The Rituals of Dr. Broom

Nothing says bonding like taking it up the egress. At least, that’s what my boyfriend tells me. But it seems that a Canadian football team shares the same deluded method of thinking. During McGill University football’s hazing rituals, an unidentified recruit was forced on his hands and knees, had a dog toy put in his mouth, and received a bit of the old ultraviolence from an object called “Dr. Broom.” Unlike the rest of the recruits, he refused to remove his boxer shorts, so upperclassmen were only able to “poke each cheek of my buttocks as the audience counted down and then poked the stick between my cheeks and hit my anus.” Yesterday, the abused rookie received a letter of apology from the team [I guess Hallmark doesn't make "sorry about the anal rape with a broomstick" cards]:

“It was never mine or the team’s intention to humiliate or ostracize any member of our team brotherhood. The long-standing ritual is designed to be a team bonding experience which all members of the team underwent, it is not designed to be a hazing ritual driving new team members away.”

Humiliation is an integral part of hazing. I went through it, as did any of you who were on athletic teams or in a greek system. I was stripped naked, forced to do humiliating things, engaged in strange rituals and rites of passage, got alcohol poisoning, and, in the end, had to prove my devotion to the team by being branded. It was a hellish experience from beginning to end but when it was over, I was forever bonded to my classmates and team and they to me. It was amazing……… But had anal penetration with a broom been a part of the deal, I would have run for the fuckin hills. The potential for splinters alone is a thought that’s too much to bear. It’s not just that the experience is traumatizing. It’s absolutely disgusting. Is the broom sheathed with a condom? Is this a community broom? So what if the name of the school’s chancellor is Dick Pound. I can’t imagine what compels men to engage in homoerotic activities in the name of bonding. If they’re going to do it, they may as well hook things up with a dildo or a vibrator and make it enjoyable…. Hmmm – too much? Sorry.

“We fully [accept] that the emotional and psychological stress it induces may not be the best way to forge relationships with new team members.”

Ya think? Way to own up. There’s a lot of stuff I can let go, obviously, but broom action is simply unacceptable. Too bad this happened way up in Canada. If the Crimson Tide were involved, at least they could have chanted “Rammer Jammer Yellowhammer, Give ‘em hell Alabama!” I bet that would’ve been festive.

Fighting Back with Bible Verses

I don’t know what’s going on here between Jeff Francoeur and Chipper Jones but the Braves have now clinched their 14th Division Title in a row. Let’s see if they can also clinch their 10th straight failure in a row.

My legs were pretty sore this morning, so I went down to the training room to be stretched out and get a little STIM on my knees. Once the trainer started stretching me, I closed my eyes and gave it a snooze. But then I heard, “The secretaries said this is where you went.” I looked down and it was Beano. Given that my soreness was primarily in my thighs, I wasn’t in the most flattering position. And with him sitting in a chair at the end of the table, it looked like his head was between my legs. I put my hands over my face but he took it as a cue to pull his chair up to the side of the table.

“You know how you admitted to being Jewish the other day?” He said it like I admitted I had a crack addiction. “And you know how I’ve been trying to tell you about the Word of God and you haven’t been listening?” It’s not like I could forget. He’d been proselytizing to me for 2 straight days, inviting me to his Bible study and a Sunday of worship at his church. I nodded and then told him that if 5 years at this school hadn’t converted me, he wasn’t going to accomplish much. Truth is, no one has ever tried as hard as Beano has in the last three days. On some level, I have to commend him for his persistence. While I laid there, he read various passages of the New Testament and tried to tell me about their meanings. Twenty minutes later, he was still going when I had an idea. I spouted out 20 long, involved verses, finishing with the short John 3:16. That was all it took to convince Beano that not only do I know my New Testament, but I’m obviously rethinking my ways as well. Truth is, I’ve been well-versed on the New Testament since I was 13 years old – like any educated person ought to be. Luckily, he doesn’t know that.

