Happy Belated Festivus

As most of you are aware, I’ve participated in the Festivus celebration over at Airing of Grievances for the last 4 or 5 years. Well this year, they held Festivus about 5 days early, which seemed to damper the enthusiasm a bit.. but well meh. Since this blog is one continuous aired grievance where I rarely say anything positive, you might find some of it a bit familiar

To Bernie Madoff: The world of finance was built on shameless, unapologetic thievery. But the rogue and the crooked have nothing on your shenanigans, you fraudulent, traitorous cunt. You are a rapacious, wild animal that preyed upon your own people under the guise of tzedakah. You’ve victimized countless charities and spiked another rise in anti-semitism yet you still have the audacity to walk the streets of Manhattan with that smug, shit-eating grin.

Is it because you know you should be in shackles? Is it because you squirreled away a large portion of the funds and confessed to provide cover? Or is it because you’re wearing a bulletproof vest under that $5000 Burberry coat and you think no one can touch you? Something tells me it’s all of the above.

If it were up to me, I’d take it to you Rikers-style with my strap-on of justice before dragging you to an alley, beating you with chains and bamboo shoots and throwing you into a lion’s den. Let’s see how smug you’d be then. Now, I’m not foolish enough to believe this will ever happen, so I’m going to pin my hopes on the goyim being right about the existence of Hell. Because if they are, I’m pretty sure you’ll be immersed to your neck in the ice of Cocytus for the rest of eternity. When G-d shuffles you loose the mortal coil and dumps you in the 9th Circle, tell Cain that we all said hello.

To Madoff "Victims" (the individuals): You followed that Pied Piper down the primrose path and straight off the cliff and now you want someone to feel sorry for you? Why? Because now your kid has to go to Rutgers and you’ll have to trade in the Bentley for a Jetta? Eat a fucking dick. When common sense advised that you look beneath the hood, you put greed on autopilot and bought another home in Montauk. And it’s not like you battled with that decision. It was easy for you. Why? Because you were making money. Oh, and because Bernie was a member of the Tribe and your 98-year-old Zayde thought he was a nice guy. If there was any justice in this world, you’d be spending next Hanukkah working as greeters at Wal-Mart. Chumps.

To Congress: Shame on you. You had a real chance to not only help the people of Detroit but NFL fans at large by forcing the Ford family to give up ownership of the Lions and Ford Field before allowing them to visit Capital Hill. What’d you do instead? You bitched about private planes. I know you people get paid to drop the ball and piss your collective pants at the site of union officials but have a little sack. If I went to Detroit and ran a campaign called "Oust the Fords from Football" I’d be elected in a landslide and wouldn’t be sweating the possibility of some backwoods schmuck like Ron Gettelfinger screwing me out of an election. 

To Rod Blagojevich: Here’s a tip: teabagging the constituency is a right reserved for charming, handsome men, not a man that allows his face to turn him into the margarine to John Travolta’s cross-dressing butter. Know your place.

To Al Davis: I’m sick of this emotional abuse. Why do you treat me this way? Why do you make me think I don’t deserve you? Am I not pretty enough? Is it my hips? I bet you didn’t even know that I flirted with another team this year. Yeah, that’s right. I had a date with the San Diego Chargers when you were out of town but then Norv Turner showed up and I had to run off to vomit… then I wept in shame I still can’t believe I got so emotional about it but I guess that’s what happens when you try to cheat on someone you love that doesn’t love you back. 

To PETA: Breast milk for ice cream? Is this some type of self-sabotage? It’s like you’ve gotten on your knees to beg us to blow you off. Your primary mouthpieces are porn stars, C-list actresses and a woman whose vagina could’ve hidden Roger Clemens and his ego from the Senate and still had room to accommodate Tommy Lee’s forearm-sized penis.

These women can’t even string 8 words together. All they can do is lie in a sexy repose and remind us that they’d "rather go naked than wear fur" and we should feel that way too. I’ve got a message for you silly broads – we already do! Being naked is awesome. It’s liberating. It’s divine. And it’s the best way to feel the breeze. Fuck off until you say something that we can take seriously. Breast milk in ice cream. Someone oughta knock you out. 

To Cristina Ronaldo: Football has long fought for credibility in America, a pathalogically hypermasculine country where "real men" speak with "you-talkin’-ta-me" pugnacity and do pushups with their dicks. And yet here you are, the unofficial ambassador of our sport, prancing around Hollywood with shaved legs, booty shorts and a fauxhawk. Are you insane?

Look, the footballing world knows that you’re a lothario with a penchant for hookers but Americans do not, soon they’ll come off David Beckham’s fraudulent sack to anoint you as the new role model for their little punters. And when they see you flaming out all over Europe with your self-tanner, crotch-hugging Pepe jeans and Louis Vuitton man purse, they will snatch their kids off the pitches and run for the hills.

