Jerry Porter Plans to Crap on Tim Brown’s Legacy

I have sported three Raiders jerseys over the course of my life – a Jack Tatum onesie (1983), Tim Brown (1987-2004), and Jerry Porter (2005). I had a Bo Jackson one as well but never wore it because my dad told me not to be a bandwagon jumper. As it turns out, he was talking about switching allegiances to other teams, not players, but I was about 7 at the time and didn’t really understand the difference.

Anyway, the year before last, I decided it was time for a change and settled on Jerry Porter’s #84. I thought Porter was a jerk with serious personality problems but there was no one else that was worth a damn on our team. Besides, I thought he’d team up with Randy Moss to become one half of the most feared wide receiving tandem in the NFL.

Shame on me for trying to overlook the negatives.

Al Davis gave Porter more than $10M in guaranteed money with a pre-season signing bonus; Porter responded by sleepwalking through 2005. He posted two 100-yard games, a seven-reception game high, and a 12.4 yards-per-catch average. Awesome effort, Jerry. Good lookin out.

After that stirring display of mediocrity, he clashed with Art Shell and demanded a trade. I became so enraged that I poured gasoline on his jersey and burned it in the street. That’s when I brought ole trusty #81 back out the closet; I could always wear that with pride, right? No. Not even close.

Now in the good graces of both Coach Lunch Money and Tim Brown, Jerry Porter is trading in #84 for Brown’s #81.

"I talked to him yesterday, and he feels some people might trip, but it’s been four years since I had that jersey on,” said Brown.

Some people might trip? Tim, you’re Mr. Raider. You’re the leading receiver in the history of the goddamn franchise. Let’s pass your number on to the obnoxious cunt in the gold-plated heavyweight title belt! That sounds like a great idea! Come on.

According to Porter, this is all okay because he’s turning a new leaf and he needs the most dignified number in the Raiders franchise to make the transition complete.

"I am truly honored and excited about changing my number to 81," Porter said. "For me, the new number represents a new start, a new beginning and new attitude."

Well it’s too bad you didn’t do this last year. Maybe we wouldn’t have ranked last in the NFL with 16 total offensive touchdowns, asshole.

This new leaf business is total bollocks. The expectations of wearing #81 aren’t the same with the Silver & Black as they are with, say, the Eagles or the Cowboys. It requires more than playing with a steely resolve; it necessitates a willingness to do whatever is necessary to help this franchise no matter what adversity stands in the way. Is Jerry Porter honestly capable of that? I’m all for this fresh start of his but a tiger can’t change his stripes.

It will require a complete re-wiring of Porter’s brain for him to come close to being anything like Tim Brown. And I don’t say that because I think Brown is God or a legendary, Hall of Fame-caliber receiver whose number should be in the heavens. He was neither. Tim Brown was simply very good and very reliable for a long period of time. But he exuded class and professionalism every day of his 17 seasons in the NFL, proving himself as an incomparable leader and a tireless worker. If anyone is going to wear his number, let it be the guy that embodies what he was all about, not a #2 receiver that takes his cues from Terrell Owens.

Hattip: The Hater Nation 

Sword-Wielding Virgin Mistakes Porn Sounds for Rape

If there’s any time and place to get a good wank on, you’d think it’d be when one is alone in the privacy of his or her own home. No worries about interruptions or fears of being caught. It’s just you and… you. It’s the time when you look down at yourself and say, “You can scream if you want to but nobody’s gonna hear ya!” At least, that’s how it’s supposed to be.

While hanging out in his bedroom, James Van Iveren heard a woman’s screams coming from the floor above him. Thinking she was getting raped, he did what any sensible 39-year-old man would do — he said to hell with the cops and went all Prince Valiant, grabbing a cavalry sword and bounding up the stairs to save his lady fair.

Trouble was, there wasn’t a rape. Hell, there wasn’t even a woman! The screams and moans were emanating from his neighbor’s tv. You see, Brett Stieghorst was watching porn and likely having a right go at things. That is, until Van Iveren pounded on his door and then kicked it in.