So a message to my Jewish counterparts out there, when overzealous religious douchebags harass you to the point of distraction, run them off with New Testament verses of importance. They’ll walk away with a thumbs up and a smile.

Killer Dolphins On the Prowl

Dr. Evil is working for the Department of Defense. While we don’t have sharks with frickin’ laser beams attached to their heads, the Guardian reports that we do, in fact, have killer dolphins equipped with toxic dart guns. Apparently, the Navy has trained US Atlantic bottlenose dolphins in attack-and-kill missions since the Cold War. They’re trained to shoot terrorists attacking military vessels. But thanks to Hurricane Katrina, 36 of them were swept out to sea.

Leo Sheridan, “a respected accident investigator who has worked for government and industry,” is the source for this info. He believes that the dolphins could fire on divers and windsurfers mistaken for spies and suicide bombers. Yet another reason I won’t be surfing in the Gulf any time soon.

“The darts are designed to put the target to sleep so they can be interrogated later, but what happens if the victim is not found for hours?” Well I guess they’d die, Mr. Sheridan. Die and then be eaten.

I’m having some trouble buying Mr. Sheridan’s story. Back in 1998, he was confident that a group of US Navy killer dolphins had come to grief off the French Mediterranean coast when they got loose and their handlers detonated a “radio-controlled explosion of their signal collars, so that no one could find out their missions.”

I guess the dolphins were going to break under interrogation. It’s a good thing they’ve yet to tap into previously unmined mental powers to spontaneously generate opposable thumbs. We’d all be sunk.

Thoughts and Issues on a Friday

1. I was flooded with hate mail from WNBA fans for Wednesday’s The WNBA is Over. Thank God, a post that had the potential to be much worse than it turned out to be. Apparently, I’m a negative for the feminist cause because I have a “a sizeable and loyal primarily male audience” and I “choose to sell out women” with my “chauvinistic views and opinions” when I could actually be doing women some good. Five people questioned whether I had a mother, as no woman could raise a girl that 1) “thinks like you do” and 2) “is so incredibly misguided and lost.” And others concluded that if I do have a mother, she is not an athlete and my opinions were shaped by a dominant male figure. In addition, a few suggested that I’m “obviously a homophobe” (not to mention one with “intimacy issues”) and a couple believe that I’m actually in the closet. So I should probably clear some things up:

a) I’m a feminist. I believe in the full social, economic, and political equality of women and making that a reality. But I never said anything about shutting down the WNBA or wiping women’s hoops from the face of the earth. What I said was that the lack of talent and athleticism makes the league unwatchable. If 300 Diana Taurasi’s played, I wouldn’t opt for Law & Order: SVU on a random Monday night. Being a feminist doesn’t mean I have to be a radical. I’m not going to get militant unless the Raiders or Yankees are playing and the only time you’ll see me picketing is when I’m trying to get Norv Turner fired. I’m not rooting for women just because they’re women, and I’m not going to keep my mouth shut when the ability of 75% of the players to walk and chew gum at the same time is extremely suspect.

b) Though it’s true that I’m a Daddy’s girl, my mother, is, in fact, alive and well. She rowed crew and played field hockey at Oxford University and loves sports but she’d rather watch a racquetball tournament than the WNBA.

c) I’m not a homophobe nor am I in the closet. According to The Gay-o-meter, I’m a “perfectly balanced hetero-babe” at 50% gay. But I will admit that a girl walked up to me at a party once and kissed me. I either didn’t care for it or was too drunk to enjoy it. I’ll also admit that if Salma Hayek propositioned me, I’d be all over her like the ship was goin down. By the way, I never said a word about the sexual orientation of some players or the league’s willful blindness to the fact that their primary market is the GLBT community. Get over yourselves. Idiots.

