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
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
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
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
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
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Meat Loaf was right...
...in his inherently wise musical proclamations (and I'm not talking about "Paradise by the Dashboard Light", although I can relate to that jam too). And God, Meat Loaf is a hot piece, for a long-haired proto-Jack Black wind machine aficionado who changed his name from Marvin Aday to Meat Loaf to enhance his a-little-bit-Dungeons-and-Dragons, a-little-bit-Hell's Angel, a little-bit-Grand-Ole-Opry mystique, anyway:
It's true that two out of three ain't bad. In spite of the sting of defeat related to my loss in the whole Dolphins-Patriots debacle, I have still been mostly winning. I was right about Jessica Simpson being the key to Tony Romo's downfall awhile back (and I know the Cowboys won this week in spite of a crowd of Panthers fans wearing the Jessica Simpson cutout masks being promoted by RuinRomo.com, but that had more to do with Marion Barber's 110 rushing yards than Tony's getting his shit together...Romo still threw an INT and I attribute that to Ms. Simpson being at the game in spite of the cameras not being able to spy her hideous and disgraceful pink jersey). I was also right about my prospects in the Columbia Ballers Fantasy League Ballers Bowl V!
Yes, bitches, I defeated the Js and the Ps (AKA the Bills of our league, as this is the third Fantasy Super Bowl he's lost) 92-80 to claim my first fantasy league championship. Now I am both league commissioner AND league champion, and I'm proud to say that I never once used my powers as commish (ability to fuck with draft orders, edit box scores, steal players from other teams, etc) to make this happen. Unlike those assholes in Shitsburgh, I don't need to cheat (or at least rely on some HIGHLY questionable officiating) to win a Super Bowl. That means I've got 250 clams coming my way, or, when converted to the currency of choice in Razzyland, 25 sixers of Heineken! I can simultaneously drown my sorrows about losing my Patriots-Dolphins bet to Benzo and celebrate the triumphs I have enjoyed. YESSSSSSS! Victory is sweet enough to make me forget about losing. Feel free to send me congratulatory sentiments and expressions of your awe and reverence at your leisure.
Yes, bitches, I defeated the Js and the Ps (AKA the Bills of our league, as this is the third Fantasy Super Bowl he's lost) 92-80 to claim my first fantasy league championship. Now I am both league commissioner AND league champion, and I'm proud to say that I never once used my powers as commish (ability to fuck with draft orders, edit box scores, steal players from other teams, etc) to make this happen. Unlike those assholes in Shitsburgh, I don't need to cheat (or at least rely on some HIGHLY questionable officiating) to win a Super Bowl. That means I've got 250 clams coming my way, or, when converted to the currency of choice in Razzyland, 25 sixers of Heineken! I can simultaneously drown my sorrows about losing my Patriots-Dolphins bet to Benzo and celebrate the triumphs I have enjoyed. YESSSSSSS! Victory is sweet enough to make me forget about losing. Feel free to send me congratulatory sentiments and expressions of your awe and reverence at your leisure.
Labels: Fantasia, I LOVE IT, NFL football, Razzification, Stealers suck
Monday, September 24, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Mike Carey
DOB: 1949 (!!!!-he looks WAAAAAAY younger)
Occupation: hottest referee in the National Football League
Hometown: San Diego, California
Current residence: San Diego, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Mike Carey is a NFL ref who does not fuck around. When he's calling some random penalty, he looks like a damn rhythmic gymnast. His hand motions are so precise that when he's calling a holding penalty, you can almost feel his hands grabbing your arm in his steely, practiced grip. He is particularly sexy when he demonstrates the motions for a face mask penalty, and his stoic expression makes you realize exactly how much the offending team deserves that loss of fifteen yards or half the distance to the goal (or five, but he's deadly serious even with the lesser face mask penalty). I swear this dude practices the motions for every penalty for hours. He probably stands in front of the mirror the same way Tyra Banks exhorts her would-be models to do on "America's Next Top Model." He demonstrates a level of dedication unparalleled by any other official in all of the National Football League.
