"I do know that more and more women are going to do it and it's something that people are going to have to accept."

Accept? Who's going to object? Step right up, ladies. The only problem people have with women playing basketball is that they're totally unwatchable.

Dunk for us. Sky for us. Jump 2 feet in the air without falling down like a sniper tagged you from the rafters. We've been waiting on some legit output since you started telling us you got next in that totally misleading ad campaign where Dawn Staley, Lisa Leslie and Sheryl Swoopes rolled up on the playground to challenge the men.

Those commercials left 14 year old me thinking I'd see women playing organized playground ball - slick moves, smooth shots, a little trickery. Got next, indeed. They couldn't play at the rim, let alone above it. But I shouldn't have been surprised then and I suppose I shouldn't be now. Of the thousands of women that have played D-1 ball in the last 25 years, only 4 have registered dunks in games. And before Lisa Leslie showed out for the Sparks in 2002, the professional dunking woman was a myth like Bigfoot, wish-granting fairies and unicorns that dance under rainbows. There were always sightings at playgrounds and closed practices but when cameras appeared for documentation, hops would scatter like cockroaches in the light.

I've long held that this game is the last refuge for girls that want to be athletes but aren't agile, flexible or fast enough to hack it anywhere else, and Parker's dunk reinforces that belief. You can turn a soccer or volleyball player into a basketball player but you'd have more luck catching a naked, Vaseline-covered crackhead than trying to go the other way.

While the best female athletes tear up tracks, soccer pitches and tennis courts; spike balls over volleyball nets and hit 110 mph pitches out of softball fields, hoops continues to offer up a few talented athletes and a horde of slow-as-molasses girls with pointy elbows and skinned knees that can barely walk and chew gum at the same time. If the league was made up of 150 Diana Taurasis, Candace Parkers, Sue Birds, Tamika Catchings and Lisa Leslies, you wouldn't hear me say a word. But it's not even close. You've got these 5 ladies and 145 female Luc Longleys. And while it's fantastic that Parker went up one-handed and sent the ball home, the gratuitous coverage is not only patently absurd but it is also pretty sad.

Wake me up when a couple women start abusing league centers like they're Shawn Bradley. Contact me when players stop shooting ugly rockets off their hips. Give me a tap when watching a matchup that isn't the championship game no longer means 40 minutes of underhanded layups and cramps. Christ - just let me know when something consistently entertaining sets up shop instead of pimping what you don't have. When the league can pull that off, I might watch more than 6 minutes without falling asleep or passing out from shame.

Today's question: Does PETA actually hate animals or are they brain dead?

I'm not a serial killer, which means I have a fondness for animals and think that they have an inherent worth. And while I don't believe an animal's life has more value than yours or mine, I wholeheartedly believe that groups should exist to advocate for their protection from cruelty, increase social awareness and expose abuses. So in that vein, I'm glad that watchdog organizations like PETA exist. But while PETA's heart always SEEMS to be in the right place - or, at least, the general area, its unabashed stupidity has done more damage to its cause than any other rights group in history. And by the looks of their activity since Eight Belles' death, they have no intention of changing course.

Tangent - am I the only one that thinks this prefer to go naked over fur campaign of theirs is ridiculous? Being naked is awesome. Being naked under something warm and cuddly like a mink on a crisp winter day is even better. Stupid PETA. 

Since horse racing is a sport fueled by greed, the tragedies that have befallen it of late should come as no surprise. To say that the horses aren't as sturdy as they used to be is like saying David Beckham has a voice like a pre-teen girl. Bred for speed and strength, today's animals are majestic, tremendous athletes whose bodies have become too strong and heavy for a skeleton that is still too light and fragile. To put it simply, they have chicken legs like Babe Ruth. And when you have 2 - 4 year old animals with that frame that are mad to compete, mad to win and bred to burn like roman candles that explode like spiders across the stars, career ending injuries and euthanasia are going to be the nature of the beast.

But with racing suffering two casualties in as many years on its biggest stage, this should have been an animal activist's wet dream. With true backing from the public, they could have made a legitimate push toward changes and improvements in breeding rules, track safety and veterinary medicine. What's more, they could have burrowed deep in the ear of the Jockey Club to demand that they spearhead initiatives on changing the nature of an overpriced breeding market. Though it's true that plenty of level-headed groups have been spurred to action, the largest, most influential one of all has only proven itself to be operated by mentally defective, exploitative pods. Again.

In the last 5 days, PETA has done everything from claiming that the jockey whipped the filly so mercilessly that he didn't know she was injured until after the finish to raking Hillary and Chelsea Clinton across the coals for giving a rah-rah in support. Now, don't get me wrong, the Clintons need to be bashed on - and even kicked in the face - but when you go so far off the deep end that even they seem like innocent victims, something in the plan has gone horribly awry.

At this point, I have to wonder - is PETA really an animal rights group? Is it possible that they're actually against animals?

There are really only two choices here -- its people have shoe size IQs like Leon Spinks or PETA is intentionally trying to do harm to animals by operating on a level of self-sabotage previously reserved for James Dolan. But unlike Dolan, these tools aren't just destroying a franchise; they're causing millions to turn a blind eye to the true problems of horse racing with their reprehensible, outrageous behavior. By this Saturday, the reaction to the Eight Belles tragedy won't be "Horse racing needs better policies and regulations." It will be "Meh. PETA sucks. They won't rest until the animals rule us."

Truth be told, I really don't know what I should have expected from an organization whose primary activists are porn stars, bad 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.

But whether it's stupidity or sabotage, these people should find a large sword on which to throw themselves.

It's the humane thing to do. 

But since we all have ADD these days, I suppose that was inevitable. What I could not (and should not) have anticipated, however, was the possibility that CNN would completely forgo journalistic integrity in order to boost revenue and give The Onion a run for its money. Granted, you don't get gems like "Why Do All These Homosexuals Keep Sucking on my Cock" at CNN but it's fair to say that the level of news at this once venerable site has strayed well beyond the ridiculous and into the shameful. And now, they've taken things a step further by selling t-shirts that feature their own nonsensical headlines from articles and video posts.

Head over to CNN.com and take a gander at the headlines area. You see that t-shirt icon next to the video headlines? Yeah, that's what I'm talking about. For $15.99 plus shipping and handling, you can get t-shirts that say things like:

• Pacing man stuck 41 hours in elevator
• Synchronized swimmers faint in unison
• 'Hips Don't Lie' singer pushes education
• Rep calls workers 'illiterate peasants'
  
• Prince drops copter in gal pal's yard
• Russian missile obliterates spy plane
  

You know, it'd be one thing if these headlines were actually funny. At least then you could give CNN some credit for being creative as they continue their descent into becoming the American version of News of the World. But like The Simpsons these days, these efforts don't even elicit a smile, let alone laughter, and after the link cycles off the page, no one will ever know why (or how) it was supposed to be amusing. 

"Oh my shirt? Well that was a craaaaaazy headline that I saw on CNN 4 months ago! ... What? ... No wait, seriously! It's hilarious! Just let me explain -- there was this guy that paced all the time - you know those nervous types right? Well, he ended up stuck on an elevator for FORTY-ONE HOURS! Can you imagine? I mean, don't you see the irony of it? Totally nuts!"

By the looks of things, people are already buying into this crap.

Clowns like the ones seen above make me wish I carried around a floppy dildo that I could pull out of a hip holster and smack people with whenever the need arose. I don't think I'm alone in saying that the witless clowns shelling out cash for these shirts and the sad sack jokers in Atlanta that thought them up are in need of a cock punch. A fierce cock punch. To the face.

--- 

But to the story at hand. It's well known that huge sporting events like the World Cup, Olympics and Super Bowl are boons for the skin trade. After the host site is announced, girls from far and wide grab their chinchilla coats, head to the destination like birds flocking south and get prepared for the influx of indiscriminating, drunken chumps with money to burn on cheap ass. You'd think they'd be unbiased about the fans coming in to cheer on their teams but it seems that when you're in the game of blowing and blanking as many men in possible, the nationality of your punters can be an important factor. At least, that's what these South African hookers believe. 

Meet Levola, Yolanda and Samantha [Note: moments before the interview, the trio was fined by police for exposing themselves to drivers] - three prostitutes from a South African shanty town that link England's success in World Cup qualifications to the prospects of escaping prostitution. According to them, the Army of the Three Lions (that's really what we should be called, you know) will bring in a wealth of cash:

“We just can’t wait. We only get paid about £10 for sex when drivers stop for us here. English men will pay a lot more...

Why, because they can't do better at home?

"We’ll probably have to fight over them with the girls who already have pitches in that area, but it will be worth it." - Yolanda Lorika

Now, a part of me thinks, "Hey! Maybe it's time you raise your games, you filthy mingers! Work harder, blow faster, incorporate something new. There are three of you - maybe you can put on a show! If you get creative over the next two years, you may not have to worry about having the jackhammer taken to you 1,800 times over by insane Englishmen and getting your hips broken. Besides, if that happens, then how will you make money??" But then I realize I'm just being a a foul asshole. So let's look at this realistically:

But when those good feelings come with a side of HIV, that's no good for anybody. You see, one in every two South African hookers is dogged with that pesky, fatal occupational hazard and no matter how much bad I wish upon our stupid hools, all that will happen is that these diseased bints will infect them and they'll bring the bug back to the Isles. How delightful.

Our only hope is that every single one of them chooses to forgo the hordes of toothless women lining the dirt roads and opts instead for 3 or 4 minutes with the chicks in this interview - modern marvels that have beaten the odds thus far by stealing heaps of condoms from the free clinic. 

“They would give us some for free, but not enough for our work,” said Lavola, who spurned paid sex with a Somalian man because a Nigerian man was willing to have sex in the comfort of his own home (and give her £7).

How very classy of the Nigerian man.

It's fantastic that these chicks are eager to get drilled into oblivion by the debauched nutters in our fanbase but let's be real here --- The Three Lions have left England in a state of perpetual pain and heartache since the 1960s, with each year more shameful than the last. The more people depending on this team's success, the worse they fail. So why these dumb bitches really think England is going to come through and help them get off the mean dirt streets is beyond me. If anything, we're more jinxed now than ever.