Van Iveren then demanded to know where the raped woman was, repeatedly shouting, “WHERE IS SHE??!” while thrusting his sword at his neighbor. As a result, the poor guy was forced to open all of his closet doors to prove that the only person being violated in the apartment was himself.

But if you listen to Van Iveren, that’s not exactly how it was supposed to go:

“I intended to hold it behind my back and knock. But I froze and instead, what happened happened.”

That’s understating the issue just a tad, don’t ya think? When you burst into an apartment and a guy is standing there with his dick in his hand, the natural reaction is to freeze and then walk away. You don’t run around his apartment! “I had the sword extended. But that was all,” he said. Imagine this scene — a Dwight Schrute type brandishing a sword and poking through closets while April Showers moans obnoxiously in the background from taking it cowgirl, sideways, bareback, and every position in between. It’s almost too good to be true.

What do you want to bet that Van Iveren, a 39-year-old man that lives with his mother, rolled his 20-sided die in hopes of determining his level of success before attempting rescue? If that was the case, I can totally see why he didn’t bother to call the police. I mean, come on – guns are cool and all but when going up against the armor class of a rapist, they don’t do the job quite like a natural 17 rocking an attack bonus and a +5 strength modifier.

“Now I feel stupid,” said Van Iveren, who has been charged with a multitude of misdemeanors as a result. “This really is nothing, nothing but a mistake.”

Ya know, I can’t help but agree with him on that point. I mean, look at the guy. Look at his life situation. It’s a true stretch of the imagination to believe he knows what a woman sounds like in bed let alone in porn. Anything short of laughter probably sounds like rape. The closest I imagine Mr. Van Iveren has ever come to a sexual situation with a woman is the Night Elf that he has cyber sex with while playing World of Warcraft and Christ, that’s probably a dude.

Hit cnn for the video interview with Stieghorst who intends to keep watching porn – just with sound down.

Johnny Damon Tells Lies, Remains Braindead

Those that have been around here long enough have watched my seething hatred for Johnny Damon dissipate into tempered enthusiasm and random bouts of annoyance.

Believe it or not, I used to be a fan of his when he was in Kansas City. That said, my rooting interest had nothing to do with his skills and everything to do with his supposed ethnic background. My cousin Alonso told me that Damon was an Indian and he used our fathers as proof –

"Look at their faces," he said. "They’re the same! He’s probably from the nation and everything!"
"But his baseball card says he was born in Kansas."
"You were born in Idaho. Are you a Coeur d’Alene?"
"No."
"See???"

Like any 13-year-old feeb, I took Alonso at face and immediately convinced myself that Johnny Damon would be the greatest Indian athlete since Jim Thorpe pwned the universe. Of course, this never happened.

Around the time that I headed off for college, I learned that Damon wasn’t Indian at all — he was half Thai and half white. You all know what a huge racist I am, so you won’t be surprised to hear that I fell off the bandwagon straight away.

I remained indifferent to his existence until he wrote "Lord of the Idiots, an Autobiography." That’s when I started hoping he’d choke on a bag of dicks.

Ironically, he responded by signing with the New York Yankees. Over the last year, I’ve come to appreciate his presence on the team and have somehow managed to defend him from time to time. But he has yet to endear himself to me enough that I’ll ignore his lies and stupidity.

In an interview with MLB.com, Damon professes that he couldn’t be happier with his situation; he’s fitting in with the team and he’s getting healthy. Huzzahs all around. If you’re a Yankee fan, that’s all you want to hear. But Johnny doesn’t stop there — he keeps laying it on. 

"In the end, every part of me is happy. … I knew the Yankees and always wanted to be a Yankee, even dating back to when I was a [Kansas City] Royal." – Johnny Damon, February 20, 2007

"There’s no way I can play for the Yankees, but I know they’re going to come after me hard. It’s definitely not the most important thing to go out there for the top dollar, which the Yankees are going to offer me. It’s not what I need."- Johnny Damon, May 1, 2005

What a fucking liar! It’s as if he doesn’t realize that we’re in on the gag and big Johnny Trickster has pulled the wool over our eyes yet again.

Newsflash Johnny – we know you’re here for the money. In five years, the warranty on your wife’s tits is gonna run out and you’ll have to foot the bill for a new pair. That’s a lot easier to do with a paycheck coming in twice a month from an organization that uses the pages of Moneyball instead of Charmin in the executive bathrooms.

In other news, Damon’s six-week-old daughter, Devon Rose, is already balancing and standing… "I think she’ll be walking or running by six months." That’s great. Good for little Devon Rose. She’s gonna need some athleticism because her parents have the collective IQ of a rattle. Hopefully, she can get her athletic career started early. While the other little tykes are developing manual dexterity and spatial reasoning, she’ll be running cones. Good luck to her.

Hattip: Babes That Love Baseball

Johnny Damon Hatred:
Lord of the Idiots
Schillings, Damons, and Scarves
Down With Chris Berman
Lord of the Idiots Is Off to the Bronx
I Gotta Lotta Problems With You People

Sabotaged by the Heating/Cooling Service Man

So a couple years ago, my best friend and I went into business together. We bought 12 houses to rent to students and another five to fix up and rent out on game weekends. Thus far, things have gone smoothly. We have pretty agreeable tenants, all things considered, and the homes are in good shape, so there’s usually little about which to worry. But the heater in one of the houses went on the fritz last weekend and the four jackasses that live there were drunk for the better part of a day, so no one noticed a problem until the house temperature dropped to about 55 degrees. They showed up at my front door shivering violently and clutching a handle of Jack..

"The house is cold! You have to help us! We’ll freeze and die."
"You won’t freeze and die."
"But we will! And then we can’t pay rent!"

Smart kids. I told them to drink a little more, called a heating/cooling place, and met the serviceman out there. Like most mechanics turn out to be, his name was Rick. Why are a lot of mechanics named Rick anyway? It’s like the name Pam. Whose family doesn’t have an Aunt Pam? Well… mine doesn’t, actually,  but you know what I mean. Anyway, Rick fiddled around for ten minutes and then tried to sell me a new part. The heater was five years old; I didn’t see how it was due for new parts. And after listening to his spiel, my suspicions were confirmed — having it would serve no bigger advantage than replacing a 5 year old nail with a clean, shiny one. Rick continued to make noise about improved efficiency, so I told him I’d get a second opinion before proceeding. He spent another five minutes on the furnace and left in a bit of a huff.

So yesterday, the four showed up at my door again:

"The house is going to explode!" "Yeah, the furnace is like a jet engine!" "It’ll kill us." "You have to fix it right now!"

I don’t know what the hell they expected me to do. I’m not Schneider from One Day at a Time. There’s no tool belt for me to throw on and just make everything okay. Besides, I wasn’t keen on going to the house that, in their opinion, was teetering on the verge of explosion. Sure, they’re a melodramatic, drunk bunch but still.

In the interest of not being a slum lord, I went over anyway and found that they were right. I could hear the heater churning while still in the driveway. By the time I reached the basement, it was standing next to a 747… plus there were sparks. I turned everything off, took a look, and saw 8 or 9 random nuts and bolts on the ground beneath the unit.

I don’t know a lot about heater/a-c units.. actually, I don’t know a thing.. but I know enough about parts and machinery to recognize that tightly fastened nuts and bolts don’t work themselves completely loose over the course of three days, least of all when they are responsible for keeping the fan attached to the freaking engine.

Foul play, anyone?

I called Sawyer for the name of the business in hopes of getting a second opinion before taking further action and he gave me the wrong one – namely, the company that had just screwed me over. So I called them and they sent two service men over to check things out. They took one look at the unit and said, 
"Ma’am, you’ve been sabotaged for lack of a better word and it’s ruined your furnace."