Mike Carey also doesn't take any shit whatsoever. He has ejected more players from games than any other referee in NFL history. I can just imagine some loudmouth shit-talker like Jeremy Shockey trying to haggle with him over some dinky 5-yard penalty, and getting summarily booted for being an asshole. If you've ever watched a NFL game, you know that the players and coaches argue with the ref about any and every call. Mike Carey will put up with that, but anyone foolish enough to call him an asshole, make an obscene gesture, or otherwise show disrespect will be hitting the fucking showers promptly. Mike Carey runs a tight ship, and he is grossly underappreciated.
Mike has never officiated a Super Bowl, and this is a crime. As you can tell by his impeccably trimmed mustache, he has an eye for precision and detail. If he had been the referee in, say, the day of unfairness and misery so great it was exceeded only by Pearl Harbor and 9/11 known as Super Bowl XL, this bullshit offensive pass interference call against Darryl Jackson--thus stripping the Seahawks of a touchdown--would never have happened:
Most importantly, however, he never would have sold a Super Bowl, and especially wouldn't do so by such blatantly obvious bad officiating. For one thing, he's independently wealthy thanks to his side business of inventing and manufacturing ski boot accessories, so he doesn't need to taint his legacy out of sheer greed. For another, he is a man of integrity who would never succumb to the temptations of Heinz family money delivered by Big-Chin Cowher in hopes of boosting sales of soon-to-be throwback Bettis jerseys:
Therefore, when the Seahawks rise to the top of the toilet known as the NFC and go to the Super Bowl again (hey, a girl can dream, and the Hawks are now 2-1), Mike Carey better get the fucking nod. He is the fair, amazingly accurate, detail-oriented hotness.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, NFL football, Seahawks, Stealers suck
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Say I
I can mark the moment I started caring about football, because it was a pivotal one in my life. I was at Packard's, this bar in Northampton, giving my boyfriend Benzo all sorts of shit about not taking me out to breakfast on Sunday mornings during football season, and I said, "I don't understand the point of football. Isn't it just a bunch of fat dudes running into each other?"
"Razzy," he said patiently, trying for the thousandth time to compel me to lay off his ass about his Sundays being dedicated to the NFL instead of his hot blonde shikse girlfriend. "Football is like chess. I don't think you understand football."
"What's to understand?" I scoffed. "The most basic play involves dudes butting heads like a bunch of fucking mountain goats posturing for sexual dominance. Don't care."
"You're wrong," he said. "The most basic play is the I formation. Well, not in the West Coast offense, but for all intents and purposes, let's say it's the I formation, and let me explain it to you."
I humored him, expecting to find some inherent flaw and be able to be right on the fact that I can deconstruct almost anything on the fourfold basis of my harsh criticisms, my forceful personality, my tits, and my willingness to put out. He grabbed a cocktail napkin and a pen. Then Benzo not only proved me wrong, he changed my life.
By the time he'd finished with the I formation, he also went through the shotgun, a variety of draw, screen, and slant plays, some basic defensive packages, and classic gimmick plays such as the flea-flicker and the hook-and-ladder. I was enthralled, and had completely forgotten about being right or complaining about his non-availability for Sunday brunch. I resolved to start watching football immediately, because not only was I wrong about it being stupid, I was deeply intrigued.
That was in December 1999, and I proceeded to not only watch all the playoffs, but damn near had a massive coronary during the Super Bowl the next January. In case you aren't up on your stats, that was Super Bowl XXXIV, in which the Tennessee Titans lost by one struggling, Kevin Dyson's-desperately-reaching yard to the St. Louis Rams. Dick Vermeil cried with joy. Steve McNair shook his head with deep sadness (as well as pain from his typical 18 different injuries). I swore vengeance against the Rams, and pledged my life and soul to Eddie George (with a clause allowing revocation of said pledge if he ever signed with the Cowboys, that I exercised in 2004).