You are the greatest talent of a generation; not one of Ricky Martin’s dancers. Get your act together, you diving puss-in-boots. 

To Beyonce Knowles: The crimes: –

(On having an alter-ego with a name like a bootleg drag queen) – "I have someone else that takes over when it’s time for me to work and when I’m on stage, this alter ego that I’ve created that kind of protects me and who I really am. Sasha Fierce is the fun, more sensual, more aggressive, more outspoken side and more glamorous side that comes out when I’m working and when I’m on the stage." 

- (On being a pop star) – "There is a time limit on being a pop star, yes. Being a legend, an icon? Absolutely not. I’m over being a pop star. I don’t wanna be a hot girl. I wanna be iconic. And I feel like I’ve accomplished a lot. I feel like I’m highly respected, which is more important than any award or any amount of records. And I feel like there comes a point when being a pop star is not enough."

- (On the "B’Phone" by Samsung) – "When I was 10, I recorded a song called ’632-5792′ — a phone number. It’s a little embarrassing but it’s cute. There’s a recording of that song on the phone exclusively for my fans. I wanted to make sure people got a feel for who I really am. It’s only through this phone that you can get this close to my life."

Bitches like you make me wish I carried around a floppy dildo that I could pull o
ut of a hip holster and smack people with whenever the need arose. I don’t think I’m alone in saying that you are in serious need of a cock punch. A fierce cock punch. To the face. It’s time you and your busted weaves got a little street justice. 

To Madonna: It seems like an eternity since Guy Ritchie was a wunderkind whose films rocked us with brilliant pacing, outrageous humor and genius styling.

But then you came across the pond with your mysticism, faux English accent and desires to act. In no time, you had Guy’s deflated balls locked in your roided-up vagina prison and a promising career was in shambles. I assumed that’d be the last impact you’d have on my life but then came reports that you’d used your crotch of destruction to trap Alex Rodriguez.

I’m sure it wasn’t tough to lure him in, given his weakness for women with vaginas that flex like they’re Mr. Olympia. But with the Yankees’ hitting troubles, the last thing we need is an evil succubus like you turning A-Rod into the Guy Ritchie of baseball.

Both you and I know that your va-jay-jay is like The Ring and once chaps stare into that black hole, few are able to recover. If you leave A-Rod now, he may be able to recover by the All-Star break. CC and Teixeira can keep us in reach of the wild card until then.

And with that, I’m spent. Merry Chrismukkah, boys and girls. I’ve got 8 hours to start and finish all of my holiday shopping and do so without getting arrested for assault. Wish me luck.

Hey, Good Lookin’ – That Means You, Teixeira!

I posted this image by mistake but since it’s been up for a couple days, I’ll add a little text — not really for your amusement but because I hate the way the post formatted without it.

For Americans who don’t know the identify of this modern day Venus, meet Camilla Parker-Bowles. She not only serves as the Duchess of Cornwall but also concrete proof that money, fame and blue-blood status have no bearing on one’s taste in women. 

—

In other news of pure awesomeness, the New York Yankees just signed Mark Teixeira to an 8-year, $170+ million deal.

Sabathia, Burnett (meh), Tex. Who are these mysterious chaps in the front office and what have they done with Brian Cashman?! It’s as if someone wants the Yankees to win again!

Now, I’ll be honest – I remain thorougly unhappy that we solve problems by dumping billions of dollars into the laps of high-flying free agents. $400+M are tied up in our 3 recent acquisitions but at least Sabathia and Teixieira don’t require Metamucil and Flomax prescriptions. At least they aren’t 8 years past their primes. If we’re going to spend money like a drunken hillbilly in a whorehouse, the least we can do is spend it on the best tarts in the building. Two of our recent moves reflect such thinking.

You know, when Madonna’s roided up vagina prison trapped Alex Rodriguez a few months ago, I knew the Yankees could be in serious trouble for years to come. With the Yankees’ hitting troubles and complete lack of pitching, the last thing we needed was that evil succubus turning A-Rod into the Guy Ritchie of baseball.

But with Teixeira in the lineup, we might just be okay. All we need now is another starter or bullpen arm and a relationship shakeup and the New York Yankees are back in business… the business of winning championships (that was cheesy and I am ashamed. My apologies).

Huzzah!

Another Teacher Exposed as Mental Defective

Remember those three days in school (if you went to a mostly white school, that is) when you covered slavery in the United States?

If you’re having trouble recalling, think back to that one week in US History or Social Studies where the 2 black kids sat in awkward agony as the teacher recounted the details of slavery to them instead of the whole class, and the 30 white kids in the room stared at them with awkward, apologetic expressions. After the bell rang, a couple classmates that were truly overcome with white guilt would track them down in the hall after class and verbally apologize for how "their people" were treated before expressing how awful it makes them feel.

