-hers Tatupu jerseys. I should actually be thankful we don't share the same opinion on this one, as his taste is clearly questionable.
HotLawyer: Princess HotLawyer owns and wears a PINK Tatupu jersey
Razzy: hey dude
Razzy: tell Princess HotLawyer to chuck that
Razzy: those pink jerseys are shameful!
HotLawyer: they're hot
Razzy: you really think those pink jerseys are hot?
HotLawyer: yes
Razzy: NO!
Razzy: they are the scourge of nfl pro gear
HotLawyer: They rule your ass
Razzy: never
HotLawyer: Plus, we don't look like douchebags when we sport our matching Lofa jerseys
HotLawyer: Lofa! Lofa!
Razzy: you already look like a douchebag wearing the same jersey as your GF!
HotLawyer: trick, please!
At least one dude agrees with me on the pink jersey and the Jessica Simpson issue. At least one man, a bold soul named Terrell Owens, is brave enough to stand up and say that he doesn't appreciate pink Romo jerseys one bit, at the very least because there is only room for one ridiculously dressed fag hag in Texas Stadium, and that ain't Jessica Simpson. She's pouty because not only did her dumbass, overrated boyfriend deliver the worst performance of his career thanks to her game-killing presence, but because T.O. looks waaaaaaay cuter than her in his sexy women's wear from NFLshop.com:
T.O. had some choice words for Jessica:
"Right now, Jessica Simpson is not a fan favorite -- in this locker room or in Texas Stadium. With everything that has happened, obviously with the way Tony played and the comparison between her and Carrie Underwood, I think a lot of people feel she has taken his focus away. Other than that, she was high on my list until last week."Translation: Bitch, take your stank, talentless, pink jersey-wearing ass back to wherever Tony Romo's last dumb blonde country-fried bimbo girlfriend went and let him get his mind off your herpetic punani and back on completing passes to me. Up until last week, I would have been willing to tap that ass, but now she's dead to me.
Keep in mind this is coming from a guy whose love for drag queenish blondes is so legendary that it became the most controversial opening for a Monday Night Football game ever. Remember that shit where T.O. ditches the game to go bang Nicolette Sheridan in the Eagles' locker room from two years ago? Here's the YouTube to refresh your memory (and I dare you not to snicker when T.O. says, "Donovan needs me." Hilarious.)
Given Terrell's susceptibility to seduction by such bitches who look like they have to pull a Buffalo Bill-style weiner tuck before getting some pregame ass in the locker room, I'm surprised he's not competing with Tony Romo for Jessica's attention. I would say that it's both because her ass was preventing Romo from completing passes to T.O. in triple coverage, and because he can't get past that fugly, embarrassing, despicable pink Romo jersey! If she'd worn nothing but a towel to ruin the Cowboys' offense in, maybe he'd be more sympathetic.
In any event, T.O. promises more good times in the coming weeks:
"Oh, I got a message for her when we make the playoffs. Just stay tuned."The message will be something along the lines of, "Keep your pink jersey-rocking ho ass the fuck out of Texas Stadium, bitch," except delivered with Terrell's signature panache. Truly, the playoffs cannot come fast enough.
Oh, and I have a message too: GO SEAHAWKS!
Labels: assholes, Benzo, hot dudes, HotLawyer, media whores, NFL football, oh the horror, Seahawks, sluts
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Banging skanks with fake hair=INTs galore
When I was perusing the cover of Us Weekly seeing the (quickly forgettable compared to Ok!'s Jamie-Lynn Spears exclusive) cover story about Heidi Montag, I noted with a certain satisfaction that my prediction has come true. What prediction, you ask? The one where I said that Jessica Simpson would be singlehandedly responsible for the catastrophic implosion of the Dallas Cowboys this postseason since her vagina dentata got hold of Tony Romo's dick. Well, even Us Weekly is taking note of this! Previously Us Weekly's NFL coverage involved stories about exactly how much Bridget Moynahan HATES Tom Brady, and how Tom Brady can't be bothered to do more than occasionally pretend to like baby JET, because he's banging Gisele. However, now Us Weekly is validating what I knew to be true a solid week ago: Jessica Simpson is destroying the Cowboys by taking out their QB.