Thanks, South Africa! 

Yesterday featured a call from a panicked Tigers fan that was concerned over the (then) 0 - 7 squad's chances of making the post-season. No really - I'm serious. And I don't mean that he was worried. He was in an absolute fright. How could that hack Jim Leyland engineer such a catastrophe? How can the 2nd highest payroll in the league not make the post-season? So much for hope.

And he's right. Looks like it's time for that paper bag, Tigers Fan.

Though no team has ever gotten to the post-season after losing its first 7 games, you don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that there are 154 games left to play and these are the Detroit Tigers, not the Texas Rangers. [I can't believe I just said that.] Hell, you shouldn't even have to be a Rob Dibble.

But rather than talk about a week's worth of games full of flukes, aberrations and mishaps or the fact that the Tigers are a good ball club with good hitters making mental errors and pressing a bit too much, the Nasty Boy took up the torch and pitchfork. After excoriating the organization for being such a colossal waste of talent, he and Kennedy then tried to calculate the number of games Detroit would need to beat the odds, eventually deciding that going .500 in April MIGHT leave Detroit with a chance but even then - who knows because other teams are good too - like the Royals and the Cubs!

Seriously? Is this where my subscription money is going? To keep this mindless dickbag employed? They can't find anybody better than this? The reality is that at 1-7, the Tigers are 3 games behind the Indians - their true competition come September. And with their lineup, this team should be able to sleepwalk through April and still be able to hit their way into the wild card. Christ, the Yankees don't even get out of the rocking chairs to participate in the league schedule until it gets warm in mid-June.

Case in point, here's where we are now:

• .244 BA (.167 RISP), 21 walks and 25 runs (Detroit has 22 runs)
  
• Errors in seven games in a row and no steals
  
• Like Torre, Girardi seems unaware that Kyle Farnswacker sucks balls
• Posada has a dead arm and Jeter has some flaws in his nether region.
  

And honestly, I can deal with all of that for now. Even being outscored 19 - 7 in two losses to Tampa Bay, which is pathetic, can be taken in stride... I think. But something that cannot be tolerated - and something even the Tigers wouldn't allow - is scoring just 2 runs in 2 games against the Kansas City Royals.

We're missing Jeter and Posada, sure, but that's no excuse for getting pwned by the dregs. Zach Greinke shut us down and shut us out, allowing 6 weak sauce hits over 8 innings.

Have we no pride? Is there no line that is drawn where the team agrees to not be bent over and rogered by every perennial bottom dweller in the league? Now, I know that the Royals are all new and improved but they're still the Royals and managing 2 runs with Rodriguez, Matsui, Abreu, Damon and Cano in the lineup is nothing short of foul. That said, at least we're not the Tigers. If you haven't heard - they're not gonna make the playoffs. Chumps.

But alas - this was actually Opening Day. The Opening Day. The only day of the spring so holy and glorious (and non-denominational even) that it deserves to be revered and celebrated at least on the same level as Thanksgiving. This a day that brought us Hank Aaron's 714th and Bob Feller's no-hitter. It's a day so woven into the fabric of the national consciousness that it has become the only true symbol of rebirth - not just a sign that the despair of winter is long gone but of your team's hopes and your ability to bump gums all year about your chances. Not only that, it brings millions together - all playing hooky from their respective life situations - in the joy and anxiety of knowing that if your team wins that day, you're not gonna lose em all and maybe, just maybe that "next year" you're always crowing about, has finally arrived.

But no. Leave it to the federal government to thumb its nose at a nation and celebrate President's Day instead. Where does that get us? A day off to hit that big sale at Kohl's and pick up a piece of cherry pie down at the senior center? Please. But leave it up to Bud Selig to take advantage and shit all over our special moment by shipping Opening Day off to Tokyo and then having the nerve to brag about it:

"Not only do you feel that you're watching history in the making, but we're doing what we really set out to do.... "The game has never been more popular than it is in the United States today. Our goal is to take that popularity and make it worldwide."

Hey dummy, here's a tip - THE JAPANESE ALREADY LIKE BASEBALL! This is about like the English Premier League shipping its opener to Brazil to drum up international support and then sucking each other's dicks over the success once a frenzied riot breaks out in the stands and the stadium catches fire.

Yet again, it's time for someone to kick Bud Selig in the sodding face... GO YANKEES!

As has been abundantly evident on this blog, I had to check out for a while, which included more than simply not posting. In the process, I completely lost track of sports. So when I finally decided it was time to permanently emerge from the ether and plug back in to world, I couldn't have been more excited. You see, spring is always the most exciting season in sports. What better time could there be to throw myself back into the fray?

Spring is the season that makes the world go round, as the Super Bowl leads into March Madness, which rolls right into fantasy baseball drafts and Opening Day. Soon after, the EPL and Champions League are rolling to their conclusions, Roger Federer is spiraling out of the French Open, I’m lamenting the Yankees’ early gaffes and missteps, Phil Mickelson is choking away another major and even the NBA starts getting interesting. Every day, there is something new to behold and though basketball is something like my 8th favorite sport these days, I live and breathe hoops when the tournament comes round. A self-admitted neurotic, I usually study, research and waste hours of my life on box scores, articles, team pages, stat sheets, and pictures (I don't know why pictures, actually). And at the completion of these fruitless efforts, I fill out my brackets, run my mouth, put some money on the line, down a sixer to ease the nerves and tune into CBS and CSTV when it all begins. Not a moment is missed and I suck in basketball like crack from the pipe from Thursday at 1230 until Sunday around 10.

But after receiving an injection of what amounted to a 96-hour speedball, I’m now left with no reasonable form of entertainment. I didn’t have enough sense to DVR real sports over the weekend and came home around 8 all ready to enjoy an athletic event - something, anything. National Championship of Darts, Pinochle, whatever. It wasn't gonna take much to feed my need. So I tuned into CBS fully expecting to see more basketball. Logically, I knew it wouldn't be on but that didn't stop me from watching The Big Bang Theory and How I Met Your Mother in some "maybe the Sweet Sixteen will magically pop on!" fog. Eventually, I snapped out of it and hit ESPN, only to find the also-rans of the Not In Tournament. So I moved on to ESPN2 and caught a disappointment larger than having my bracket destroyed by Stephan Curry and Davidson: women's basketball - the last refuge for girls that want to be athletes but aren't agile, flexible or fast enough to hack it anywhere else.

Why doesn’t ESPN just send Dick Vitale and Jay Bilas to my house to my house to take turns slapping me around and kicking me in the ass while we watch JJ Redick highlight films. It’d hurt less. Watching the women's tournament during the Final Four is one thing, as UConn, Tennessee, LSU and Rutgers/Duke/No Chance University might actually produce 7 - 10 athletes on the floor at one time. But not this Monday night bullshit. Not these first and second round shenanigans where a girl getting fouled on a "drive" to the hoop looks like a slo-mo video with crash test dummies.

But enough on that. What I actually want to know is what jerk is sitting in an office saying, "Scheduling? Well, how about we follow up the greatest weekend in American amateur sports with women's basketball. That'll keep the fires burning in the hearts of Joe and Jane Sports Fan!"

No, corporate suit! It does not keep my fire burning! It is destroying my spirit! I don't appreciate getting all manic over 32 games of basketball only to be punched in the mouth by 3 days of 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. 

A sport that opts for fundamentals over a base level of athleticism found in every other women's sport is NOT okay with me. I get that the women's game is basketball in its purest form but damn. I don't want to spend 2+ hours seeing which team can make the most consecutive layups, fall down the least and seal it off with a 1-and-1 at the line with 8 seconds to go!

If you're going to advertise this tournament as March Madness, then that's what you need to give us - straight up madness where we get all basketball all the time until the last team standing needs a crane to hitch them up to cut down the nets. No more of this three week wanked schedule that is supplemented on the weekdays with a "tournament" that fields 56 teams too many. Eventually something has to give. Being driven away from sports to watch countless episodes of "Walking with the Dinosaurs" on Discovery is an absolute shame.

But then we signed DT Tommy Kelly for an insane $50M dollars and then Kwame Brown - a middling OL that didn't start a game last season - for $16M over three years. And now, Al Davis has emerged from his oxygen chamber to cock things up yet again.

I'm sure most of you saw the news last week that the Raiders signed malcontent Javon Walker and his irreparably shredded knees. Even in Walker's diminished condition, I'll take him because we have a wide receiving corps that consists of Ronald Curry, To Be Determined and To Be Determined. In a situation like this, it's hard to be picky.

But in his infinite wisdom, Al Davis has somehow found a way to make this the worst move of all time. Instead of paying beaten up, broken down, waiting on a new hip Javon Walker what he's worth, the Crypt Keeper is giving him $55M for 6 years. My first reaction was, "Well, I'm sure it's totally backloaded, so no big deal." And while that is somewhat true, Walker still gets $16M in guaranteed money and $27M for the first three years. Hell, if he gets cut this season, he still gets $11M and if he's cut in 2 seasons, he's got $16M! 

What's next, Al? Gonna pull Keyshawn Johnson out the ESPN-abyss with a guaranteed 1-year, $25M deal? I assure you that he's a lot more functional right now than Walker, he of the 28 catches, 287 yards (200 of which came in the first 2 games), 0 touchdowns and 8 games in 2007. Former Pro Bowl, 1000 yard receiver or not, this is pure madness. The only thing I can see explaining this mentally defective contract is if the price of bribing formerly capable players to waste their careers on our shores has ballooned to an additional 85% of market value.

Speaking of ballooned, there are rumors that Stay-Puft, also known as Jamarcus Russell, is currently weighing in around 300 pounds. Now, if that's true, what does it matter who we sign when we've got a heifer for a quarterback that might be tempted to eat the damn ball?!

2 thumbs down! 

This was a huge mistake.

The machine spat out 1 stamp and then blew up like I'd hit 3 cherries on the nickel slots on the senior gambling boat. At first, it didn't seem so bad. I saw a couple quarters, a nickel, a few pennies. But then came the gold coins and more gold coins and even more gold coins. 19 Thomas Jefferson dollars in all.

A little pissed that the post office had the nerve to give back gold doubloons as change, I tried to exchange them for dollar bills at the window. The woman all but put her hand in my face. So I stuffed them into my white trash, mini-Crown Royal bag that I use for change (I'm a classy broad, I know) and forgot about them until this morning when I went into the BP for some milk. While fishing a couple $1 coins out of my bag, the illiterate, illegal alien behind the counter stopped me:

"Miss we don't take no old coins."
"Oh no, these aren't old," I responded. "They say 2007."

I grabbed 2 Thomas Jefferson dollars and a quarter and handed them to BP Clerk, who then had the nerve to scoff at me. "Pfft. Miss, we don't take treasure."

"Excuse me?"
"No treasure alright?"
"This is legal US tender! Sanctioned by the government! It's MONEY! It says $1 on the back!"
"Credit card or dollars or coins please."

I asked for the manager. He scoffed again and then stared at me like I was the one with the problem. We had a non-lethal Mexican stand-off until some hilljack with hairs on his balls older than my parents told me to "run along to school." After I shouted at him, I was asked to leave.

Perhaps it had to be thus.

But what kind of bullshit is this?? First of all, if I thought somebody had a sack of treasure and I worked at the BP gas station, I'd smack them with a roll of lottery tickets, thieve the coins and try to buy my own island. I wouldn't stand around with my hands on my hips having melodramatic breathing fits behind the counter. That said, I'm still giving Paco a pass for our interaction. Though the experience left me a little heated, I did keep strange looking coins in a purple and yellow bag that looks like something pirates throw at the ruffians as payment for a kidnapping well done. That's my fault. But what dickbag clowns are pushing these things at the U.S. Mint? There is no logical reason for the government to issue money that looks like you can unwrap it and eat the chocolate inside. Something has to be done!

"Nowhere in the above rules does it state that in the conditions of what was happening on the clock should be stopped. Also in addition to this six seconds were added to the game clock. Had this illegal clock stoppage not occurred there would have been 40 seconds less time on the clock, 46 seconds less if you consider the six seconds added on after the play. This means that after that play, if the clock was running the way it is supposed to by the rulebook, there would only be 42 seconds left on the clock. Furthermore if this was not enough on the subsequent play time was not taken off during the play followed by a random flashing of numbers on the clock.

What?

"The following drive took the Giants a total of 52 seconds on the game clock from the point that six seconds were added to the clock. However if the time was managed the way it was supposed to be there would have been no time left on the clock after Eli Manning was tackled at :50 seconds on the game clock. This irrefutable proof demands that Super Bowl XLII be reviewed from the point of the first illegal stoppage."

The petitioners then provide the commissioner ways in which he is permitted to respond - again - as if he does not know.

All in all, the petition has been signed by 24,611 people thus far... Brilliant, reputable chaps like Dave Rosenthal, who "can't believe this isn't a big story. I mean, we should be 19-0, but the NFL hates that Pats, so instead we have to go through this the rest of our lives knowing we got jipped." And others like "Number One Pats Fan," whose intelligence serves as a true beacon of light with, "Good job Giants, you cheated and won a SB. Try to win one on an even playing field. Also, why don't you try to win a game by more than 3 points once, then we'll talk."

But please understand, I don't say this out of bitterness forged from rivalries in other sports and situations. Victors are entitled to bump their gums for as long as they see fit. It's one of the perks of winning. But when you lose, gripe for a day or two and then shut the fuck up. It's as simple as that. Trust me, I know. I'm a Yankee fan that went to Notre Dame. From birth through three diplomas, I have been trained in the art of self-righteous, obnoxious, irrational fangirl-ery. Hell, my sense of entitlement alone is bigger than your house. But even I understand that when defeat comes - and it comes far too often these days - there's a grace period for sulking and then you need to admit defeat, shut your mouth and go home. And New England, that's where you are now. You haven't just cornered the market on post-season assholery, you've gone off the deep-end. It's time to recognize that the Patriots lost, not because of a clock snafu in the final minutes but because Justin Tuck, Osi Umenyiora and Michael Strahan had Tom Brady on his back more than Giselle and Bridget Moynihan combined. If he could have completed more than 3 passes in a row, maybe you wouldn't have lost by the skin of your teeth. But he couldn't and now the world has to spend another season being reminded that Mercury Morris is still alive.

So instead of wasting your time with this, maybe you ought to petition the Giants' speed rushing corps for turning Tom into a bitch. Better yet - why don't you put together a petition requesting an explanation for why Richard Seymour, Adalius Thomas, Jarvis Green and the entire secondary were all but holding their dicks while Eli Manning was pulling a Joe Montana with David Tyree?

Might be fruitful.

I wouldn't vote for Hillary Clinton if she promised me my own blue and red locomotive and then spearheaded a deal between Al Davis and the Devil that allowed Al to buy his soul back.  Now, 90% of this has to do with my being a government-hating libertarian, so it's not like I agree with her on much of anything. But the other 10% of me is completely turned off for two reasons, 1) she's a ball-busting, insincere, poll-catering dragon with the personality of a cold muffin, and 2) her voice sparks memories of my mum henpecking my dad into oblivion for not fixing that squeaky kitchen cabinet.

Look, I know that a double standard applies with the ball-busting issue. Hillary gets aggressive and she's a bitch. Obama and McCain get aggressive and they're strong leaders. Truth be told, being labeled as a bitch really isn't so terrible. "Bitch" isn't just a word; it's a lifestyle. Embrace it. But if you're gonna be a bitch, don't be an insincere, poll-catering dragon and don't have a voice that puts angels into the fetal position. It's as simple as that.

When Clinton and Obama got into it during that hellish Democratic debate a couple weeks ago, I had to plug my ears and resist the temptation to clean my room or take out of the trash. I felt lazy just watching. As if there were chores to be done and I was futzing around with video games, Legos and cartoons. If my mum had called, I would have broken down in tears and apologized for having to be told so many times.

In some ways, it's really too bad for Hillary. We can't help the voices with which we're born. I sound like a sultry English vixen. Hillary, on the other hand, sounds like a screeching harpy with a voice that makes me want to throw my brain into a blender. I guess God just hates some of us.

At first I thought Hillary had a tone issue or maybe she was just dealing with tough subjects. But even when she's pretending to be comforting, I want to yell back, "Ugh! I know! I did it!!!" And then mutter "bitch" and something about how I can't wait to move out under my breath. As a result, I can't imagine the reaction of psychos like Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Kim Jong Il and other chaps that don't even like women when she scolds them for being hate-mongering killers. Hillary's first words to these men may be her last.

What, too much? 

I know I'm way off topic here but in context of all of this, it's really no wonder Bill Clinton couldn't/can't keep his snake in its cage. Close your eyes and imagine getting head from a woman that looks like the Witch in Snow White (when she was the haggard old woman with the apple, not the Queen. She was a hot bitch) and then looks up and asks if you like it. Not only does this translate into "Get the hell off my lawn!" but your penis has likely retreated somewhere near your liver and is quivering in fear.

Dammit. Now I've gone too far.

My original point to this post was to laugh at the following display of awesomeness. While perusing Paste last night, I spotted an article indicating that the Grateful Dead were reuniting for one show - "and one show only - in an attempt to Barak voters all night long." I didn't even know these chaps were still alive. But I have to say that no matter how many high-delegate states Hillary wins, when the Dead are so offended that they come out of their ganja-induced haze to re-purpose their logo and motivate people to vote for your opponent, you're in trouble. 

"Look, we'll crap on the Seahawks, Packers and Cowboys, enabling you to skate relatively unscathed to the Super Bowl if you can do us just one solid -- let Favre win. I know you think this is ludicrous but if you look at the big picture, this really is for the best. Remember back in 2002 when he was kind enough to give Michael Strahan the all-time sack record by going down faster than a hooker at a prison rodeo? Well, that's all we ask you to remember here - pay it forward. He took care of one of your own when that chap needed it most and now, we at the NFL need you to take care of us, and, really, everyone outside of Wisconsin. No more will he or won't he. No more self-righteous indignation. No more biased, obnoxious commentary. Think about the greater good (and the money we can make), Giants. See ya at Lambeau."

God forbid the Giants cooperate. You know, for a while, I thought they might be on board with the plan; at the very least, Lawrence Tynes was. But I guess there comes a point where you're just too damn close to keep hooking kicks and you have to send one through. As such, Favre will be back for his 18th season - not because he has anything left to prove or the itch to lead what is likely the best young nucleus in the NFL to the Promised Land is so great, but because he can't leave the game with such an offensively bitter taste in his mouth.

When a legendary champion like Brett Favre takes his final walk in the sun, he's supposed  to go out in a blaze of glory or die trying, not walk away following a mistake-riddled travesty that he'd rather block out than think about again.

So after 6 months of obnoxious, gratuitous speculation, we'll see him again and frankly, that just fucking sucks. I'm trying not to be a hater on this one, which is rare for me, but I AM SO SICK OF BRETT FAVRE. And the thing is, it's not even his fault!

Favre is one of the most admirable sportsmen of the last 20 years and whether he's throwing 5 touchdowns or 5 interceptions, watching him play is always an absolute joy. But I just can't handle hearing about him anymore. Not that stories about Adam Jones or Michael Vick are better but the way the media tongues his balls from August to January and then waits around Hattiesburg like lost puppies looking for a bone in the off-season has completely crossed the boundaries of reason. Just the other day, that beached whale Chris Berman actually said, "Cheering for Brett Favre is like cheering for America!" Are you kidding me? I know I'm being selfish and that I'm in the minority on this one but since Favre isn't going away for at least another season (nor should he, to be honest), is it too much to ask for the media to give it a bloody rest for once? Or maybe, perhaps, can we just call Greenpeace and have Berman towed back out to sea?

I'm sure one of these options is totally within reason.

picture via: citypages.com 

It's fair to say that grievances are aired here at flashwarner.com in virtually every post but there's still something fun about finding the things that chap my ass the most (at present) and participating in a mass bitchfest. This is my third year doing so (2005 and 2006) and it is unbelievably gratifying. But enough fellatio. It's time to get things rolling.

I've got a lotta problems with you people...

To Al Davis: Thanks for nothing! We have Randy Moss, the most dangerous receiver in the NFL for, what, three years and this guy couldn't accomplish dick. And it's not like he rolled into the Bay with his typical "Yeah, I'm the laziest SOB on the planet. What’s it to ya" attitude either. In the beginning, Moss was actually trying! But it’s hard to stay positive when Martin Lawrence is "throwing" you the ball. 

So you ship him off to New England for 3 cheeseburgers and a pack of Newports and now he's got a Hall of Fame career. It’s like you felt bad for bringing him to Oakland at all, so you tried to make amends. So what do you do as an encore to an epic case of hospitality? You take a role as the Crystal Skull in Indiana Jones 4.

Nice commitment to YOUR excellence, Al. How about spending a little time on the Raiders now. Jerk.

To DirecTV: Your advertising agency needs to be slapped around with sticks and tossed off a bridge. The whole point of commercials is to get people to buy your products, not ram their heads through walls. Every time I see Beyonce Knowles gyrating, foot shuffling, and fierce walking through your spots (which is every 3 minutes), I beg the nearest person to choke me out.

This Upgrade commercial is the most baffling and preposterous ad of all time. I don't know if it's Beyonce's bizarre Axl Rose-like foot shuffle and scallywag, her horrendous speaking ability or the way she rolls over to reveal a gold "UPGRADE" chain in her mouth that was no doubt purchased from a bubble gum machine outside Wal-Mart. The whole spot is truly astonishing in its hideousness. I'm almost inclined to believe it was funded by the cable industry to put you out of business. If so, is Beyonce in on the joke? Likely not; she's too busy 1-click ordering boomerangs off amazon.com.

"Lemme lemme lemme upgradejya-gradejya." Upgrade, indeed. The only thing you're upgrading me to is suicide watch, DirecTV. 2 enthusiastic thumbs down.

To Faux Punk Avril Lavigne: I was caught in traffic the other day and flipped through radio channels only to discover that you actually had the nerve to sing this:

I hate it when a guy doesn't understand
Why a certain time of month I don't want to hold his hand
I hate it when they go out and we stay in
And they come home smelling like their ex-girlfriend

I'm just spitballin here, Avril, but my guess is that your boyfriend cheats because you won't hold his hand simply due to the fact that you're menstruating, you stupid bitch.

To people that bitch about the Patriots: I have sat in seething hatred of the New England Patriots since the Tuck Rule ruined my hopes way back in 2002. But even though I’m a depressed, Silver & Black degenerate, I'll still take awe-inspiring dominance every day of the week and twice on Sunday over the rest of this season’s mediocre shit snoggery. Parity is for sucks. Stop complaining.

To Steve McClaren: You should you should have been sacked AT Wembley - right on that jacked up pitch. And I don't mean fired. I'm talking literally sacked – beaten with your brolly, black bagged Peter Creedy style and carried away into the rainy night. Good luck with your prehistoric tactics in Iraq or Kansas City or whatever sorry squad settles on you as their shaman of mediocrity.

To Tony Dungy: "I won the Super Bowl the Lord's Way." Why, because you don't come from the Vince Lombardi School of Verbal Assault and don't seem to have a pulse? Let me fill you in on something - the fire and brimstone G-d that I know - Christians will know him from the Old Testament - isn't about calm and chill. Though it's true that He can love and be compassionate, the Almighty is vengeful and hot-tempered and He will not hesitate to kick you in the teeth with his Mighty Boot of Justice, also known as Samael, the Angel of Death. This cat doesn't turn the other cheek and He doesn't brush things aside. He rolls down from on high to beat that ass. Casting Satan out of Paradise, torching Sodom and Gomorrah, lighting people up in the New Testament's Apocalypse? THAT is the Lord's Way. The only thing you're practicing is the Tony Dungy Way. Stop giving credit where it isn't due.

To Jewelry Stores: You've been shilling a false Economics of the Pussy propaganda for years. It's offensive and you're just setting men up for failure. You know what happens to the guy that really believes the Kiss Begins with Kay? He makes out a little, she goes to bed and then he's cranking one off in the shower like Lester Burnham. Sure, the kiss begins with Kay but it ends there as well.

As such, I've created a totally reasonable and legitimate Diamond Reaction Index to let men know exactly what they should expect to collect as a return on different levels of investment:

Psst, Americans! Bungs are bribes - secret and unauthorised payments that agents make to club officials to help secure transfer deals. The club pays the agent a fee for arranging the transfer of a player, but the agent then illegally returns a cut of this sum to the club official personally as a "payment" for allowing the deal to go ahead in the first place.

In the biggest crackdown on football corruption ever mounted on a single day, the police also raided the homes of and arrested: former Portsmouth owner and current Leicester chair Milan Mandaric, Pompey chief executive Peter Storrie, Charlton player Amdy Faye (on loan at Rangers) and agent Willie McKay. This follows Tottenham defender Pascal Chimbonda's arrest for similar issues in September. McKay, who once named a racehorse 'Harry Redknapp', was involved in Chimbonda's £4.5m move from Wigan to Spuds last August. 

Well there goes the only legitimate English candidate for the England job and frankly, that's just fine with me. In an ideal world, we'd have an English boss but none of the available options have the desired talent or experience. So thanks but no thanks. All Redknapp did here, aside from become the first name to drop in what will likely be a rather eye-opening investigation, is save the FA from dealing with the thousands of jingoistic whingers that would prefer to sacrifice highest quality for preferred nationality.

Now, it'll be months or years before we learn if Harry Redknapp had any real involvement in this but one thing he is presently guilty of is being a freaking dumb ass. After being fingerprinted, DNA swabbed and kept at the Chichester Police Station all day before being released on bail, the Pompey boss had this to say:

"We all helped the police with their inquiries, but it doesn't directly concern me, it's other people involved. I've been answering questions to help the police. I am not directly concerned with their inquiries... "They have to arrest you to talk to you, for you to be in the police station. I think that's the end of it, it didn't directly concern me." 

They have to arrest you to talk to you. What in the hell kind of nonsense is that? The police just don't go around arresting witnesses all willy nilly. What they do is contact you and say, "Hey 'Arry, we've got an investigation going on. You mind coming in and telling us what you can? Yah? Brilliant." They don't fingerprint you, swab your DNA, raid your home, take your computers, detain you or release you on bail like a criminal unless, oop!, they suspect that you ARE a criminal! Dumb bastard.  

An additional thumbs down to Harry's son Mark, former model and failed football agent, who believes the arrest is a big conspiracy to scupper his dad’s chances of becoming England boss:

"Why is this happening now when the England job is vacant? There was no need for them to come around like this."

Smart chaps, those Redknapps. Someone in the English justice system has manipulated a multi-million pound investigation just to make sure Harry isn't as attractive an option to the FA as, say, Fabio Capello, Jose Mourinho or Juergen Klinsmann. That makes complete sense. About as much sense as the police arresting people in order to talk to them.

For at least two weeks they've been talking about building a bonfire - not for a party or anything, which is completely legit, but because "that'd be cool." But with an inch of snow on the ground, what's the point, right? No. I got home to find a heap of wood in my backyard and the lads going to town on it with axes. They were wearing work gloves and hats and the whole deal. It was a ridiculous sight that I, sadly, let pass without comment. But when I happened upon 2 economy cans of Dinty Moore beef stew simmering on the stove, I poked my head back out to ask where they parked Babe the Blue Ox. They were not amused.

Eventually they called me back outside to join them in the supposed magic. Now, I was told a bonfire was in the making, which, to me, meant I'd see a free-wheeling beast made of anything and everything that would inspire drunkards and potheads to magically appear, hold hands and dance around in one of those scenes reminiscent of a Grateful Dead concert.

But this was no bonfire. Christ, it wasn't even a campfire. This looked more like the Dinty Moore flame from the kitchen. If I got a toothpick, I might have been able to roast a mini-marshmallow. So you know me - I couldn't help but point these things out and, yet again, they got indignant. To make amends, I offered to get some lighter fluid...

"Ugh! We don't need lighter fluid, Flash!" "Yeah! We can build a fire without all that, THANKS!" I don't know who they thought they were. This isn't Man vs. Wild, ya know? I didn't see flint and a bunch of rocks just laying around.

In any case, they stacked, steepled, prodded, poked, rearranged and stacked some more. After another 10 minutes of poking, a real fire began to sustain itself. It reached one foot in height and then two. And that's when they went crazy. Hooting, hollering, patting each other on the back. It was like watching the monkeys at the zoo. Somehow in this process, 5 more males arrived with a dog in tow, as if they sensed fire creation and were drawn to our house by primal instinct. Not surprisingly, the emoting continued and soon they were all heaping on more logs. After the fire reached 6 or so feet, the herd sat around it and watched in amazement.

"That's an incredible fire," commented one. "Yeah, that's reeeeeeally, really nice." Heads nodded in agreement. "We should throw on more logs and see how big it'll get." "No. Let it chill. Goood stuff." My mouth fell open. This shit was not that deep. But after four or five minutes passed without another word, I went in the house. Fucking weirdos.

Now, fires are a breathtaking and quite fun to look at - I get that. But what's the deal with the self-congratulatory bonding over building one? And why be so enamored with the quality of blaze? It took 3 hours to make it and in a quarter the time, a separate fire could have spontaneously erupted on its own and burned down half the block. To make matters worse, these goons were outside for God knows how long, doing little more, than staring at it, nodding to each other and randomly poking it with sticks. When I woke up this morning, it was gone. I'm not sure how they put it out but if they all peed on it, I wouldn't be remotely surprised.

About an hour ago one of them called me, "Hey, did you see the fire last night." "Uh, I was out there with you." "Yeah, well... it was a gooood fire."

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