2. Tyrone Willingham is not only a fraud, he’s also completely insane.

“I did speak out about the situation (his firing from Notre Dame). My problem is I didn’t say what somebody else wanted to hear. … I haven’t bit my tongue. I said exactly what Tyrone Willingham wanted to say. The world’s not ready for what I wanted to say.” – Willingham being insane

Uh… So is what Tyrone Willingham wanted to say different from what “he” wanted to say? I’m lost. I try not to harp on this issue too much for obvious reasons but what is it that the world isn’t ready to hear? Is he gonna tell us that Notre Dame ran him out in a racist conspiracy between a priest and a CEO in the midst of a coup? That’s what most of the misinformed world already believes. I don’t know what more could shock the world unless Willingham reveals that he’s actually the T-1000, sent from the future in the original form of Bob Davie in order to drive Notre Dame into the abyss of mediocrity and destroy the world. That would spin me out.

A message to Ty: Stop sounding like the Sphinx from “Mystery Men.” Stick to getting blown out by 30+ once a season. It’s what you’re good at.

3. NFL Game of the Week: No, it’s not the Diva Bowl between Oakland and Philly. I never look forward to times when I’ll be a mess of tears and huddled in a corner. I’m itching to see the San Diego Chargers at home against the New York Football Giants on Sunday Night Football. I have to believe that Eli making a fool of their organization and fans is going to come back to haunt him in truly unpleasant ways this Sunday.

“It’s insulting. And mark my words, it’s going to come back on him. You start thinking about a guy like Pat Tillman, who turned down millions to go fight for his country. Then you think about Eli crying about where he wants to play football, and it just puts everything into perspective.” – LaDainian Tomlinson

Meanwhile, Eli Manning prepares back in New York…

4) To Dave Smith from Tampa, the individual that left the comment in the previous post inquiring about my racial identity — You were right on both accounts but if you ask the census, my school records, my driver’s license, or any other document that records my racial status, I’m of an “ethnic persuasion,” as you so eloquently put it. But a question for you — what the hell does it matter? Cheers and thanks for stopping by.

[picture via The Hater Nation]

Follow Phil Fulmer to the Citrus Bowl

Check out my Thursday update for SportsbyBrooks, which includes:

Many thanks for those who sent along links and amusing pictures. Gold stars for all.

The WNBA Is Over. Thank God.

Last night, I was looking for the ChiSox-Indians game, or any baseball for that matter, but found nothing. On possible baseball channels were Law & Order, Behind the Glory, Best Damn, and the WNBA Finals. I’m the type of person that will get fired up over the World Championship of Tiddlywinks, so it might seem natural that I’d just tune in to the WNBA. It was supposed to be an exciting game and, for fans, apparently was, as it was decided by 3 points. Trouble is, I wasn’t willing to endure a whole game of that nonsense to get to the riveting 30-seconds at the end of the game where girl X either clanked a last-ditch trey off the side of the rim or banked it in for the victory. Instead, I hit up NBC for the season premieres of My Name is Earl, The Office, and Law & Order: SVU.

I shouldn’t be saying this for a number of reasons, but of all women’s sports, basketball is the most painful to watch. It’s not that I’ve been spoiled by watching the men. I enjoy all other forms of women’s athletics – intercollegiate and professional. I’d admit that college ball can be entertaining when watching the elite teams play one another. The concentration of talent on those 6-8 teams is pretty high. But it still remains that there is no other women’s sport in the world that has as many non-athletes as what you’ll find in a run of the mill NCAA or WNBA game. There are three types of players: the great shooter with an ugly stroke that wouldn’t know true agility if it goosed her; the tall, semi-mobile forward that uses her elbows to free up space for her 4-foot banked shots; and the girl that’s slow as molasses but has a great body for collecting ticky tack fouls and turning the ball over. I don’t include Diana Taurasi in this list because she’s an anomaly and the players that come close to touching her in on-court ability are few and far between. But for the rest, it’s like basketball is the last refuge for girls who want to be athletes but aren’t agile, flexible, or fast enough to hack it anywhere else.