Since then, I have become progressively more and more obsessed with NFL football. Now I do things like I did tonight: go to Super Bowl parties and impress the dudes there with my knowledge. Miss Corbutt's boyfriend, who invited me and my friends to his party, heard me trying to explain to Miss Corbutt the awesomeness of the Coors Light "Playoffs?!" commercial and going off on a tangent about the ins and outs of Jim Mora, Sr.'s illustrious press conference record, NFL head coaching politics, and family playing/coaching dynasties, and said, "Wow...you really ARE hard core."
Miss Corbutt had initially lured me to this party on the basis that there was a free buffet of fried foods, she would be there, there would be lots of "single Amherst guys" (been there and did that...in 1997), and there were many plasma screens to watch the game on. I enjoyed the fact that I was the resident girl who knows about football much more than the prospect of me doing a bunch of I-bankers from the underground DEKE house at Amherst. On account of the night before and the lethal tequila-Jaegermeister-scotch-gin-vodka-beer combo I'd imbibed, I was glad to be kicking ass at anything, so it was excellent to be a lauded-for-knowing-football bitch at a Super Bowl party.
I was rooting for the Bears, because I hate and despise the Colts, and I will until I die. I hate them even more than the Cowboys. They were the team I hated most until the Shitsburgh Stealers gave me a personal reason to hate them more, but nonetheless my anti-Colts sentiments remain true and unmitigated. This is partly because they are the Titans' AFC South rivals, and partly because I loathe Peyton and all other Mannings to the core of my being. However, since the officiating in this Super Bowl was considerably better than last year's bullshit travesty, and since the Bears basically didn't get a goddamn thing going offensively, by the end of the third quarter I accepted that I'd simply have to suffer through another year of Peyton Manning being an incorrigible asshole bolstered by a Super Bowl ring. So I went to take a piss.
There were these girls there who were decked out in head-to-toe Bears gear waiting in the bathroom line. I pegged them as serious fans, as they were wearing Bears caps, NFC champion shirts, Bears armbands, and logo orange-and-navy C's on their cheeks. I decided to be friendly and share my sympathies.
"Dudes, I'm sorry," I said. "I'm a Seahawks fan, so I know how you feel. I was right where you are last year, getting dangerously close to a fugue state."
They gave me this weird, extraordinarily puzzled look that indicated I should elaborate.
"I mean, last year, I knew that the Hawks were done by this time in the game. Of course then it was because of bullshit offensive pass interference calls and ignored horse collar tackles and not the straight-up inability of Rex Grossman to convert third downs, but still, I feel you."
"Oh..." The head girl suddenly got where I was coming from. "We're not really Bears fans, hon. We just like dressing up."
"Um..." I said.
"Yeah," her friend chimed in. "We called the Chicago Sports Authority and had them FedEx us these Cubs temporary tattoos!"
She pointed proudly to the C on her face. I didn't mean to be an asshole, but I couldn't help it.
"Uh, I think you mean the Bears. The Cubs are a baseball team," I said as kindly as I could.
She and her friend gave each other a what-the-fuck-is-up-with-this-bitch?-there-are-hedge-fund-owners-to-hit-on-here look.
"Whatever!" she said cheerfully, and went back to chatting about the boys they liked. Mercifully the bathroom became available at that moment. While I was pissing, I wondered what those girls would do if I forced their "Cubs"-fan asses to check out an I formation and appreciate the depth of the culture they are appropriating for frivolous dress-up. Probably think I'm even more bizarre than they already do, but I wished I could do it nonetheless. In a perfect world, it would change their lives for the better, as Benzo's Xs and Os (and not just his kisses and hugs) once changed mine. Then again, in a perfect world, the Stealers wouldn't be sitting around reminiscing about how they stole last year's Super Bowl, and Peyton Manning wouldn't be spending tonight making false promises about taking the trampy hos he cheats on his wife with at the Delano Super Bowl afterparty to his mandated Disneyland victory celebration. So I guess I still have to give a nod of acknowledgement to the girls who spend $200 on fan gear and root for teams playing a different fucking sport for financial effort alone, and silently pray that one day someone with more credibility than me draws them a sufficiently interesting I formation. Seriously...that shit is better than finding Jesus.
