So I’m leaving a pizza joint the other day when my friends and I happen upon this monstrosity parked next to my car. After my eyes stopped burning, I whipped out my cell phone for documentation:
I’d ask myself what type of society would find this acceptable but having lived in Indiana for almost 7 years, I simply know better. When I first arrived for college, I didn’t know what to expect of this place. For me, the American Midwest may as well have been that area on the Lenox Globe denoted by the warning "here be dragons." But in the time that I’ve been here, I’ve come to realize that though it is not as bad as people make out, it is still the only area where driving a vehicle so hideously ugly that people get mad looking at it is not only normal but celebrated.
I can only imagine the kudos that the owner of this tragic heap of a mess has received. I showed this picture to my neighbor only for him to say, "That’s fantastic! I’d like that. Just Bears!" Ugh. It only figures. This is the type of dude that thinks a drive to Indianapolis, Chicago or Detroit is as exciting and revolutionary as a trip to the moon. Hoosiers, ya know?
Now, I’m sure some of you are saying, "That PT owner has every right to display his or her Colts pride! Who are you to judge?"
Look, I’m all for people supporting teams and displaying allegiances. Magnets, stickers, decals – it’s all good. Let your affections be known. But if you’re a person that thinks its reasonable to drive a vehicle that looks like a mini-van with Down Syndrome, just stop right there. That tells the world enough about you already. We don’t need your ridiculous fanboy decorations. Your car is already an offensive, obnoxious vulgarity. Frankly, I’m surprised it didn’t turn me to stone when I tried to take these pictures. Considering that, forcing further attention upon it is nothing short of a crime. Shame on you Colts Fan PT Cruiser owner. Shame.
Rudolph Giuliani is dead to me.
In an attempt to curry favor with voters in New Hampshire, that poll-riding hooker switched allegiance from the New York Yankees to the Boston Red Sox.
"I’m rooting for the Red Sox," the Republican presidential contender Tuesday told a Boston audience, just a few T stops from Fenway Park. "I’m an American League fan, and I go with the American League team, maybe with the exception of the Mets. Maybe that would be the one time I wouldn’t because I’m loyal to New York."
Loyal to New York? The only things Rudy Giuliani is only loyal to is his career and, given the amount of wives and mistresses he’s had, his penis. Mets support? Please. And that American League argument is even worse. The league line is reserved for the half-hearted and the bandwagon-jumpers. It’s not for people that claim undying loyalty for sides steeped in history, pride and tradition. The fact that Giuliani is using it is not only foul and fraudulent but also completely insulting.
I can’t even begin to fathom how Giuliani has the audacity to think something like this would ever be acceptable. Duke fans don’t throw on Carolina blue when North Carolina is contending for national championships. Manchester United supporters don’t sport kits of The Mighty Arsenal when we’re riding high in the Champions. Why would anyone ever logically believe that a supposed diehard New York Yankees fan would switch allegiances because of league affiliation?!
Real Yankees and Red Sox fans would rather throw themselves off a bridge before rooting for their rival in ANY situation. It could be Red Sox vs. The Antichrist and I’d be on the sidewalk rocking the sign of the beast and talking smack about how eternal hellfire and damnation rules the school. But not Giuliani. That rat-faced cunt sold us out for an election and what’s worse is it’s not even the main one! It’s a fucking primary!
"Somehow it makes me feel better if the team that was ahead of the Yankees wins the World Series," he told a group of mostly local reporters in explaining his sudden backing of the Red Sox, "because then I feel like, well, we’re not that bad."
Wrong, Judas. The only thing that makes you feel better is knowing you just buttered up 30 pieces of silver, er, electoral votes in Red Sux Nation. Even crack whores have more pride.
Later, at a town hall meeting in Lebanon, N.H., Giuliani yukked it up with a couple of audience members who were wearing Sox caps. "If I keep looking at that hat, I may start crying," he said to chuckles, before adding, "Good luck to the Red Sox!"