All of this inevitably occurred during Black History Month – the only time it was seemingly acceptable for anything other than Crispus Attucks to arise as a topic of discussion during school. [However, Mr. Attucks certainly popped up again during these 28 days.]

So I guess we should see it as progress that a Elaine Bernstein, a 7th grade social studies teacher from White Plains, NY, recently covered slavery before the calendar mandated. Trouble was, she tried to enliven the discussion (as if the subject needs it) by binding the hands and feet of two black girls with tape and then putting them under a desk… because.. you know.. the students needed to visualize what it was like to be an African captive on a slave ship. The only thing this tragic scene was missing was Ms. Bernstein’s Act 2, where a white student comes up and helps act out a scene from Roots.

Sadly, a mother raised hell only to have the teacher and the school authorities completely miss the boat (no pun intended):

"We encourage our teachers to deliver the curriculum in a variety of ways, to go beyond just reading the textbook," said Superintendent Brian Monahan of the North Rockland School District in New York City’s northern suburbs. "We don’t want to discourage creativity. But this obviously went wrong because the student was upset."

In no other place than the bedroom is bondage creative and even there it’s a bit old hat. But turning students into the gimp? Come on. Now you can argue that if she’d tied up white kids, there’d be no problem but the real issue here is that binding children of any color is a BAD IDEA. And being stupid enough to bind black kids during an already touchy discussion ought to result in you being taken to an alley and beaten with reeds. It’s not like she didn’t have other visualization options. How about measuring off the space slaves had on ships and try to fit the class into it? Is that not hands on enough?

I doubt the school will punish this woman for being a mental defective. So when her class reaches the Holocaust section of the book, I hope the school holds a convocation in the gym where Ms. Bernstein is stuffed in a covered Radio Flyer and wheeled to a gas chamber at faux Auschwitz. Hopefully, she won’t get upset.

Tyson Makes Room for de la Hoya in Bolivian

This sad image is what happens when you’re only in it for the money.. and when you’re too blinded by your 2,500-watt smile and million dollar paydays arrogant to see that you’re time has long since passed.

It’s easy to say that Oscar de la Hoya should have called it a day after Floyd Mayweather took his boot of justice to him in the final rounds last May, but even with hindsight being what it is, was there ever any doubt?

In rounds 9 – 12, Pretty Boy taxed the gold finish off de la Hoya with 71 connects (vs. 27) and 27 power shots (vs. 23). And what was so disheartening about it all wasn’t that Mayweather’s slick counterpunching was suddenly too much to handle; it was that Oscar didn’t have anything left for a proper response. He had no legs, no power and a connection rate that you’d expect of a tomato can on Friday Night Fights. Still, he managed a respectable split decision that allowed him to leave the ring with his head held high. And with Mayweather’s retirement scuttling the possibilities of a rematch, it was the perfect opportunity to walk into that quiet good night.

But no, de la Hoya went looking for trouble because as much as he loves making money, he clearly loves blowing big fights even more. What’s worse is this time, he not only blew the fight but also had to sit idly by while his corner threw in the towel. It was a shameful moment for boxing that never should have happened.

Sure, de la Hoya v. Pacquiao seemed like a waste of time what with ODLH sporting 4-inch height and 6-inch reach advantages against an undersized guy with a suspect jaw that jumped 2 weight classes to fight him. But Manny Pacquiao isn’t The Contender’s Steve Forbes and he isn’t a smoking, boozing and slightly insane Ricardo Mayorga either. Manny Pacquaio is a tenacious, ferocious pugilist. And while that wouldn’t have mattered against Oscar even three years ago, it certainly does and did in a year when a guy that couldn’t even win a boxing reality show easily took him the distance.

Oscar de la Hoya should have been doing the rumba with one of those oversexed broads on Dancing with the Stars. He should have been buying a Grammy for another one of his lame Latin Pop "records." He should have been making a bajillion dollars promoting young, talented fighters through Golden Boy Promotions. He should have been anywhere but the ring and now his legacy will pay dearly for it.

It’s pretty sad. But let me take a selfish angle here and tell you what else will suffer – any affection I ever had for Oscar de la Hoya. And no, it’s not because he and his old balls went down like a one-eyed bitch. Or because he’s been a weak 3 – 3 since his failed rematch with Shane Mosley. It’s because now, Manny Pacquiao will fight and beat Ricky Hatton and do you know what that will do? It will pull Floyd Mayweather Jr. out of retirement to counterpunch Pacquaio back to the Philippines and take official ownership of the mythical pound-for-pound title. Don’t get me wrong, Pretty Boy is a joy to watch but I’ve had enough of his "I’m an insufferable, ungrateful, preening douchebag that leaves my house just to wave around hundred dollar bills" to last a lifetime. We get it, Floyd. You’re the best. You’re the greatest. You’re rich. And even more, you hang out with 50 Cent.

Thanks to Oscar de la Hoya, we’re about to hear more about it. Times ten.

Great work, Oscar. Ass.