"Razzy," he said patiently, trying for the thousandth time to compel me to lay off his ass about his Sundays being dedicated to the NFL instead of his hot blonde shikse girlfriend. "Football is like chess. I don't think you understand football."
"What's to understand?" I scoffed. "The most basic play involves dudes butting heads like a bunch of fucking mountain goats posturing for sexual dominance. Don't care."
"You're wrong," he said. "The most basic play is the I formation. Well, not in the West Coast offense, but for all intents and purposes, let's say it's the I formation, and let me explain it to you."
I humored him, expecting to find some inherent flaw and be able to be right on the fact that I can deconstruct almost anything on the fourfold basis of my harsh criticisms, my forceful personality, my tits, and my willingness to put out. He grabbed a cocktail napkin and a pen. Then Benzo not only proved me wrong, he changed my life.
By the time he'd finished with the I formation, he also went through the shotgun, a variety of draw, screen, and slant plays, some basic defensive packages, and classic gimmick plays such as the flea-flicker and the hook-and-ladder. I was enthralled, and had completely forgotten about being right or complaining about his non-availability for Sunday brunch. I resolved to start watching football immediately, because not only was I wrong about it being stupid, I was deeply intrigued.
That was in December 1999, and I proceeded to not only watch all the playoffs, but damn near had a massive coronary during the Super Bowl the next January. In case you aren't up on your stats, that was Super Bowl XXXIV, in which the Tennessee Titans lost by one struggling, Kevin Dyson's-desperately-reaching yard to the St. Louis Rams. Dick Vermeil cried with joy. Steve McNair shook his head with deep sadness (as well as pain from his typical 18 different injuries). I swore vengeance against the Rams, and pledged my life and soul to Eddie George (with a clause allowing revocation of said pledge if he ever signed with the Cowboys, that I exercised in 2004).
Since then, I have become progressively more and more obsessed with NFL football. Now I do things like I did tonight: go to Super Bowl parties and impress the dudes there with my knowledge. Miss Corbutt's boyfriend, who invited me and my friends to his party, heard me trying to explain to Miss Corbutt the awesomeness of the Coors Light "Playoffs?!" commercial and going off on a tangent about the ins and outs of Jim Mora, Sr.'s illustrious press conference record, NFL head coaching politics, and family playing/coaching dynasties, and said, "Wow...you really ARE hard core."
Miss Corbutt had initially lured me to this party on the basis that there was a free buffet of fried foods, she would be there, there would be lots of "single Amherst guys" (been there and did that...in 1997), and there were many plasma screens to watch the game on. I enjoyed the fact that I was the resident girl who knows about football much more than the prospect of me doing a bunch of I-bankers from the underground DEKE house at Amherst. On account of the night before and the lethal tequila-Jaegermeister-scotch-gin-vodka-beer combo I'd imbibed, I was glad to be kicking ass at anything, so it was excellent to be a lauded-for-knowing-football bitch at a Super Bowl party.
I was rooting for the Bears, because I hate and despise the Colts, and I will until I die. I hate them even more than the Cowboys. They were the team I hated most until the Shitsburgh Stealers gave me a personal reason to hate them more, but nonetheless my anti-Colts sentiments remain true and unmitigated. This is partly because they are the Titans' AFC South rivals, and partly because I loathe Peyton and all other Mannings to the core of my being. However, since the officiating in this Super Bowl was considerably better than last year's bullshit travesty, and since the Bears basically didn't get a goddamn thing going offensively, by the end of the third quarter I accepted that I'd simply have to suffer through another year of Peyton Manning being an incorrigible asshole bolstered by a Super Bowl ring. So I went to take a piss.
There were these girls there who were decked out in head-to-toe Bears gear waiting in the bathroom line. I pegged them as serious fans, as they were wearing Bears caps, NFC champion shirts, Bears armbands, and logo orange-and-navy C's on their cheeks. I decided to be friendly and share my sympathies.
"Dudes, I'm sorry," I said. "I'm a Seahawks fan, so I know how you feel. I was right where you are last year, getting dangerously close to a fugue state."
They gave me this weird, extraordinarily puzzled look that indicated I should elaborate.
"I mean, last year, I knew that the Hawks were done by this time in the game. Of course then it was because of bullshit offensive pass interference calls and ignored horse collar tackles and not the straight-up inability of Rex Grossman to convert third downs, but still, I feel you."
"Oh..." The head girl suddenly got where I was coming from. "We're not really Bears fans, hon. We just like dressing up."
"Um..." I said.
"Yeah," her friend chimed in. "We called the Chicago Sports Authority and had them FedEx us these Cubs temporary tattoos!"
She pointed proudly to the C on her face. I didn't mean to be an asshole, but I couldn't help it.
"Uh, I think you mean the Bears. The Cubs are a baseball team," I said as kindly as I could.
She and her friend gave each other a what-the-fuck-is-up-with-this-bitch?-there-are-hedge-fund-owners-to-hit-on-here look.
"Whatever!" she said cheerfully, and went back to chatting about the boys they liked. Mercifully the bathroom became available at that moment. While I was pissing, I wondered what those girls would do if I forced their "Cubs"-fan asses to check out an I formation and appreciate the depth of the culture they are appropriating for frivolous dress-up. Probably think I'm even more bizarre than they already do, but I wished I could do it nonetheless. In a perfect world, it would change their lives for the better, as Benzo's Xs and Os (and not just his kisses and hugs) once changed mine. Then again, in a perfect world, the Stealers wouldn't be sitting around reminiscing about how they stole last year's Super Bowl, and Peyton Manning wouldn't be spending tonight making false promises about taking the trampy hos he cheats on his wife with at the Delano Super Bowl afterparty to his mandated Disneyland victory celebration. So I guess I still have to give a nod of acknowledgement to the girls who spend $200 on fan gear and root for teams playing a different fucking sport for financial effort alone, and silently pray that one day someone with more credibility than me draws them a sufficiently interesting I formation. Seriously...that shit is better than finding Jesus.
Labels: Jim Mora Sr., Miss Corbutt, NFL football, ridiculous absurdity, Stealers suck
Friday, October 20, 2006
You go, Larry Johnson
Because I've wanted to see someone do this to Shitburgh Stealer Troy Polamalu for a very long while:
Cut your hair, bitch!
Cut your hair, bitch!
Labels: assholes, NFL football, Stealers suck, you're ugly
Monday, September 18, 2006
Fuck the Pittsburgh Stealers
You know what I hate more than getting my ass handed to me in my Fantasy league two weeks in a row?
Getting this in the mail:
I received this because I bought a pair of Steelers panties on sale from NFLshop.com several years ago. Despite having bought a Seahawks jersey since then, for some reason the NFL thinks that my $7 underwear are a more accurate reflection of my fan status than the $90 official home Trufant jersey, and sent me this absolutely maddening catalog of Steelers Super Bowl XL Championship memorabilia. Seeing this montage of triumphing Steeler images wreathing a shining depiction of the Lombardi trophy makes my blood boil.
I used to like the Steelers. I liked the Bus and his goofy grin, I liked Bill Cowher and his perma-scowl, and I liked Hines Ward's friendly, cheerful smile. I liked the Terrible Towels, I liked the Steelers' blue collar logo and I liked Pittsburgh's working class hero mystique. I was even rooting for the Steelers to go to the Super Bowl during the playoffs last year. Be careful what you wish for.
I'm not the only one who liked the Steelers. Seemingly, so did the NFL referees officiating Super Bowl XL, because they GAVE THEM THE FUCKING SUPER BOWL!