All this proves is that Mayor 9/11 was never a real Yankees fan in the first place and for that, he should never show his face in the Bronx again. Frankly, I think he may need to stay out of New York City altogether. For years, Yankee Stadium has been Giuliani Propoganda Stadium, throwing him on the jumbotron more than the score. He’s on before, during and after the game. He has pre-recorded "Go Yankees!" video clips and his traitorous cunt face is all over the place during "God Bless America." Rudy Giuliani needs to transfer his headquarters to Massachusetts, as he should not be permitted to further insult and taint the City of New York with his cowardly suck.
Before I go break something, here’s what I would like to know – how can anyone trust him now? Sure, he’s a politician, which makes him a weasel by default, but if he is so sackless and weak that he cowers on his knees at the feet of Red Sux Nation, how is he going to stand up to Iran? Two years from now, we’ll turn around and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad will be dropping bombs on Israel while Giuliani waits on the sidelines to give him a rimmer.
As far as I’m concerned, Hizzoner can eat a dick. But that’ll be no trouble for him, as I’m sure they’re offering plenty of it with a side of chowda on Yawkey Way.
If I had to guess, Suzy Kolber exited the womb squinting and rocking a pixie cut, and, from then on, was compulsively clad in turtlenecks and neck scarves regardless of the temperature. Whether it’s true or not, I kind of enjoy the imagery, so don’t spoil it for me. In any case, I don’t know how long Suzy has been around but the only thing about her that seems to change as an NFL season progresses is how just how many layers of turtlenecks and neck scarves she can wrap herself in as we get nearer to the Super Bowl. Her seemingly pathological nature with wearing those particular items is actually somewhat fascinating.
But while watching Monday Night Football tonight, she popped on the screen not only wearing some type of business suit from JC Penney but also sporting hair that made her look like a patient on Appalachian Emergency Room:
What on earth could have gone wrong? And no, being in Jacksonville is no excuse.
I know these MNF people like to sample the local flavor – crab cakes in Baltimore, barbeque in Kansas City, buffalo wings in Buffalo, and so on, but rolling down to Appalachia is no excuse to show up on national television looking like two squirrels crawled on your head, built a nest, mated and died. That’s simply unacceptable.
Look Suzy, I know you’re supposed to be pregnant and all but you’ve got to get your act together. You’re on tv. You can’t just be running around looking like you just walked out of a Rush concert. 2 thumbs down.
Disclaimer/Admission: I have no right to bitch. I am a fairweather fan and, therefore, a complete disgrace.
In the last week, I have become the Cleveland Indians’ biggest "no right to root for them" fan. I threw on my brother’s offensive Chief Wahoo hat and memorized each player’s stats and skills to ensure that I could run my mouth with accuracy and conviction. I bumped my gums to any Sox fan within earshot and as Cleveland racked up wins, I was well on my way to a restoration of playoff happiness.
But then came game 5, where the Indians decided to make a run at the 2004 Yankees’ title for most humiliating and pathetic ALCS collapse. Why? It’s anyone’s guess. The only thing I can figure is that rules of nature are violated if the city of Cleveland isn’t mired in misery and defeat. A proper victory might mean the Indians would have to move to a new city where hope and happiness reign and hey, Denver already has a team. A miracle/storybook/heartwarming/Cinderella/unlikely/more Joe Buck adjectives and phrases team.
But oh well, right? At least Eric Wedge is calm and keeping things in perspective.
"We won three games in a row and they won three in a row," Indians manager Eric Wedge said. "I’m disappointed, obviously, we weren’t able to finish it off."
Yeah, so are we, Eric. I’m not speaking to you as a legit Indians fan but as a Yankees fan that rabidly supports any team that could/should bust the Boston Red Sox in the mouth.
There are rules to this game. There are protocols and policies. If you beat the Yankees in post-season play and the Red Sox are next on the menu, it is your duty to defeat them. It’s not "well, we just wanna play good baseball and we’ll see how it goes." No, "see how it goes" is not how it works. "See how it goes" is loser talk. Once you are in a position to beat the Boston Red Sox into submission, it is incumbent upon you to do so by any means necessary. If nothing else, it’s simply a matter of common decency.
Naturally, there is a strategy to this. When managers find themselves in a potential giant-killer run of Yankees then Sux, they should understand that they can’t use up their entire arsenal on Yankees. It’s pretty obvious to anyone that isn’t completely delusional that we turtle up and die the second Dane Cook shows up on air to obnoxiously proclaim that it’s "Actober." (When is that douchebag’s 15 minutes up???) Yankees in the playoffs is defined by horrendous pitching, dead bats and bad luck. We are never long for the pasting these days. As such, Wedge should have known that he could save some things in his bag of tricks for the ALCS. The 11th Plague of Egypt would have been a little more helpful in, I don’t know, Game 5 of the ALCS, wouldn’t it, Indians fans? Instead, it was wasted on a team that couldn’t produce with runners in scoring position if they were playing against a pitching machine in Central Park.
Nice strategizing, Wedge. You blew your wad too soon and now I have to become the Colorado Rockies’ biggest "no right to root for them" fan. And thanks to a 10-day vacation, which has seen the Rockies’ mojo sucked dry by constant fellating from both the media and women, they will inevitably come out clouded, rusty and overconfident. By the time they come to, the Sux will be up 3-0 in the World Series. Great. Just great.
If I were a Playboy Playmate instead of a spark plug with nice hair, my turn-ons/interests would be as follows: Andy Pettitte, The Mighty Arsenal, Oakland Raiders, New York Yankees, Jemaine Clement, Bear Grylls, Guinness, buffalo wings, left-handedness, narcissistic sadism and musical elitism.
One of the few interests that we haven’t covered is my musical taste. I could blame it on being too consumed with making psychotic ramblings about teams that don’t care about me, but the truth is, it’s not all that interesting and also proves that I’m a truly horrible person. Most of the time, I prefer to let you reach your own conclusions on that particular issue but not today.
Let me preface this post by establishing some facts:
- I have neither the time nor the inclination to sit here for hours listing the multitude of obscure bands and artists whose styles suit my snobbish yet inconsistent fancy.
- If we’re really friends, I’ve already recommended more music to you than you can possibly handle. Music – like the sweet ganjah – should be free and shared with the masses… Music finds its way into the secret places of your heart and becomes an outburst of the soul, expressing your thoughts, fears and desires when words cannot do them justice. Life without music is one that is not worth living.
- I will judge you on your music collection. I broke up with a boy once for suggesting that we attend a John Mayer concert. I’m not messing around. Look, we all have our weaknesses, guilty pleasures and shameful moments. I know every word to “Crazy In Love” by Beyonce – even Jay Z’s parts. I can’t begin to rock out enough to Bon Jovi when I’m in my car. I was caught dancing to Christina Aguilera’s “Ain’t No Other Man” on my desk in my office. But I don’t care – there’s a lot of brainless pop out there that’s just damn fun. Besides, I love to dance and you can’t do that to Dispatch.
That said, there is a distinct difference between shaking your ass at the club and singing along in the car and considering Top-40/TRL shite as quality, choice music. If it can be heard during an episode of “The Hills,” “Laguna Beach,” anything on E! or one of those terrible VH-1 “Best Of Shows,” it is unacceptable. And if you’re one of the people that disagrees with me, it is very likely that I don’t want you in my life. I have found that 9 times out of 10, people who listen to this mindless, Studio Magic schlock inevitably have personality and lifestyle traits that I find reprehensible. I call them “Radio People.”
Radio People must go. Every once in a while, I start liking someone before they reveal their true nature and I’m stuck, but on the whole, I can sniff them out from 8 miles away. I do my best to save souls from the pits of hell but some cannot be helped. At times, people get on my case for being an anti-Top 40-ite but in response, I ask you this – if a person has so little self-respect that he or she considers Jason Mraz, Fall Out Boy, Avril Lavigne, Nelly and Nickelback worthwhile, why should I give them the time of day? Why should I afford them the respect they won’t give themselves? If you think “I’m hot because I’m hot, I’m fly because you not” is a lyrical and even musical marvel, you need to kill yourself. Seriously.
With that out of the way, I should reveal that I am a Radiohead fan. A fanatic, really. I’m one of those sanctimonious tools that considers Radiohead to be art. I’m one of the affected millions that considers OK Computer to be the greatest album ever made. I’m one of those losers that hears “Exit Music (For a Film),” “Paranoid Android” or “Fake Plastic Trees” and breaks down in tears before claiming to have had a spiritual awakening. And yes, I’ve honestly done that. Make fun of me if you want to but if a song or a band hasn’t done that to you at some point, then music just isn’t doing its job. In any case, one thing I have never done is pull the preachy Radiohead fan routine — until today.
Musical taste is subjective and unless you are a Radio Person, you should not be judged. The same goes for Radiohead — it’s not for everyone. It’s not even for most. Not liking them doesn’t mean you lose your membership to the hip club. It doesn’t make you a loser or somehow less knowledgeable about music. It is a band, like many, that some people just “get” and others don’t. It is a band that through its evolution and continued pursuit of innovation, has lost many fans and turned away even more at the gate. But through it all, from the first time I heard Pablo Honey and The Bends to the present, Radiohead hits me in a place that no other band can. It’s not because I’m one of the enlightened ones in a tragic world. Their lyrics and style have simply always spoken to me. There have been bumps in the road (Amnesiac) and holding patters (Hail to the Thief) but with each new album, they give me a little something I never even knew I wanted. And with yesterday’s release of “In Rainbows,” they did it again.
In a fuck you bitch slap to the music industry, Radiohead released their newest album as a digital download available only through their website and are allowing listeners to pick their own price for the album. Pay $0, pay $10 (I paid $20). As the website so kindly instructs, “It’s up to you.”
In Rainbows is a beautifully balanced mix of the melodic and meloncholic, electronic and acoustic. It took two or three listens before each track took hold but, multiple repeats later, it continues to surprise and captivate with both its imagination and deceptive simplicity. From Pablo Honey to Hail to the Thief, elements of each album are felt on “In Rainbows” but are more focused and polished, making it, by far, the most accessible album to new fans since OK Computer.
I won’t go track by track here because this is not a review, but download “In Rainbows” and take it through a couple spins. Maybe you end up liking its quiet, understated beauty and seek out more Radiohead albums or maybe you drag it directly to your trash bin. But either way, you’ll have exposed yourself to something new and that’s not something the music industry often gives us the chance to do these days.
So I cried on Tuesday night. I can admit it now. It wasn’t a boo-hooing sobfest or anything – I’m not an 80-year-old delusional Cubs fan. But when the Indians stormed the field, I started throwing anything I could get my hands on before running out of my house in madcap hysteria, cursing the gods, George Steinbrenner and nature herself. Sure, you say I should have known better.. that I should have seen it coming. But I didn’t.
Was I being smacked over the head with signs? Oh, sure. Brian Cashman allowing Ian Kennedy run off to get married; Chien-Ming Wang throwing beach balls over home plate; Roger Clemens pulling up lame and rubbing our noses in it with that ever-present Cingular commercial; lineup going 1 for 11 with runners in scoring position and 2 outs, hitting .228, managing eight runs on 6 solo homors and stranding 24 runners on base; God sending one of the Plagues of Egypt to attack Joba Chamberlain. I’m not even going to mention Alex Rodriguez. But through all of that and more, I honestly believed my Yankees would pull it out until the 27th out was officially logged and Jorge Posada’s whif lead directly to the thunderstorm that blanketed Japan today.
In any case, I made my way into the street, where a crowd of random passersby watched me have a complete and total meltdown. After they ran away, I continued to rant and rave like one of those homeless crazies you find under a Central Park bridge, and, somewhere along the way, suffered an involuntary stream of tears. I really don’t know when they started… I came out of my dementia cloud to find my face soaked and tears still falling. There wasn’t much I could do to stop them… borne of frustration, anger, annoyance and dashed hope, they continued for at least ten minutes.
After a while, I pulled myself together, had a shower and a lot of sex. It’s amazing how little those things helped. By morning, I was back to wallowing and lashing out at anyone who even had a hint of a smirk.
I’m pretty sure most of my morning conversations went something like this –
Victim: Good morning!
Me: GO FUCK YOURSELF! I WILL NOT BE MOCKED!
Even now, I can’t really make heads or tails of it – the loss, I mean, not my behavior. Dead in the water at Memorial Day, my Yankees stormed through the rest of the season to take the Wild Card and actually make a brief but futile run at the AL East. It wasn’t like we were fighting tooth and nail at the end and barely squeaked into the playoffs. It was ours for a month. We owned the Wild Card fight and for once, the New York Yankees were going to be the hot team! And it’d be us that steamrolled over the complacent division champions for our shot at Number 27. But alas. Here we are again.
After the Alex Rodriguez exercises his contract and heads off to Anaheim or Chicago, I’m going to take a Yankees news nap. When I wake up, I hope to find:
Too much to ask? Of course it is. This time next March, I’ll find this:
Ugh. All the same, I’ll be right here when the season starts again, cheering and bitching until that 27th out. Hopefully, I won’t cry next time.
So after a disastrous summer where the integrity of every sport on the planet was thrown into question, we’ve transitioned into a fall where the results of contests and actions of athletes simply defy logic. It’s complete madness.
Let’s evaluate where we stand –
Detroit Lions: 3-1
Oakland Raiders: 2-2
Cleveland Browns: 2-2
Arizona Cardinals: 2-2
Colorado Rockies: Playoffs
Philadelphia Phillies: Playoffs
Alex Rodriguez: Mentally capable of handling the boos
Matt Leinart: Unhappy
Kobe Bryant: Vow of silence
The only things that really makes sense in the world right now are the New Orleans Saints sitting at 1-3, Norv Turnover’s debilitating "influence" on yet another football team and Al Davis gift-wrapping another Super Bowl for a team not called the Oakland Raiders. And since the forecast continues to call for balmy temperatures on this, the first week of October, I have to believe that these three signs of normalcy are the only things preventing Hell from freezing over.
It’s quite unsettling really, the Raiders in particular. Dare I believe? Dare I have faith that positive things are afoot under Coach Lunch Monday and his crew in the Land of Misfit Toys? Sure, we lost to Detroit and Denver and the Hand of God showed up to block a kick in the final seconds against Cleveland but we’re still 2-2. We’re still leading the league in rushing, 10th in total offense and actually have offensive touchdowns. And is if that’s not enough, we’re not getting embarrassed.
I’m not saying those four things make us world beaters or eventual division champs, so please don’t misconstrue my temporary departure from doom and gloom to mean that I believe we’re going 14-2. I just see a glimmer of hope out there in the Bay and I don’t know how to handle it. I keep bracing myself for disaster but after Sunday in Miami, I’m wondering if I should. Being both English and someone’s little sister has taught me one thing: once you build your little sand castle and you carve your first window into it, some horrible beast/older sister/bully will come along, step on it and kick the remaining sands into the ocean. But in this situation, maybe it’s not so wrong if I feel a little bit of excitement.
So I tell you what I’m gonna do… I’m going to put on my Tim Brown jersey (I’ve still not found an adequate replacement for my burned Jerry Porter) and go out and about in it as if you’re the one with the problem. And if anyone dares say a word to me, I’m gonna crack them in the jaw.
How’s that for enthusiasm?
My most recent Sunday, like most occurring in the fall since 2003, was sour and distressing. But it wasn’t really the Raiders performance that left me in ruin. You see, I braced myself for the inevitable loss to the Detroit Lions when Jon Gruden left for Tampa Bay, so I could anticipate game-changing misses by Fatty McSeabass, gruesome interceptions, laughable fumbles and random moments of false hope. But all of that could have never prepared me for the pain I felt when I saw this:
Thanks, for fucking nothing, Al Davis!! 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 of it?" attitude either. In the beginning, Moss was actually trying! But positivity is hard to maintain when your offensive coordinator is using the NFL as a sabbatical from his job at a bed n’ breakfast and Martin Lawrence is "throwing" you the ball.
Contrary to popular opinion, Randy Moss hadn’t suffered a debilitating loss of skill nor was he critically diminished. He’d just been Raiderized. And now the mercurial receiver has emerged like a phoenix rising from the ashes, putting up nine receptions for 183 yards and a touchdown from Mr. Tuck Rule himself. Pardon me while I vomit.
With every Moss reception on Sunday, the bile rose further and further from my stomach. By the time he caught a touchdown, I was so engulfed with rage and fury that I got dizzy and fell out of my chair. Soon enough, Moss will have a ring and a 1,000 yard season to hang it on. That’s just fucking great.
Thanks again for another great start and end to the NFL season, Al. I won’t soon forget it.
While perusing NFL.com this morning, I spotted this headline: "Agent: Strahan has not made decision, still considering options."
Options? His wife gave him a proper rogering in the divorce proceedings, receiving $15.3 million, a New Jersey mansion, $18,000 a month in child support, another $311,000 in back child support and 91 percent of their two kids’ private school tuition. And now, after trying to bully the Giants into giving him more money to make up for having half of his assets jacked, Strahan is facing replacement and $485,000 in fines! But instead of having an agent that does his job properly and gives actual advice, he’s being told that he has options.
Earth to Michael: Go back to work! You have no options! Your wife took your money, the Giants called your bluff and now you’re deluding yourself into you’ve got hand. "Take that Giants, you’ll see!" No, Michael, they won’t see and you’ll be broke. There is nothing out there for you. Keyshawn Johnson has already taken the position of "newly retired player with huge knot in tie" on ESPN, and Jerome Bettis, Sterling Sharpe, Cris Collinsworth and Tiki Barber have cornered the "randomly insightful" retiree spots on NBC. The only real tv option out there is joining Rodney Peete and John Salley on Best Damn and if that’s the case, you may as well throw in the towel and see if George Foreman wants to partner up on a new grill.
Not even Al Davis is foolish enough to go for this one, not with the way we’re going to make it rain over Michael Vick in 3 years. So stay in New York. Even if 80% of your ridiculous salary is going to your ex-wife, at least you can make a little flash money doing "more meat" commercials with Subway Jared and his weird, melted, cock sucking lips.
If you keep up this hold out madness much longer, your only option will be to bubble wrap your balls and remaining shreds of self-respect and mail it all to your ex-wife and John Mara with a note that says, "You win Regards, Mike" And no one wants that, least of all me, a petty, bitter Raiders fan that reveres you for being a complicated, ferocious animal that has singlehandedly filled the photo album for the NFL’s Gayest Headshots of All Time.
To be honest with ya, I’d weep for England too, but hey, Beckham or not, I’m gonna be doing that anyway. We can’t play our way out of a paper sack.
You’re more than welcome to shake your fist at the sky and curse David Beckham with me any day. Whether your reasons have to do with Beckham being the source of 12 years of sporting agony or his inability to get a sport going in your country because his legs keep encountering unfortunate accidents due to his passionate attempts to run more in the last month than he has in 10 years, it matters not. We are officially comrades in eye-rolling agony… unless, of course, you’re still holding out hope for your Chosen One. If that’s the case, you may as well throw yourself off a bridge because you clearly haven’t a lick of sense.