Here's a better picture of this goddess of failure and discord casting her accursed gaze all over Texas Stadium:
You can almost see her bad vibes emanating from that dumb bitch pouty face she makes. PLUS, I have ZERO respect for bitches who wear those pink jerseys. It's not like wearing a normal Cowboys jersey would butch her up to the point where we'd be questioning her femininity. Those pink jerseys--and all their companion products (pink baseball caps, pink knit caps, pink headbands, etc.)--represent one reason why the end of days might just be imminent. For years, I've been bemoaning the lack of jerseys that flatter a hot set of tits like mine available on NFLshop.com, but they finally get their act together to expand their women's products and make everything fucking PINK? FUCK THAT! I'm more against those pink jerseys than I am against raisins, spiders, or the war in Iraq. But I digress.
I'm just excited that my assessment about how Tony Romo would rather see his jersey in pink on the worthless drag queenish human blow-up doll he's sticking his dick into than lead his bitch-ass team to the Super Bowl was correct. For one thing, I hate the Cowboys. Granted, the Cowboys aren't at Shitsburgh Stealers, New England Hatriots, or Indianapolis Colts level of hate induction, but they're certainly up in the second tier of teams I detest alongside the St. Louis Rams, the New York Giants, and the Philadelphia Eagles. I am glad that my prediction that Jessica Simpson is the key to their doom is coming true. For another, it's great for the Seahawks, as a Simpson weakened Cowboys team makes the NFC even easier to completely conquer. And finally, I think it's what Tony Romo deserves.
I don't know why, I just get some bad vibes from Tony Romo. He seems like he's probably swinging around a respectable enough weiner, but he strikes me as a shoulder-pusher. In case you are unfamiliar with this term, a shoulder-pusher is a dude who expresses his desire for a blowjob in the most obnoxious manner possible: by just shoving on your shoulders and/or head to force you down into the vicinity of his crotch. Whenever I encounter one of these guys, I just want to say, "Oh, really, you want me to give you head? Shocking, because if there's one thing guys HATE, it's getting head! Thanks for subtly indicating this to me by trying to wrangle my face down onto your dick via physical buffoonery, because it never would have occured to me to fellate your dumb ass otherwise!" God, the quickest way to ensure I DON'T suck your cock is to shoulder-push. Tony Romo seems like the kind of guy who resorts to shoulder-pushing as his go-to move. Sadly, that sort of thing works with dumb hos like Jessica. In fact, they think it means the guy really cares about them. Deeply.
Anyway, one other reason I'm stoked that Jessica is singlehandedly ruining the Cowboys is that it means my forecasting the football future is on point. That means I've got a very good chance about being right about the Dolphins beating the Patriots this Sunday. Which means Benzo is going to owe me some drinks and will be embarrassing himself on the internets. In the words of DJ Unk, I've got predictions like they Cleo's. Except unlike Miss Cleo the fraudulent Ja-Fake-An psychic lesbian, my predictions are right! TRUST!
Here's a better picture of this goddess of failure and discord casting her accursed gaze all over Texas Stadium:
I'm just excited that my assessment about how Tony Romo would rather see his jersey in pink on the worthless drag queenish human blow-up doll he's sticking his dick into than lead his bitch-ass team to the Super Bowl was correct. For one thing, I hate the Cowboys. Granted, the Cowboys aren't at Shitsburgh Stealers, New England Hatriots, or Indianapolis Colts level of hate induction, but they're certainly up in the second tier of teams I detest alongside the St. Louis Rams, the New York Giants, and the Philadelphia Eagles. I am glad that my prediction that Jessica Simpson is the key to their doom is coming true. For another, it's great for the Seahawks, as a Simpson weakened Cowboys team makes the NFC even easier to completely conquer. And finally, I think it's what Tony Romo deserves.
I don't know why, I just get some bad vibes from Tony Romo. He seems like he's probably swinging around a respectable enough weiner, but he strikes me as a shoulder-pusher. In case you are unfamiliar with this term, a shoulder-pusher is a dude who expresses his desire for a blowjob in the most obnoxious manner possible: by just shoving on your shoulders and/or head to force you down into the vicinity of his crotch. Whenever I encounter one of these guys, I just want to say, "Oh, really, you want me to give you head? Shocking, because if there's one thing guys HATE, it's getting head! Thanks for subtly indicating this to me by trying to wrangle my face down onto your dick via physical buffoonery, because it never would have occured to me to fellate your dumb ass otherwise!" God, the quickest way to ensure I DON'T suck your cock is to shoulder-push. Tony Romo seems like the kind of guy who resorts to shoulder-pushing as his go-to move. Sadly, that sort of thing works with dumb hos like Jessica. In fact, they think it means the guy really cares about them. Deeply.
