Have you seen “Beyond Scared Straight”? It’s a tragic mess of reality programming where 15 – 20 developing menaces to society are taken to a maximum security prison and scared into righteousness by hardened criminals in the 25 – life club.
At least, that’s what is supposed to happen. Since most of these delinquents think being a criminal is aces and prison isn’t so bad because “you get to work out all day,” they aren’t particularly fazed when Green Eyes – a hulking murderess – gets aggressive, or when a guy tells them how he went on a drug binge and slaughtered a family. They’re not even moved when Diabla, the sort of hard bitch who will cut your balls off and hand em to ya, remarks, “I am the devil, they call me baby devil…I’ll walk up in somebody else’s hood and just smoke you. I don’t ever do drive-bys, I wanna see you die.” [Diabla scared the shit out of me.]
Actually, that’s not true – a couple of them wept and wilted but they’re the ones who were in for truancy and trespassing. For the kids who are eight months away from rape and murder, it’s all rather futile because the only thing they respect is getting kicked in the face. Sadly, that’s not allowed. But let me tell you what wouldn’t be futile — an afternoon with Fleece Johnson, the Booty Warrior of the Kentucky State Penitentiary.
I don’t know why Fleece is in the joint, and I don’t think I want to. But I do know this – if you step in his prison, he’s coming for that ass. As he states during this fascinating video that shines a light on prison rape and situational homosexuality, if he likes you and he wants you, he’s going to have you. You can go about it the easy way or the hard way, but you’re going to give him the booty.
“Beyond Scared Straight” needs to look into this bloke as the next addition to their programme. What makes me think this will work? Well, The Boondocks told me so.
Keeping with this week’s dysfunctional theme of success equaling redemption, Philadelphia Eagles quarterback Michael Vick received the key to the city from Dallas Councilman and Mayor Pro Tem Dwaine Caraway last Saturday. No, this story isn’t from The Onion. It actually happened.
It seems that Vick, a man who, 1) is the quarterback of the city’s most hated divisional rival; 2) owned a dog fighting operation so grisly the losers either died in the pit or were electrocuted, drowned, hanged or shot; and 3) is a convicted felon on probation, is the perfect candidate for one of Dallas’s highest municipal awards — an honour typically reserved for distinguished community members and organisations that provide outstanding civic contributions and heroic community service.
You see, Vick did the absolutely remarkable and spoke to at-risk Dallas children about staying in school, saying no to drugs, and being kind to animals. If those are the standards, he should have the keys to around 250 cities by now. That’s about how many times he’s done his image-repairing penance since his release in 2009, isn’t it?
“What he is doing and the effect it has on the children lives is the most important factor… In the eyes of many people, he’s a hero,” said Caraway, adding that he doesn’t condone animal cruelty.
Dallas’s at-risk youth need to hear from someone like Michael Vick. Why? Because he’s just like them. Regardless of what you think about him, he’s someone with whom they can relate, and his words will have significantly more impact than those from model citizen superstars like DeMarcus Ware, Jason Witten, and Miles Austin.
But to celebrate him as a hero is nothing short of galactically stupid, not to mention offensive to people in the Dallas community who really deserve it. The guy killed animals – brutally, went to prison, and stayed out of trouble for 18 months. He’s not a hero. He’s a bleeding asshole on probation who’s trying to earn enough money to stave off bankruptcy. If he can improve his Q-rating in the process and get a sponsorship or two, all the better.
Is this what makes a hero these days? If so, someone dig up Ravens WR Donte Stallworth and former RB Maurice Clarett and bring them to Dallas for a little recognition.
Stallworth has stayed out of trouble since serving 30 days for committing vehicular homicide with his Bentley in 2008. The same can be said for Clarett who, after doing prison time for armed robbery, now toils away in a low level football league, dreaming of returning to the NFL. Both of these former misfits have seen the many errors of their ways, and both do what they can to serve as cautionary tales to the youth in their communities. So where are their keys? When will they be treated like heroes? Oh, that’s right — they aren’t successful or high profile enough for that. Sorry for bothering you, gentlemen. Wake us up when you’re at the top of the fantasy rankings.
Last night, Pittsburgh Steelers quarterback Ben Roethlisberger was just two ticks away from being a good person. All he had to do to make us forget about that whole rapey pariah thing was march the Steelers down the field and win the Super Bowl by a point. That’s it.
A tough charge for most QBs, sure, but we’re talking about the master of the two minute drill. The bloke has 19 fourth quarter comebacks and 25 game-winning drives in his seven year career. What’s a six point deficit with 2:07 on the clock and the ageless Charles Woodson on the sideline?
A lot, apparently. Five plays and 1:18 later, it was over. Anticlimactic doesn’t even begin to describe it. Instead of a last second, dramatic shot in the end zone, we got the equivalent of a workup to an epic orgasm that goes unrealised because the bloke you’re with comes just a little too soon.
You really don’t know how sad that is.
Anyway, thanks to the Packers’ 31 – 25 victory (also known as zero turnovers beats three), Big Ben is still a rapist and has to wait another year for a chance to win our hearts. Christina Aguilera, on the other hand, will never have that chance.
Looking like a bloated cross between Snooki and Cyndi Lauper, the diva didn’t just botch the Star Spangled Banner; she threw it in the mud, stomped on it, and then set it on fire. Celebrities can get away with a lot of things and be forgiven. You can do everything from water sports and sex with 14 year olds to being a party to a cold blooded murder, but you can’t pull a Pamela Bell (see below) and expect to survive.
Others with no redemption
* Cameron Diaz and Alex Rodriguez: I wish we could implant his talents into Ramiro Peña and then ship him and his lame sack personality to the Angels.
* Fergie of the Black Eyed Peas: It’s too bad Will.I.Am (who does this guy keep blowing to get these sweet gigs?) wouldn’t share the autotune because homegirl needed it in spades. After destroying her own group’s catalog, she joined Slash in an epic raping of Guns N’ Roses’ “Sweet Child O’ Mine”.
This “performance” – which Slash likely used as a clever “fuck you” to Axl on his 49th birthday – is precisely why the temperamental frontman is so litigious. He’s protecting his work from abuse, while also shielding the public from Public Acts of Musical Fuckery.
Hopefully, Axl is preparing to file suit against Fergie for taking a massive poo on one of his epics and then ripping off “The Snake” (badly) in front of millions. Who does this bitch think she is? Whitney Houston can belch out better melodies after a burrito and crack dinner. You fail, madam.
Born to the New York Yankees in the 22nd round of the 1990 draft, Andy made his debut at Kauffman Stadium in Kansas City on April 29, 1995 – just one month removed from the 1994-95 strike and the third game of the season. The 2-0 Yankees were up 5-1 in the bottom of the 7th when Buck Showalter called in the 21-year-old Texan to relieve Melido Perez. Big Game Andy, as he would come to be known, promptly threw a strike to Wally Joyner – the first of the 12,987 batters he’d face in his legendary career.
After Joyner flew out to a young Bernie Williams in center, Pettitte struck out Joe Vitiello looking. The lefty then gave up a single to Gary Gaetti, who advanced to 2nd on a wild pitch before scoring on Greg Gagne’s double into left. After Phil Hiatt batted in Gagne with a single to center, Showalter replaced Pettitte and his 27.00 ERA with Bob Wickman.
It was an inauspicious start to a career that helped fuel baseball’s last dynasty and deliver five World Series championships to the Bronx.
A year later, Pettitte famously out-dueled Atlanta Braves’ John Smoltz in Game 5 of the World Series, clinching the Yankees first championship since 1978. The next three rings came right in a row, but it took nine years for the them to do it again. At 37-years-old and on three days rest, Pettitte went on the mound on a chilly November night at Yankee Stadium and worked the strike zone like an attentive lover. The Yanks beat the Phillies in six.
What was beautiful about Andy Pettitte is that he did it all from the shadows. Constantly overlooked on teams with Derek Jeter, Mariano Rivera, Alex Rodriguez, and scores of All-Stars and potential Hall of Famers, Pettitte was never a superstar. He wasn’t flashy or outgoing. He couldn’t blow batters out of the box and he didn’t even have Cooperstown-worthy regular season numbers. But what he did have was the uncanny ability to raise the level of his pitching in baseball’s most pressurised situations.
Time and time again, Andy Pettitte delivered without ego or excess, fanfare or fuss. He came to each game with a fastball, a cutter, and the assurance that he’d never let you down. Though he had stumbles and missteps, no Yankee starting pitcher of the last 25 years was more reliable when the season was on the line. And though, ultimately, his talents will be replaced in the Yankees starting lineup, no one again will feature on the mound with his levels of heart, determination, quiet leadership, and steely resolve.
Andy Pettitte’s career is survived by ultimate fangirl and love-obsessed stalker, Flash Warner – who will sit shiva for the next seven days, and anyone with a lick of sense in the New York Yankees fan base. His ability, leadership, and unbelievably sexy butt-chin will be greatly missed.
Does a “Best Product Name Ever” award exist? If not, can we create one and give it to GAP? The San Fransisco-based outfitter has a new style of jeans on the market called Pegged Boyfriend. It seems they’re the shape of spring but no word on whether they’re loose in the seat.
Now, if you’re anything like me, your mind did a swan dive into the gutter a good five minutes ago. This means you’re wondering if the company who, for years, encouraged customers to “fall into the gap” just issued a clever call-to-action to self-assured women with submissive blokes in their lives. But if you can’t piece together what I’m on about, here’s a NSFW Google search for you. Have a ball.
I like to think my suspicions are bang on, but that’s because I’m a pervert. In the company’s defense, these terms make complete fashion sense when used individually. All the hip kids pegged their jeans in the ’80s (see: Peterson, Sloane and Bueller, Jeanie), and the style has made a comeback in the last couple years. Most women also enjoy a good pair of boyfriend jeans. I love mine. They have a relaxed, hip-slung fit, look fantastic on me, and are incredibly comfortable.
But when these terms are used together and in this order, it all becomes very unfortunate. And by unfortunate, I mean absolutely spectacular. Very clever, marketing department. Fall into the gap, indeed.
The only thing I wonder now is if GAP will market Pegged Boyfriends with the new Strap-On belt and Rusty Trombone Scoopneck tee. I’d like mine in cherry, please. The red will bring out the pop in my already bright blue eyes.
Fernando Torres’s record-breaking and totally ridiculous £50M switch from Liverpool to Chelsea is laying waste to the Kop fan base. They’re burning the number 9 kit, weeping in the streets, and acting like petulant crazies because they traded a sulky player made of glass with three good years left. Admittedly, I was in the same mental state when Thierry Henry walked away but we’re not talking about my hypocrisy right now.
Sad examples from Red, White, and Kop:
* “That season, watching Fernando Torres and Liverpool F.C. was the reason I fell in love with this game. Watching him jump onto Stevie’s back every time they came together for a goal was a momentary escape from the monotony of the day. There’s a famous banner that has floated around Anfield, it reads ‘Your Dreams – Our Reality.’ It felt surreal watching the Spaniard bang in goals left and right. Call it naivety if you must, but I thought that feeling would be ours forever.”
* “He Who Betrays Us Will Always Walk Alone.”
* “Please don’t burn your Torres shirt. Send it to a kid in Africa who will experience the joy of wearing his first footy shirt.” And why wouldn’t an African kid burn the shirt?
* Let’s rob a people of their natural resources! Torres: “Sounds like something I could get behind. F*ck all the kids who used to believe in me.”
* “I hate you so much because I loved you so much.”
You get the idea.
But no fan is in a greater state of sadness than the Scunthorpe prat who legally changed his name to Fernando Torres. The former Shaun McCormack, a 36-year-old father of four, paid £13.39 to honour his idol. Just a month ago, McCormack said:
“I chose the name Fernando Torres McCormack because the guy is a legend… He is the best thing that has ever happened to Liverpool FC. I also chose the name because I have never liked the name Shaun and it never felt right… As a family, we go to Spain every year and I just love the name Fernando…It’s a dream come true. I know he isn’t having the greatest of seasons but, for me, he’s the best striker on the planet. I did think about changing my name to Steven Gerrard, but I wanted something a little more flamboyant.”
And now you walk alone, you twat. Only a Liverpool fan would think this an acceptable move and only an absolute fool would think Torres was the best thing ever to happen to the club. The guy has won no trophies and brought no glory. All he’s really done is serve as a welcome visual distraction to Steven Gerrard’s invisible forehead and crap haircut.
In a follow up with the Scunthorpe Telegraph, Fernando McCormack said: “The transfer news has gutted me. I just love the name Fernando but I don’t know what to do now.”
How about kill yourself. Jump off a bridge. Lay down in traffic. Surrender to a wild pack of dogs. Any of those options are more acceptable than your decision to do the sporting equivalent of putting the pussy on a pedestal. You fail, sir.
Did you have sex this morning? If not, your day is worse for it. Shocked? Well, you’ll be further crushed to learn that not getting laid in the sunrise hours also diminishes your health.
Like all sex studies that tell us what we could’ve figured out on our own, the latest research states that adults need to find time to shag as soon as they stir. It helps you and your partner feel loving and bonded, makes you both happier, and, according to Dr Herbenick, author of the book Because It Feels Good (haha):
“It makes you stronger and more beautiful… Morning sex can strengthen your immune system for the day by enhancing your levels of IgA, an antibody that protects against infection. And it releases chemicals that boost levels of oestrogen, which improves the tone and texture of your skin and hair.”
The article goes on to state that “women worried their partner will not be willing to participate in an early morning session, may find it surprisingly easy to coax their men into a bout of passion. While he sleeps, the testosterone he’ll use for the upcoming day accumulates. From the time he wakes up, he has a three-hour window when he’s brimming with peak levels.”
Well no shit. Anyone woman who’s unsure if her partner can’t participate in the early morning must not have a partner with a penis. If a man is awake, he is 20 seconds from action. If he just woke up, there’s not even a wait involved, which means the only thing standing in the way of a woman and morning sex is her own bad attitude.
All of this begs the question, why are scientists conducting these studies? What’s the point? Sex is a Jamba Juice antioxidant power boost mixed with multivitamins and wrapped in a gossamer blanket of sunshine. Science didn’t teach me that. Losing my virginity did.
Drinking Out of Cups is making the rounds again. If you recall, there were rumours that it was recorded while Dan Deacon was tripping on acid in a closet.
As it turns out, he was stone cold sober and decided to record himself watching television with the sound off while “doing a character that was meant to embody Long Island culture.”
I hate when rumours don’t prove true, especially when they involve New Yorkers on LSD. But regardless of whether Deacon was tripping or not (it’s still hard to believe he isn’t), it’s Friday and I would be a horrible person if I didn’t make an effort to significantly improve yours by throwing “Drinking Out of Cups” back into your life.
The latest “saddest news ever” comes out of South Wales, where a 29-year-old scrounger is bragging about becoming the youngest granddad in Britain. His 14-year-old daughter, who announced the news of her pregnancy on Facebook by updating her status to “looking for a pram with the mr”, is due to give birth in August.
Side note: I’m due in June. