Oops, I Spaced Out On You

Okay, here’s the thing. I’m in J-Bay, South Africa on a surfing trip and am simply too chill to get be a malcontent right now.

Since this is the place where I have my routine rage-outs (as I like to call them), I’m sure you’ve noticed the cobwebs developing on the main page over the past days. For that, I apologise..
 
I’d log on to tell you about my days but they look a bit like this: fall out of bed, surf, eat, surf, drink, surf, surf, drink, surf, bed. Repeat. Somewhere in that daunting schedule, I’ve managed to drop my phone in the ocean, be grazed by a shark and get sucked into facebook by Cozmo from the AofG, the last of which possibly being the most shameful and ridiculous happening/admission of my recent life. Hopefully, I’ll cut this shite out of my life once I’m back in the real world but all the same, go ahead and cue my temporary shame spiral.
 
In any case, fear not! I have a wedding next week and then I’ll be back in your lives. Once I settle in and realize the horrible things that have occurred – like Thierry Henry turning into a dripping, foul cunt with legs and heading to Barca, thus leaving Arsenal in the goddamn lurch, I will have an overly emotional freakout for the ages and we’ll be like peas and carrots once again.
 
Cheers, kids. See ya in a week.

Barry Bonds – Always One Step Ahead

I have to think that an ounce of Frank Thomas’ love is 100 times more potent than anything Victor Conte could whip up in a lab. Two drops of his freak of nature sweat would cause even a normal man to grow hair on his chest and wrestle a grizzly bear. God knows what it would do to someone that uses the cream like Jergens. As an added benefit, this method is far more discrete than going Jason Giambi with a syringe in the arse in some random clubhouse stall (especially in San Francisco).

Since I’m a Barry Hater and, as such, a huge racist, I hope he spontaneously combusts sometime in the next 5-7 days, but I’d be a petty fool if I didn’t recognize and applaud such a fantastically creative effort.  

Good on ya, Barry! Keep it up.

To Dale Sr Fans, It’s Like the Old Boy Just Died Twice

Is there anyone in your life that lives below the Mason-Dixon line? What about NASCAR-loving friends that wish they did? If so, you might want to arrange an intervention or place them on suicide watch because my buddy Patrick just dropped a little scoop on me:

Patrick: I know you aren’t a huge race fan, but there is earth shattering news going on right now that’s breaking rednecks’ hearts everywhere
Me: Which is what?
P: Junior is announcing that he will be driving for Hendrick tomorrow (Jeff Gordon’s team)
Me: Which means what?

I didn’t get it. Who cares about Jeff Gordon’s team? But as I mulled things over, I remembered the first of four rules that I was ever taught about NASCAR:

Rule 1. Jeff Gordon is the devil.
   Rule 1a. … and a big gay.

And NASCAR fans, especially, Dale Earnhardt, Sr. fans, can’t have their golden son playing nice with the likes of a midget-sized, rainbow warrior queen that has only uttered an intelligent statement when he’s started it with, "Earnhardt once said…"

Worlds are colliding, boys and girls. It’s like a battle between good and evil. Light vs. Dark. Jedi vs. Sith. A tragedy like this could be fixin’ to rip a hole in the fabric of the universe – or at very least, generate a 50-square mile black hole around the belly of the beast – Talledega Motor Speedway, Alabama.

For the good of any affected friends and family, be prepared tomorrow afternoon for Little E’s pending announcement. Nothing says love like having ambulances and prayer circles in place for the aftermath.

Hat-tip: Curveballs for Jesus 

Taking Back An Ex-Boyfriend

So here’s the thing – since I didn’t post a reaction to England’s 3-0 victory over footballing juggernaut Estonia, I received a bunch of pictures of crows and other nonsensical messages insinuating that I was running away from "the Beckham issue." According to these poofs, I ought to admit defeat and face the reality that David Beckham is the mythical King Arthur resurrected to save the Britons from calamity.

It is abundantly clear to me that these jackasses still lack a grasp on the reasons why I don’t want the bloke around. Further, it is quite obvious that they didn’t actually see the game. And even though I’ve beaten this horse so dead that it’s turned into glue all on it’s own and sold itself to Elmer’s, we’re going to hash it out again. Additionally, since there are a lot of daft bastards out there, I may post this anytime Becks does anything of note for England from now on.

It’s only been three years since England were poised to become the kings of Europe and David Beckham blasted a penalty kick into the Portuguese sky. Since then, our decline has been so disgusting and pathetic that after beating a team that has not scored a single goal in Euro qualifying, the English press and clueless moops have gone completely bonkers, namely over one David Robert James Beckham… It was Estonia. Get a fucking grip.

"But Beckham accounted for three of the four goals recently and all of your goals in the World Cup! Don’t you see how important he is?"

Sure, I do. David Beckham is the best one-trick pony the world has ever seen but therein lies the problem. He trots around the fringe with ten-seconds of up close and personal time with the ball because the bloke marking him is debating if he should ask for an autograph. So when Becks swings that right peg from 40-yards out against Trinidad & Tobago, Ecuador and Estonia for a goal or an assist, the only thing that surprises me is that he can’t do it more often.  But when we suit up against a real side  that  won’t give Becks any time or latitude, he starts pinging long balls into the defense or the stands and all is lost.

That has been our story for at least three years but now that we are nearing our darkest hour, David Beckham can suddenly save us from the same crap he couldn’t conquer when he was at the top of his game. So we’re trapped even deeper in the mire of one-dimensional bullshit, where every ball passes through Beckham and every free kick is a carbon copy of the last. There is no creativity, originality or strategy beyond hoping Peter Crouch can direct one of those high-flying freebies (that often soar into the 54th row) into the net. It’s classic Sven-ball, which, if you recall, was half the reason why we clamored for that rat-faced cunt to get fired. Sven-ball won’t hack it against Russia home and away, the Euro 2008 field or the 2010 knockout stage. When we face a real contender (in more than a friendly) and inevitably go down in flames, all of these twats that wank for Beckham will be rioting at the FA headquarters for allowing McClown’s last ditch effort to backfire and embarrass a nation. Can’t wait for that.

I’ll be honest, I wouldn’t mind Beckham on the squad as much if McClown knew what he was doing and we were a balanced team, like, I don’t know – the Galacticos. If England had pace, strong tactics and a left winger with speed that could pull the defense, Golden Balls’ right foot would be a hell of an asset. But we don’t. We have a sackless, tactical buffoon that voluntarily places an overrated bloater like Frank Lumpalard in the midfield as if it’s a stroke of genius.

In the face of this, David Beckham, through no fault of his own, is limiting the development of the Three Lions. McClown has turned him into the ex-boyfriend you take back because even though he can’t make you happy, he treats you better than everyone else. Sure, you left him because you were ready to grow, find yourself, and achieve more and you couldn’t do it with him in your life but singledom is a harsh mistress. You had some bad dates. You couldn’t spread your wings like you’d planned.

Then a few months later, you see him at the club… he still looks good. There’s a beautiful girl on his arm but he walks away from her to dance with you. And as those old feelings rush back, you ask yourself why you ever left. Finally, you swallow your pride and take him home. You justify that night and those that follow by reminding yourself that you’ve been through it all with him and he loves you unconditionally. It’s worth it. But as the weeks go by, you can see that nothing has changed. He’s the same guy he always was and you’ve regressed to that former co-dependent sap that has resigned herself to a present and future of sex on Tuesdays, the bar on Saturdays and inane conversations in between… This is your life and it’s ending one minute at a time.

In a dysfunctional nutshell, that is why Beckham has to go.

I want what is best for England and these days, he is not it. Beckham is a band-aid on a gaping, gangrenous wound that is standing in the way of progress and development. We can rely on that right foot for steady goal and chance production against the little fish in the international pond but if the Three Lions hope to advance beyond the quarter finals in the next 20 years, it’s time to send him to the rec league across the pond and give our young players a chance to develop and gain experience.

I know that life these days is all about the quick fix and the feeling good for now, but I’ll take short term pain for long term happiness. We’re not going to attain Euro glory next year. Christ, we’ll be lucky if we make the bloody tournament. But I’ll take that in exchange for a developed, potentially balanced team going into World Cup 2010. At least then we might stand a chance against teams that matter.

I Just Agreed with Al Sharpton

And do you know what that means?? I either need to kill myself or Paris Hilton must be whiped off the face of the bloody earth. Actually, advocating for another person’s death smacks of evil, so I would also accept her being thrown into a Chinese prison as a viable alternative.

But back to Al Sharpton, who has bounced back from his post-Don Imus malaise (which included cleaning up hip hop in Detroit) to respond to another celebrity fuck up.

When the LA County sheriff was releasing that spoiled, arrogant cunt from jail yesterday due to her tenuous mental state, he may as well have shown the bat signal in the sky because it wasn’t 4 minutes before Al Sharpton was back in the spotlight with the same old song and dance about racial favortism: 

"…this early release gives all of the appearances of economic and racial favoritism that is constantly cited by poor people and people of color. There are any number of cases of people who handle being incarcerated badly and even have health conditions that are not released.  This act smacks of the double standards that many of us raise…"

Only this time, he was right. And frankly, I don’t know if I can go on in a world where Al Sharpton and I are not only in agreement but I’m also devoting personal thinking time to a wonky-eyed twat like Paris Hilton. It’s far too much to bear.

One of the more laughable things about this disaster is the claim that Hilton was released from jail because of her fragile psyche. After 3 days of incarceration in a 12×8 foot cell, where she was forced to fashion a pillow out of one of her blankets, poor Paris grew depressed and was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. How tragic. You know, I might buy that explanation if I could believe that Paris Hilton was actually smart enough to develop a little melancholy. You see, there is a difference between being depressed and being inconvenienced, and no one with such limited dignity and brain function could possibly grasp what being depressed is all about.

After they put her back in jail this afternoon, I hope she gets another case of the suicides. If she goes through with it, the world is a better place. If not, well… I don’t know… At least Sarah Silverman will have more fodder for jokes and that’s always a good thing.

Why Do People Flock to Strip Clubs?

After the A-Rod/Joslyn Morse business last week, I started to wonder about an issue that I’ve spent some time mulling over in the past. And since I’m fairly certain most of you are males, I think this is the appropriate forum for this question –

What’s so great about strippers and strip clubs?

I just don’t get it. At the close of initiation after my freshman year, the seniors on our team got us these traveling strippers from Chippendales. And while I thoroughly enjoyed these random blokes waving their junk in my face and giving me lap dances, once it was all over, I couldn’t help but be a little annoyed – where’s the bloody payout??? What am I getting out of this?

I expressed my concerns to one of my upperclassmen, who promptly told me, “well, go find a boy and work out your frustrations.” And I did, of course, but something about that whole scene just seemed patently unfair and wrong. Why should I be frustrated in the first place? Why should I (or my upperclassmen, in that case) pay money for some guy to get me all worked up and then be forced to put out effort finding an object for release? That’s a load of bollocks!

As I see it, here’s what happens at a strip club:

1. Horny person wants tits or junk in his/her face. Waves dollar bills.
2. Stripper’s insincere affection causes person to essentially give up pin number for ATM card under the delusion that sexual contact could result if things are played correctly
3. Exceptions: You are A-Rod or a professional athlete, and/or you pay more at a club with “special” services.
4. Stripper teases until the well is dry and goes away
5. Blue balls/ovaries
6. Sadness

Doesn’t that result (and your diminished wallet) cancel out any good that came of parts 2 and 3? I understand why a guy like A-Rod hits more strip clubs in a week than he gets hits per game – he gets to sleep with the strippers, mannish though they may be. But if you’re not at Scores or Crazy Horse Too or some other high-priced, high-quality club, do you really want to take the risk on those girls? Your local talent probably has more stab wounds and track marks than teeth and that’s no good for anybody… well, at least, not for some people.

Don’t get me wrong – I understand that a woman’s body is a work of art and that there’s a natural desire to get up close and personal with it (or a man’s body, if you prefer). Though it’s not my thing, I can’t say I see the crime in a person putting some bills in a girls g-string and having her put her bazooms in your face. I just don’t understand why one would pay a lot of money, consistently, to get teased.

Perhaps this question is more for the guys that are always at the strip club rather than the one that go with their boys every once in a while to let off some steam. I’m not really sure. A couple years ago, a group of my guy friends actually went on a cross country, summer road trip of the best strip clubs in America. I still don’t know what that was about. Then again, if I did, I suppose I wouldn’t be asking this question.