Like, for example, this call, where Ben Roethlisberger allegedly scored a touchdown on a 1 yard quarterback sneak
The NFL rule book states that a touchdown occurs "When any part of the ball, legally in possession of a player inbounds, breaks the plane of the opponent’s goal line, provided it is not a touchback." Since Big Ben DID NOT CROSS THE PLANE, this is not a touchdown. However, that's not what the officials said. The ref ran over to spot the ball just short of the goal line, Roethlisberger moved the ball across despite being COMPLETELY down and, while halfway there, the ref changed his mind about spotting it and threw up his hands, declaring it a touchdown. Thank God we have instant replay to straighten this out! Oh wait...they still called this a touchdown despite indisputable footage that says it wasn't, which furthers my theory that when the head referee sticks his head into that video thing, they actually just watch either porn or reruns of "Coach" rather than footage of the play under review.
Making this worse was the fact that the officials invented a holding penalty against the Seahawks, thus negating a Matt Hasselbeck completion which would have put the 'Hawks squarely in the Red Zone at 1st and Goal. This happened not once, but twice. In the fourth quarter, Hasselbeck completed a pass to Jerramy Stevens which would have placed the ball at the Steelers' one yard line, except the NFL officials again stole it from us with a phantom holding call.
This didn't just happen on plays that would have put the Seahawks in a position to score TDs. This also happened on a touchdown play itself, when the officials called another highly questionable offensive pass interference penalty on Darrell Jackson in the end zone. The game commentators were astounded, since it was obvious that calling him for pushing off was a real stretch. I see more blatant examples of pushing off not called every Sunday. So the NFL officials robbed us of two scoring opportunities as well as a touchdown outright.
I've heard a lot of people say things like, "Well, if the Seahawks played better, it wouldn't have mattered." I'll grant that the 'Hawks did make a few mistakes in the game, most notably allowing Willie Parker to make that 70+ yard touchdown run. However, it DID matter, because every time Seattle's offense showed the slightest sign of momentum, the officials stripped that away with their bullshit fictional penalties.
People might wonder why the NFL would want the Steelers to win. That's simple. Everyone loved the story about Jerome Bettis retiring after playing the Super Bowl in his hometown, and Bill Cowher's longtime thirst for a Super Bowl victory, and the Steelers' legacy in general. I think the NFL simply decided that a Steelers victory would be much more profitable for the team and the league than would a Seahawks victory. More people would buy commemorative videos, and Bettis jerseys, and crappy shit like Steelers imitation Tiffany lamps:
This is why the Steelers were allowed to walk away with the Lombardi trophy without earning it through fairness and superior football play. They stole it with the help of their official accomplices. From now on, I'm calling them the Pittsburgh Stealers, and I've downgraded my Pittsburgh panties to period underwear status: only worth wearing if the possibility exists that I might menstruate all over them.
I hate the Stealers and I hope that Jacksonville destroys them. I wish Roethlisberger had another appendix to rupture. I wish that Willie Parker would suffer a knee blowout or some other season and/or career-ending injury. I wish that someone would sneak up on Troy Polamalu and cut off his hair, thus robbing him of his power. I wish that something would happen to Hines Ward that is so bad he never wants to smile charmingly again. Fuck the Stealers. Maybe I'm being childish about this, but you know what? This child has the right idea:
This was originally written for and posted to my Fantasy Football blog, but I just had to share
Getting this in the mail:
I received this because I bought a pair of Steelers panties on sale from NFLshop.com several years ago. Despite having bought a Seahawks jersey since then, for some reason the NFL thinks that my $7 underwear are a more accurate reflection of my fan status than the $90 official home Trufant jersey, and sent me this absolutely maddening catalog of Steelers Super Bowl XL Championship memorabilia. Seeing this montage of triumphing Steeler images wreathing a shining depiction of the Lombardi trophy makes my blood boil.