After they left, I called the one person in the world that’s more vengeful than myself – my father. He gave me a list of threats to make and I hopped in my car to track down the fuck that caused this mess. While en route, I got a call — "Ms. Warner, we checked our records and WE are the company that serviced your furnace. We understand what happened now, we want to make this work out for you."

This just pissed me off more. Didn’t they know I was on my way over to go ballistic?? I hung up on the man and kept driving. No one was going to take the wind out of my sails with an apologetic phone call! I finally got there, took out my contacts [harsh words are always more effective when I remove my fake irises] and marched inside. There I completely lost my head, delivering each threat with spiteful, litigious conviction. I’m kinda sad my dad wasn’t there to see it… Fifteen minutes later, I had everything I could have wanted and more: a new furnace, free maintenance for the life of the unit, and the firing of Rick the service man. In exchange, I won’t be suing them, calling news outlets, or contacting the police. I’m not really sure if anything criminal actually occurred (fraud? theft?) but I thew it out anyway.

As it turns out, Rick sabotaged the thing, assuming that after a few hours of hearing it rumble, my renters would call me and I’d order his stupid part. He didn’t bank on them being so oblivious to anything other than their liquor supply and Gears of War, that it would take three days for the issue to come to my attention. By that time, the unit was all but destroyed.

Anyway, I’m not so much angry about this situation as I am confused. These guys don’t work on commission and the part only cost $85. So it’s not like this guy was going to make money or even raise the boss’s eyebrows with a huge sale. What other motivations am I missing? No one benefits from him returning a week later to install a part that, for all intents and purposes, I don’t need.

The Admiral Drops Knowledge on The History Channel

I’ve been laying here watching the History Channel for the better part of three hours… why? Because the History Channel is the balls. That’s why.

When they followed “Nixon – A Presidency Revealed” with Modern Marvels I expected something about bridges or rivets, but the subject was George Washington Carver Tech. It sounded interesting enough. I knew little of Carver beyond what I learned in school and often read that it’s difficult to tell where the truth of his life’s achievements ended and the myth began, so I perked up a little.

Ten or fifteen minutes in, a familiar face appeared on the screen — David Robinson. Momentarily confused, I checked to make sure I hadn’t changed the channel. Nope – still on channel 40. This must be a commercial then; what is The Admiral endorsing that is fit for the geek documentary crowd? Well, oops. That wasn’t the case either. Credited simply as “David Robinson, NBA Star,” The Admiral joined historians, botanists, and scholars as an expert on George Washington Carver.

I’ll be honest with you, I didn’t see that one coming.

Robinson spoke with passion about Carver’s life, legacy, and accomplishments and appeared to have such a ridiculous breadth of knowledge that I started to wonder if the History Channel really needed to interview anyone else. I then figured that they added the historians to shield attention away from the fact that viewers were getting punched in the mouth with knowledge and opinion from a basketball player. But after considering that, I realized that 90% of the people watching this channel at 7 pm on a Saturday wouldn’t have recognized him anyway.

“We are standing on the shoulders of Giants and Carver is one of those giants for us. We don’t have to reinvent the wheel. What we do is we stand on that foundation that’s already been laid; it’s a great foundation. Carver’s laid some blocks for us but we have to continue to take that tradition further.” ~ The Admiral drops wisdom

As it turns out, he and his wife founded a private school in San Antonio called The Carver Academy that utilizes many of Carver’s teaching techniques to provide education to K-6th graders.

Anyway, is this a first — the professional athlete speaking intelligently about a historical figure that neither appeared in a video game nor served as a mentor/coach? If this has happened before, please excuse my ignorance. Frankly, before 7 pm tonight, I wouldn’t have thought this was possible. It’s not even that I think athletes are stupid or lack knowledge extending beyond their craft; I just can’t imagine any being called for an interview for a program attempting to educate people. How does that even come about?? Who signs off on that?

“Okay, we’ll need some experts for George Washington Carver’s inventions on Modern Marvels. What’ve we got?” “Well, there’s the tour guide from the Carver Memorial, a professor from the Tuskegee Institute, a botanist from UGA, an author on Carver’s legend, and, uh, David Robinson.”
“David Robinson. What school is he from?”
“… the San Antonio Spurs…”

If there was any athlete I’d expect to pull expert duty on an issue not involving athletics or weed, it’d be David Robinson. As far as I’m aware, he’s the most intelligent, well-educated, professional athlete of our time, at least, of those who are noteworthy… but still, this shit is bizarre and leads further credence to my belief that the world is about to come to a violent, tragic end.

Why Isn’t Hardaway In Rehab Yet?

I was wondering if you could help me understand something — what is the point of the celebrity apology? It’s not remotely valid and most people dismiss it as such but we still demand it. Why? After a person exposes him or herself as an ignorant bigot, there is no stuffing the cat back in the bag. Does the apology make us feel better? Is there proof that it actually improves a situation? Is someone out there actually learning a lesson beyond "I’d better not tell people what I really think!"

We’ve been bombarded by the news and resulting outrage of Tim Hardaway’s arbitrary bigotry and intolerance since late Wednesday night. He hates homosexuals. He hates the idea of them. Not only does he want them kept far away from himself and his team, but he also thinks they shouldn’t be in the world OR the United States.

That’s a pretty ironic stance for a bloke named Hardaway with crossover "skeels" that spent six years in the Bay Area before choosing to live every year since in South Beach… a homophobe deciding on the gay capitals of America as the best places to live and work makes about as much sense as a neo-Nazi seeking out the good life in Skokie, Illinois… Judging by the looks of his wife, you really couldn’t blame him… but moving on…

A few hours after his interview with Dan LeBetard, Hardaway dropped this non-apology/diversion attempt on a radio station:

"Yes, I regret it. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said I hate gay people, or anything like that. That was my mistake… There are more important things to worry about than my comments. We should be more concerned about President (George) Bush and all the people dying in Iraq."

So over the course of maybe four hours, Hardaway admits to being a homophobic cunt and then reinforces his comments by essentially saying, "I still hate the gays but I kinda regret telling everybody… but… uh… George Bush! *runs away*" While that really ought to be enough (he couldn’t be in a deeper hole), people were still asking for an apology. For what purpose? He was honest about being a rotten, vile fuck and now we want him to take it back as if that will help cushion the blow. Enter the agent, stepping in 18 hours later to give Timmy a sudden moment of clarity — a moment of impressively articulate clarity:

"As an African-American, I know all too well the negative thoughts and feelings hatred and bigotry cause. I regret and apologize for the statements that I made that have certainly caused the same kinds of feelings and reactions. I especially apologize to my fans, friends and family in Miami and Chicago. I am committed to examining my feelings and will recognize, appreciate and respect the differences among people in our society. I regret any embarrassment I have caused the league on the eve of one of their greatest annual events."

Who is buying into that garbage? Listen to the guy — he’s not articulate enough to order a fucking pizza without a cheat sheet and yet here he is a day later talking about knowing "all too well the negative thoughts" and examining feelings. Tim Hardaway can’t spell bigotry let alone use it in a grammatically correct sentence but there are mental defectives out there saying, "I knew Timmy Hardaway was a good guy! I knew he didn’t mean it. He’s a stand-up guy apologizing like that!" To make matters worse, there are others commenting about how "that’s a good place to start."
 
Where are these people and why can’t we shoot them?

He is not a stand up guy and there is no good place to start. Tim Hardaway is an unapologetic bigot with an agent trying to run damage control. He’s not sorry he feels that way; he’s sorry he ran his mouth in front of an on-air ESPN personality. What does it help to hear/read his words of regret (as penned by one of the interns working for his agent)? And if it doesn’t help, why issue an apology at all? It’s not as if "well it’s the nice thing to do" really applies at this point… I just don’t get it.

They Called You ‘Sugar’ Cause You Gave It Out… So Sweet

I’m guessing that I’m the only person around here that watched the Mosley-Collazo fight on HBO Saturday night, yah? … I know, I know – boxing isn’t nearly as cool as MMA; boxing sucks; it’s not 1980 anymore; blah blah blah. I hear you but it’s just not sinking in. I will be loyal to boxing for the rest of my days and nothing can be said that will convince me of MMA’s superiority.

Anyway, if you come to my house on Saturdays, you know that it’s fight night. And this past week, we had Sugar Shane Mosley and Luis Collazo squaring off for the WBC Welterweight title. But the mood grew bleak about a minute before the two touched gloves when Larry Merchant actually said:

"When Callazo’s handlers said the other day that sugar melts under heat, Jack Mosley (Sugar’s dad and trainer) responded that sugar can give you diabetes and is bad for the heart… one of them (dramatic Larry Merchant-esque pause) has to be wrong."

Oh, ya think, Larry, you self-righteous, senile old fuck!! I want to clock you in the face. You’d think Jim Lampley would be good for it but he’s too busy beating on his lady friends. Christ.

Before Mosley foolishly upped sticks to the junior middleweight division a few years ago, he was a joy to watch. Fast, fluid, and powerful, he was the kind of fighter that made all the brutality look beautiful. He was the best pound-for-pound fighter in boxing and even when he took down Oscar de la Hoya (my then-favorite) in a 12-round decision, I couldn’t help but love and appreciate his style. 

But then he started putting on muscle mass and even more muscle mass. It wasn’t long before his name came up in the BALCO scandal, which, given the looks of him, wasn’t too surprising… he could have benched 80 pounds with his ear lobes alone.

Too tight to punch accurately or throw combinations, he settled for the Mike Tyson method – loading up for single blasts under the theory that bigger men required bigger power. Though he beat de la Hoya for a second time to become one of the few boxers to reign in three divisions, he got his ass handed to him twice by Winky Wright. Eventually he came back to his home at 147 and here we are.

Though Mosley looked good in his bout against Fernando Vargas last year, I thought he’d go down on Saturday. Collazo was a counter-punching southpaw with youth on his side. No matter how good Mosley said he was feeling, Collazo would jab, jab, and jab again until Mosley simply wore out. And at 35-years-old, what could Mosley possibly do to prevent it?

Beat his ass – that’s what he could do. And that’s what we happened. Mosley destroyed Collazo in a 12-round unanimous decision, knocking him down once and lighting him up like an unworthy chump in each successive round.

Shame on me for expecting a sluggish, aging Mosley. He turned back the clock and delivered an impressive, dominating performance. Mosley’s footwork and combinations were dazzling; he sported quick hands, harder punches, and a zip, passion, and energy unseen in years.

Collazo had a few eye-catching punches and tried to throw the jab so successful against Ricky Hatton but Mosley ducked them, got to the inside, and dotted up Collazo’s face and body with three-punch combinations. It was brutal. And it’s exactly what I’ve been wanting out of a boxing match since Floyd Mayweather Jr beat Arturo Gatti into a bloody mess nearly two years ago. I don’t know who Mosley has next but I’m looking forward to it… After Mayweather and de la Hoya retire, at least somebody will be left that knows what he’s doing.

Please, Bernie, Just Retire

Bernie Williams has been a New York Yankee for more than half of my life. I have a vague recollection of his 1991 debut, which is to say I remember little more than hearing my dad say his name once or twice.

But as long as I have been an engaged fan, Bernie has been there, conducting himself with humility, passion, and class. His mastery with the bat, selflessness, and calm demeanor were instrumental to New York’s success over the last sixteen seasons, but there comes a time when that’s no longer enough to warrant a roster spot.

Bernie claims that he is neither ready to retire nor willing to play for another team, so when the Yankees offered him a minor league contract with a non-roster Spring Training invitation, I thought he’d jump on it.

Sure, twenty-year-olds playing for the Trenton Thunder can manage as much but what better way to prove the front office wrong than to take the offer, tear it up in Tampa, and earn a spot, right? Nah. Turns out that’s an insulting proposition. Williams rejected the offer, or is leaning toward doing so, at the very least. To make matters worse, he plans to stay in shape at home until the Yankees call with a guaranteed contract.

Williams said, he would maintain a waiting game of sorts by staying home, staying in shape, spurning offers of guaranteed contracts from other teams and waiting for the Yankees to change their minds and offer him a guaranteed spot on the roster… – New York Times

Hey Bernie, unless the contract is for a one day stretch, they’re not gonna call. You’ve been around two years too long and everyone knows it. And it’s not just the front office, it’s also the fans. The wild cheers for you at Yankee Stadium over the last two years have been as much a sign of love, respect, and appreciation as gentle nudges out the door.

Since 2003, I’ve been concerned that something like this would happen but never thought Bernie would be the type to allow it. Someone had to step aside when he made the 25-man roster 16 seasons ago and I assumed he’d realize when it was his turn to do the same.

So when Johnny Damon came into the fold and Cashman gave Williams a one-year extension, I figured the end was nigh. 2006 would be the Bernie Williams Farewell Tour. Then in 2007, he’d return to Yankee Stadium for Bernie Williams Day, John Sterling would yell "Bern, baby, Bern" across the radio waves one last time, and we’d say our final goodbyes to a legend. Sounded like a plan, yeah? But no. That’s not how Bernie is choosing to play it. Instead of walking away from the game with class and dignity, he’s taken on the "rip the jersey off my back" mentality, which only works on an organization if you’re Brett Favre.

At 38 years old, Bernie Williams is no more suited to play center field than first base. His slow legs and noodle arm make him a defensive liability and while he can still be effective at the plate, he can’t provide what the Yankees truly need and have lacked on the bench for so long – the ability to pinch hit, steal, or lay down a bunt. The only thing Bernie’s rocking right now is a fading talent for batting against left-handed pitchers and he doesn’t even bat all that much. Please tell me how that aids our side in a World Championship run.

Now, it’d be nice if the front office could do a one-day, send-off contract but with Williams still thinking he’s a gold glover, he’d probably take that as an insult as well. The truth is, the front office has treated him with respect and done their due diligence. They didn’t want to reach the point where Cashman had to say,"Hey fella, you’re the #5 outfielder and you aren’t good enough;" where Joe Torre had to unceremoniously cut him before Opening Day; where Bernie would get the dubious honor of the non-roster Spring Training invite.

They tried to nudge him gently, they tried to push him quietly, but he refused and here we are. Bernie was a great Yankee and I’ve loved and appreciated what he’s given us but his time is done. Soon enough, he’ll see that being kept on this team as a reward for years of production would be a disservice to his legacy. And as callous as it sounds and likely is, I applaud the Yankees front office for recognizing this and putting sentimentality aside to do what’s best for this team.

How Many TrimSpa Jokes Have You Heard Today?

So Anna Nicole Smith passed away today at the age of 39. Since the authorities are citing heart failure and flu-like symptoms, I’m skipping the overdosed option and going straight to that creepy Howard K. Stern. A murder most foul, anyone? He probably whacked her for cash and prizes via slow-acting poison. Clever, Howard. Clever.

Aside from randomly shaking my head in amazement at her life events, which were often as baffling and tragic as they were amusing, I can’t say Anna Nicole had any real effect on my life… sure, there was the time I got sucked in by her two-hour E! True Hollywood Story but hasn’t that happened to all of us at one time or another?

Anyway, seven people told me she died over a five-minute span this afternoon — 4 instant messages and 3 text messages… five had TrimSpa jokes. Blah.

After getting over the initial shock, I started having horribly depraved thoughts… first of her getting up to Heaven and St. Peter yelling, “Can we get a 90-year-old dick for her to suck on?” and then the hordes of men that are cranking off today in her honor… I feel kinda bad about it… but, well, since I brought it up, how about some pictures of her celebrated accomplishments after the jump (NSFW)!

ANGRY UPDATE: I gave the NSFW warning! That is all I’m required to do. So stop sending these e-mails complaining that you didn’t see that coming and now you’re in trouble. What did you think “pictures of Anna Nicole Smith’s celebrated accomplishments” actually meant?!?! Let’s try this again – if you look at the individual post, there will be naked pictures at the bottom. Said pictures will also come into view if you click the comments link and scroll up. If you click the link directly following this paragraph, you will be taken directly to tits and wool. You have been forewarned.

Continue reading »

Tony Dungy Does it “The Lord’s Way”

So a few of us went to the Super Bowl this weekend, which was amazing until we were eating breakfast on Sunday and noticed the rain. But even then, we were in good spirits because the local weather-types were pretty sure that the chance of rain at kickoff was only 30%… thirty percent… meaning, "eh… I suppose it’s possible but whatever." These people can eat a bag of dicks. The way it was raining out there, a huge green circle must have been hovering over the city the way skank hangs over Pigpen from Peanuts. 30%. If you’re allowed to be that wrong and still keep your job, then I need a new line of work.

Anyway, I spent the game with a wet arse and bad hair – *small prices to pay to see Prince perform live but annoying all the same. That said, I was more confused about the rain’s presence than annoyed by the discomfort it caused — rain on Super Bowl Sunday is supposed to be a myth, spook story you tell to little kids particularly in Miami where rain is simply too gloomy and unattractive to survive. What could it possibly be doing there on the last great sporting event until Opening Day? I know God was looking to make this process as hard on Peyton Manning as possible but did he have to give the rest of us a rough go as well? It wasn’t exactly fair. But I will take the soggy knickers, chills, and sniffles every day of the week over the horror that awaited me this morning. 

I had to be at work at 0530 for speed training, which put an axe on partying all night and returning later this afternoon. But while it was brutally cold when we left, I had no idea that we’d return to -6 degree weather and a windchill of -25. As if it was any consolation, the weatherman was happy to report anticipated high for the day of 3.

When it’s 3, why say anything at all? 3, -3, -33. Isn’t it all the same? It’s not like I’ll be able to forgo the scarf knowing that the temperature will rise from -6 to fucking 3. To add insult to injury, my metal barbell in my tongue froze to my lip when I was walking from my car to the building this morning…maybe I could’ve avoided it had I waited until we hit 3 degrees.

But before I comment on the Christians, I’m going back to Prince. He is the greatest live performer that I’ve ever seen and easily one of the best living American musicians (and guitarists, in general). So while last night was a throwback to 1984 with a few shite covers thrown in, I thoroughly enjoyed and appreciated the opportunity to see him play again. And frankly, I’d rather hear "Let’s Go Crazy" and "Purple Rain," in the driving rain no less, than Justin Timberlake, Jessica Simpson, or any other TRL superstar. i’m only disappointed that we weren’t treated to "When Doves Cry" and some bare buttcheeks. Either one could have added something really special. 

Christians: I saw the following postgame quote from Tony Dungy in the New York Times this morning:

“I tell you what, I’m proud to be representing African-American coaches, to be the first African-American coach to win this,” Dungy said. “It means an awful lot to our country. But again, more than anything, I said it before, Lovie Smith and I, not only the first two African-Americans, but Christian coaches showing you can win doing it the Lord’s way. We’re more proud of that.”

What, exactly, is the Lord’s way? Is it just not being from the Vince Lombardi School of Verbal Assault? Is it being calm and collected? Because I’ll tell you, the fire and brimstone God that I know – Christians will know him from the Old Testament – isn’t about calm and chill. Though it’s true that he is a loving, compassionate God, He is also vengeful, hot-tempered, and will not hesitate to kick you in the teeth with his Mighty Boot of Justice, also known as Samael, the Angel of Death.

This method is a lot more fierce than cussing and berating your players. Don’t get it twisted, Tony. Your way isn’t necessarily God’s way. And in the unlikely event that it actually is, your Super Bowl win isn’t more sanctified as a result. Get over yourself.

*The rain didn’t ruin my experience. Was it annoying? Yes. But it was still a great time.