Anyway, one other reason I'm stoked that Jessica is singlehandedly ruining the Cowboys is that it means my forecasting the football future is on point. That means I've got a very good chance about being right about the Dolphins beating the Patriots this Sunday. Which means Benzo is going to owe me some drinks and will be embarrassing himself on the internets. In the words of DJ Unk, I've got predictions like they Cleo's. Except unlike Miss Cleo the fraudulent Ja-Fake-An psychic lesbian, my predictions are right! TRUST!
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, media whores, NFL football, Seahawks, sluts
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Jessica Simpson AGAIN
DOB: July 10, 1980
Occupation: Singer, actress, spokeswhore, dumbass
Hometown: Abilene, Texas
Current Residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: So I already bestowed this illustrious honor upon the voluptuous Ms. Simpson last July, but I felt it was worth doing again. I believe at that time, I shared my opinion that Jessica should "just duck the fuck out of the spotlight before even the morons patronizing her brand wise up and realize what a bimbotic tool she is." For some reason, she didn't heed my eminently wise suggestion, and months later she's still all over the internets. I say, hasn't this bitch been famous for almost nothing long enough?
Really, what is Jessica Simpson famous for now? Her reality show from three years ago that is as dead as the marriage that served as its premise? No. Singing? Can YOU name a single Jessica Simpson song? I can only think of the aural holocaust that was her cover of "These Boots are Made for Walkin,'" and I only remember that because it was on TV ad nauseum in a fucking Pizza Hut commercial or something, which doubled as a video for the song. In it, Jessica is portraying Daisy, her character from the appalling Dukes of Hazzard movie, and she soaps up the General Lee and writhes around on it in an attempt at seduction. In reality, she looks like a busted drag hooker with cerebral palsy, too much makeup, and a really, really bad personal stylist. Her pink bikini not only clashes horribly with the red car, it also does a lovely job showcasing the capsular contraction in her post-op double Ds. AT BEST, it reminds me of that burger commercial that Paris Hilton did rolling around on a car and eating some mess from Carl's Jr. or something like that, and when your most sexy moves are reminiscent of a herpetic skank binge-eating, it goes without saying that you need to make some adjustments.
Though the whole "These Boots are Made for Walkin'" thing mercifully went away for the most part when the Dukes of Hazzard movie bombed, Jessica continued to torment America with her reprisals of the Daisy role to hawk various crap products. Most recently this was in a commercial for DirectTV that is on during football games. This commercial was part of an ad campaign in which scenes from classic movies, such as Major League, Back to the Future, Aliens, and Ferris Bueller's Day Off, are updated to be ads for Direct TV. I would seriously firebomb the Direct TV corporate headquarters for audaciously equating Jessica Simpson's godawful performance in The Dukes of Hazzard with Charlie Sheen's portrayal of Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn in Major League (one of the greatest films in the history of cinema and that is no joke) if it weren't for their exclusive rights to the "NFL Sunday Ticket" package. Charlie Sheen is a master thespian and Rick Vaughn, nearsighted misunderstood badboy fastball pitcher, was the role that is his magnum opus. Meanwhile, Jessica's tits are better at acting than she is, and it is insulting for Direct TV to lump them into the same category, even if that category is "shameless marketing whore." Direct TV should stick to reminding people that they have NFL Sunday Ticket.
Speaking of the NFL, that reminds me another way that Jessica Simpson is pissing me off lately. Apparently, she's currently losing cheap-ass tracks of Barbie hair in the bed of Dallas Cowboys quarterback Tony Romo. While as a Seahawks fan this delights me, since it means that by the time the Seahawks wind up playing the Cowboys in the playoffs, Tony Romo will be a dried-up shell of a human being thanks to weeks of work by Jessica and her family of succubi. Tony has been spending every moment possible away from Texas Stadium over at the Simpson's compound with Jessica, her fag-along Ken Paves, and her creepy father. This is a picture of them all hanging out just yesterday (and BTdubs, nice stripper heels, Jess...are they real vinyl and Lucite?):
Anyway, since Jessica's primary achievements in cultural relevance these days (apart from a lot of straight-to-video movies) are whoring herself out to Pizza Slut, Direct TV, HSN, and Macy's and fucking Tony Romo, I say it's high time she got demoted to at least the F-list. In fact, I demand it. For my mental health's sake. Please! Ease my pain!
Labels: celebrities, Daily Douchebag, media whores, NFL football, Seahawks, sluts
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Norm Johnson
DOB: May 31, 1960
Occupation: real estate agent, retired NFL placekicker
Hometown: Garden Grove, California
Current residence: somewhere in Kitsap County, Washington (Silverdale?)
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Yesterday, I received the following e-mail from Morrissey'sHair:
From: Morrissey'sHair (mhair@helpingbrokemotherfuckersllp.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Dude,
Not sure if you saw this story yesterday, but Norm Johnson, aka The Greatest Kicker in Seahawks History, aka The Seahawks' All-Time Leading Scorer, aka The Snowman, aka White Jesus, aka Why Your Bitch Keep Pagin' Me?, is an honest to god HERO. I think he deserves Daily Dude I Want to Hit status.
http://www.iht.com/articles/ap/2007/12/12/america/Placekicker-Samaritan.php
Morrissey'sHair
Actually, I thought Norm Johnson went by "Mr. Automatic" and not "Why Your Bitch Keep Pagin' Me?," but all the same, I thought Morrissey'sHair was onto something. Basically, Norm Johnson was taking his brat to school and came across some dumb broad who hit a patch of ice and flipped over her car into a ditch. The ditch was filled with freezing water, and the chick couldn't get out, so Norm Johnson grabbed a rock, broke a window, and helped the hooker out. Okay, the woman probably wasn't so much a "hooker" as she was a "Bremelo," which is a local term describing fat women in Kitsap County who hang around the navy base in Bremerton looking to score some seamen, but regardless, Norm Johnson did a commendable job acting as a Good Samaritan.
Granted, this is nothing like the time that Captain Johnathan of the F/V Time Bandit pulled that dude out of the frigid and violent Bering Sea last season on "Deadliest Catch" to the guy's weeping, man-hugging, "You saved my fuckin' life, man!" gratitude, and it would be far more apropos in Kitsap County if Norm pulled this chick from a burning meth lab, but I'd hate to be stuck in a car overturned in a muddy ditch in Silverdale. I would say that drowning in freezing runoff somewhere in Silverdale in a sinking 2001 Pontiac Grand Am is right up there with Southern lean overdose and AIDS-related wasting on my list of crappy, unremarkable ways to die, so if I were that woman, I'd reward Norm Johnson with more than just a wimpy hug for saving me. The least she could do is give him a trunk full of gold doubloons. Or at least a blow job. Being a record-setting placekicker saving random bitches' lives is a thankless job, indeed. Maybe when I get back to the P-N-Dub in 3 days (!) I can track down Norm Johnson and thank him properly on her behalf.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Morrissey'sHair, P-N-Dub, Seahawks
Monday, December 10, 2007
Sig Hansen is the 12th man
Yesterday while I sat stewing in malevolent thoughts concerning a certain despicable team from Foxborough, Assachusetts and waiting for my man Alex at Josie Wood's Pub to turn on the Seahawks-Cardinals game, I was busy texting my buddy from the P-N-Dub, HotLawyer.
HotLawyer: Prediction--hawks win by fourteen! Fuck yeah!
Razzy: I went to church yesterday and prayed 4 just that
HotLawyer: God answered
Indeed he did and how, because the Seahawks actually ended up winning by 21 points. However, at this point prior to kickoff, the game still wasn't on in the bar, so HotLawyer had to call me to tell me that something AWESOME happened at Qwest Field. In case you don't know much about Seahawks football, we fans are known as the "12th man." Yes, I know Texas A&M thought of this first, but we really perfected it in Seattle. Here's the hot piece of middle linebacker known as Lofa Tatupu running around yesterday waving the 12th man flag for the fans' delight:
At the beginning of every game, a local Seattle celebrity and/or hero is called upon to raise the 12th man flag. Often, this is a douchebag like John Kerley (host of a local shitshow called "Evening Magazine") or one of Seahawks owner Paul Allen's douchebag friends from Microsoft. Sometimes they do better and get a hot Mariner (ie: Ichiro) or some hot former Seahawk like Jim Zorn to do it. And once in a great while, they get someone who truly embodies everything that makes Seattle great. Someone who is a real man, a true hero, and a devastatingly handsome hunk of Viking sexiness.
Who could meet such high and exacting standards, you ask? There is only one man I can think of, and his name is CAPTAIN SIGURD HANSEN OF THE F/V NORTHWESTERN!
YES!!!! Who is Captain Sigurd Hansen of the F/V Northwestern, you ask? Only the most dreamy crab boat captain ever to mine the Bering Sea for "red gold" on the Discovery Channel's "Deadliest Catch." My feelings for Sig are well-known, since he himself stumbled upon a blog entry I wrote praising his bravery and rough-edged Scandinavian hotness, linked it on his MySpace, and declared me his .1 fan (!). Sig is so damn sizzling that undoubtedly all the people shivering in the chilly Seattle winter weather at Qwest Field probably felt like the heat was turned on full blast.
"Sig just raised the 12th man flag!" HotLawyer told me excitedly. "This portends well for the Seahawks, I think."
Immediately after getting off the phone with HotLawyer, I got a text message from his twin brother, Morrissey'sHair.
Morrissey'sHair: At game. Sig raised the 12th man flag!
Razzy: HotLawyer told me. Is it like 80 degrees at qwest field because sig is there?
Morrissey'sHair was probably occupied with a large frosty cup of Rainier beer, so he didn't get back to me about Sig causing unseasonably warm weather at Qwest Field, but I'm sure if he hadn't been busy chugging Vitamin R and cheering for the Hawks he would have replied in the affirmative.
Anyway, I'm glad that Captain Sig took a break from "selling out" (according to some ardent "Deadliest Catch" fans) by putting his name on Russian crab being sold at Wal-Mart to celebrate his Seahawks love. When he finished raising that flag, he probably fired up a cigarette and called Captain Phil Harris of the F/V Cornelia Marie to rub it in that he was the face of the 12th man. I can't wait for next season of "Deadliest Catch" when Sig taunts Captain Phil with wheezy laughter into his radio about assisting in the defeat of our pathetic divisional rivals from Arizona.
Obviously the Seahawks won thanks to Sig's blessing Qwest Field with his virile masculinity and his overall positive mojo. How could anything but victory come after watching Sig put his decades of crab-fishing experience into one of the finest executed 12th man flag raisings in the history of standard bearing? Watch and see for yourself:
So. DAMN. HOT!
HotLawyer: Prediction--hawks win by fourteen! Fuck yeah!
Razzy: I went to church yesterday and prayed 4 just that
HotLawyer: God answered
Indeed he did and how, because the Seahawks actually ended up winning by 21 points. However, at this point prior to kickoff, the game still wasn't on in the bar, so HotLawyer had to call me to tell me that something AWESOME happened at Qwest Field. In case you don't know much about Seahawks football, we fans are known as the "12th man." Yes, I know Texas A&M thought of this first, but we really perfected it in Seattle. Here's the hot piece of middle linebacker known as Lofa Tatupu running around yesterday waving the 12th man flag for the fans' delight:
Who could meet such high and exacting standards, you ask? There is only one man I can think of, and his name is CAPTAIN SIGURD HANSEN OF THE F/V NORTHWESTERN!
"Sig just raised the 12th man flag!" HotLawyer told me excitedly. "This portends well for the Seahawks, I think."
Immediately after getting off the phone with HotLawyer, I got a text message from his twin brother, Morrissey'sHair.
Morrissey'sHair: At game. Sig raised the 12th man flag!
Razzy: HotLawyer told me. Is it like 80 degrees at qwest field because sig is there?
Morrissey'sHair was probably occupied with a large frosty cup of Rainier beer, so he didn't get back to me about Sig causing unseasonably warm weather at Qwest Field, but I'm sure if he hadn't been busy chugging Vitamin R and cheering for the Hawks he would have replied in the affirmative.
Anyway, I'm glad that Captain Sig took a break from "selling out" (according to some ardent "Deadliest Catch" fans) by putting his name on Russian crab being sold at Wal-Mart to celebrate his Seahawks love. When he finished raising that flag, he probably fired up a cigarette and called Captain Phil Harris of the F/V Cornelia Marie to rub it in that he was the face of the 12th man. I can't wait for next season of "Deadliest Catch" when Sig taunts Captain Phil with wheezy laughter into his radio about assisting in the defeat of our pathetic divisional rivals from Arizona.
Obviously the Seahawks won thanks to Sig's blessing Qwest Field with his virile masculinity and his overall positive mojo. How could anything but victory come after watching Sig put his decades of crab-fishing experience into one of the finest executed 12th man flag raisings in the history of standard bearing? Watch and see for yourself:
So. DAMN. HOT!
Labels: Deadliest Catch, hot dudes, HotLawyer,