I used to like the Steelers. I liked the Bus and his goofy grin, I liked Bill Cowher and his perma-scowl, and I liked Hines Ward's friendly, cheerful smile. I liked the Terrible Towels, I liked the Steelers' blue collar logo and I liked Pittsburgh's working class hero mystique. I was even rooting for the Steelers to go to the Super Bowl during the playoffs last year. Be careful what you wish for.
I'm not the only one who liked the Steelers. Seemingly, so did the NFL referees officiating Super Bowl XL, because they GAVE THEM THE FUCKING SUPER BOWL!
Like, for example, this call, where Ben Roethlisberger allegedly scored a touchdown on a 1 yard quarterback sneak
The NFL rule book states that a touchdown occurs "When any part of the ball, legally in possession of a player inbounds, breaks the plane of the opponent’s goal line, provided it is not a touchback." Since Big Ben DID NOT CROSS THE PLANE, this is not a touchdown. However, that's not what the officials said. The ref ran over to spot the ball just short of the goal line, Roethlisberger moved the ball across despite being COMPLETELY down and, while halfway there, the ref changed his mind about spotting it and threw up his hands, declaring it a touchdown. Thank God we have instant replay to straighten this out! Oh wait...they still called this a touchdown despite indisputable footage that says it wasn't, which furthers my theory that when the head referee sticks his head into that video thing, they actually just watch either porn or reruns of "Coach" rather than footage of the play under review.
Making this worse was the fact that the officials invented a holding penalty against the Seahawks, thus negating a Matt Hasselbeck completion which would have put the 'Hawks squarely in the Red Zone at 1st and Goal. This happened not once, but twice. In the fourth quarter, Hasselbeck completed a pass to Jerramy Stevens which would have placed the ball at the Steelers' one yard line, except the NFL officials again stole it from us with a phantom holding call.
This didn't just happen on plays that would have put the Seahawks in a position to score TDs. This also happened on a touchdown play itself, when the officials called another highly questionable offensive pass interference penalty on Darrell Jackson in the end zone. The game commentators were astounded, since it was obvious that calling him for pushing off was a real stretch. I see more blatant examples of pushing off not called every Sunday. So the NFL officials robbed us of two scoring opportunities as well as a touchdown outright.
I've heard a lot of people say things like, "Well, if the Seahawks played better, it wouldn't have mattered." I'll grant that the 'Hawks did make a few mistakes in the game, most notably allowing Willie Parker to make that 70+ yard touchdown run. However, it DID matter, because every time Seattle's offense showed the slightest sign of momentum, the officials stripped that away with their bullshit fictional penalties.
People might wonder why the NFL would want the Steelers to win. That's simple. Everyone loved the story about Jerome Bettis retiring after playing the Super Bowl in his hometown, and Bill Cowher's longtime thirst for a Super Bowl victory, and the Steelers' legacy in general. I think the NFL simply decided that a Steelers victory would be much more profitable for the team and the league than would a Seahawks victory. More people would buy commemorative videos, and Bettis jerseys, and crappy shit like Steelers imitation Tiffany lamps:
This is why the Steelers were allowed to walk away with the Lombardi trophy without earning it through fairness and superior football play. They stole it with the help of their official accomplices. From now on, I'm calling them the Pittsburgh Stealers, and I've downgraded my Pittsburgh panties to period underwear status: only worth wearing if the possibility exists that I might menstruate all over them.
I hate the Stealers and I hope that Jacksonville destroys them. I wish Roethlisberger had another appendix to rupture. I wish that Willie Parker would suffer a knee blowout or some other season and/or career-ending injury. I wish that someone would sneak up on Troy Polamalu and cut off his hair, thus robbing him of his power. I wish that something would happen to Hines Ward that is so bad he never wants to smile charmingly again. Fuck the Stealers. Maybe I'm being childish about this, but you know what? This child has the right idea:
This was originally written for and posted to my Fantasy Football blog, but I just had to share
Labels: NFL football, ranting, Seahawks, Stealers suck
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