I know what’s coming now – “Yeah but do you even play basketball?” Other than pick up games, not since AAU during high school. I found a different sport at which to truly excel. “Do you think you’re better than WNBA players?” No, of course not. But I watch professional sports to see athletes mystify me with their abilities and talents. I watch them to be amazed while they do things with their bodies that most people can only dream. I don’t watch other women’s sports and say, “Hell, even I can do that.” I can’t hit a 110 mph softball pitch or return a 120 mph serve. It’d take me 5 minutes to swim the 100 free, not 55 seconds. But that’s not what I get when I watch the WNBA. I watch them and wonder if they could pull together a team of five to survive Bookstore Basketball. With the exception of their All-Star game, watching the WNBA is largely on par with seeing a tournament of organized pick up games. I can get that watching the more entertaining And1 ballers survive ESPN’s Streetball during my lunch break.

Reggie Bush Should Win the Heisman Now

… Because with this type of ability, he certainly deserves it. Check out my update for today’s SportsbyBrooks, which includes Reggie’s Heisman ability, as well as:

I’m scheduled to do another update for Thursday, so if anyone spots any news or pictures about sports that is crazy, interesting, or simply ridiculous, please send them my way.

Ahoy Mateys! + SportsbyBrooks

Avast ye mateys and Happy Talk Like A Pirate Day! Whether you be a pirate yourself or there’s one in your life, be sure to throw out at least one, “Arrrr!” and find someone to shiver your timbers while you swash their buckles before the night is out. I know I will. Arrr! In celebration of this day, I took some time to discover my pirate name:

In other news, I have an update over at SportsbyBrooks, so check it out to see my insights on:

Beano, Co-Worker and Baffling Irritant

I have a co-worker hereby known as “Beano” whose idiocy knows no bounds when it comes to anything not pertaining to his job. Though he often spouts nonsensical comments, as of late, it’s really come to a head and I find that no matter when I see him, I have this aching desire to choke him to death. Here are our last 3 interactions.

Beano’s been on a diet since I met him but continues to gain weight because he snarfs down 6,000 calories of canned fruit and cottage cheese each day and caps it off with a super-sized Big Mac meal around 9 pm. Fructose + McDonald’s = Liberty Medical’s Wilford Brimley. So three days ago, the office went through a “health fair” of sorts where our body weights and fat percentages were calculated with this water tank. The results were posted in the kitchen (which seemed harsh) and later that morning, Beano came by my office, wanting to discuss his battle against the pound. “Your body fat is impossible. And your figure! How do you maintain it? It’s simply fantastic.” I immediately felt uncomfortable and looked around to make sure a joke wasn’t afoot. If he’d said it all with a lisp and his hands on his hips, maybe it would have been easier to accept but the reality is that he’s a chunky butt, married man with a 5:00 shadow. In no way should “simply fantastic” or “figure” ever be uttered by a man like this. “I’m not 20 anymore. I need to work on my diet and really shedding a tire or two!” He nixed heavy exercise, so I suggested he stop pounding all the sugary fruits, opting instead for more fiber and balanced meals with protein. “Only squirrels get fiber. I don’t want to eat a tree to slim down.” I thought about making a smart ass comment but refrained. Instead I gave him some fiber options, concluding with whole grains cereals like Cheerios and Shredded Wheat. “Cheerios? Cereal is really fatty. Don’t you know the calories per bowl? Why am I even asking you, Cheetos?!” No one’s ever called me Cheetos before. He stomped out like a diva, wholly unsatisfied.

So yesterday, I was walking to my office when I passed Beano talking to a secretary about national ID cards. He was arguing for them and she wasn’t sure, so they asked me. I shared my anti-ID card sentiments and his mouth fell open. “I should have known you’d be a fascist.” I ran it through my head twice just making sure I heard him correctly and then said, “There are many reasons that warrant you calling me a fascist but this issue isn’t one of them.” He stared at me. “Do you know what a fascist is, Beano?” “I know you’re a typical jock, so I know who I’m listening to…… and that’s myself.” He did the two “this guy!” thumbs at his chest and then told me I didn’t know anything about politics and government. Instead of flipping out, I walked away.

So it happens that today, I had my third Beano interaction in as many days. Beano poked his head in my door and asked what I was doing for lunch. “I brought in this chicken thing. You’ve gotta try it.” “Is this a peace offering?” “You can dip it in sauces. I’m changing things up like you said. Getting balance. Delicious balance.” I was going out for lunch but I’m all about free food, so I went to the kitchen to check it out anyway. In a brown bag were 4 purple and orange packages; it looked like hot pockets. “Spicy Chicken and Cheddar-Jack Cheese” was written in a whimsical script. Right below that, in bold, yellow, block-lettering was “BURRITO.” Also in the bag were little cups of salsa and sour cream. Dipping sauces. ReRe. I walked back into the main office area and said, “Uh… Beano. This… this is a chicken thing?” “Oh yeah, just discovered them at the store and they’re really good, especially when you dip em in the dips.” If I could get away from this situation without uttering any form of “fuck,” it would be a successful outing. “It’s a burrito!!!” Cue blank stare. “We had lunch catered from Chipotle last week and I watched you eat 3 BURRITOS!” It was like crickets chirping and then he had the nerve to get indignant! “Not everyone can eat Cheetos all day! Have a chicken thing and be like the mortals for once.”

Fatty Cheerios. Fascism. Chicken thing. Fucking unbelievable.

Is it really wrong to strike this guy? Maybe if I do it once and then run away? Some form of violence really must be excusable here.

Zantac Fantasy Baseball League, Part II

FUCK!

Remember these days?

So my fantasy team is in the shitter and it’s like day 8. I know, I know – only a week has passed.. be patient.. it works out. Sod off. This sucks. My team’s performance thus far is so abysmal that it actually hurts my feelings. How can they treat me this way? I mean… I had so much faith in them. I believed! Following painstaking research and analysis, I found these players to be the best candidates for my Team of 5×5 Dreams. Something about this is quite criminal… isn’t it?

Well they have returned. Once again, I’ve allowed fantasy baseball to lead me down the primrose path of hope and glory only to have it bash me in the face with disappointment and frustration. After the All-Star break, my prospects started to improve, the ulcer subsided, and I could log into the league page without crying. I shed dead-weight jerks like Adrian Beltre, swiped Johnny Damon and Dontrelle Willis in some solid trades, and made some nice pick-ups in free agency. By late August, I was in 2nd place and 5 points away from Plainville Penguins – the goon in the lead that has made 73 roster moves (20 in the last week) over the course of the season. As the days went by, my team slowly but surely chipped away at his lead and then out of nowhere, it all stopped. At first I didn’t care. What’s a negative .5 here or there when it’s happening to everyone else? But after a few days, it wasn’t everyone else. It was just me, as my peckerhead players threw me under the bus by conspiring to stop hitting for average. In the past 7 days, I have lost FIVE points in batting average. Somehow they’re managing to produce in every other facet of baseball but God forbid they do better than 0/4 or 1/5 on any given night. I had one night last week where only 3 of my players actually hit the fucking pitch and Derek Lee wasn’t even one of them!

I’m in third place now and my position is only safe from 4th place because I have a 16 point cushion… who knows how long that will last. Why couldn’t the season have ended last week when things were going well for me? Now I’m going to lose in shame. Thanks team. Losing was one thing back in June when I was fighting for 5th place and simply wanted to avoid failing the female species as the only representative in my league. But now that I’ve had a taste of the top, it’s fuckin war! I’m not standing for this bullshit anymore. Johnny Damon, Edgar Renteria, Javy Lopez, Lance Berkman, Brian Giles.. I’m talkin to you. Pick your shit up! I’ll be damned if Flash’s Isotopes go down in flames to a team as fruity as the Plainville Penguins. Hopefully my anger will seep out to all the ballparks tonight and my players, sensing my impending wrath, will hit the ball like their asses are on fire and a .350 average is the cure.

18 days left.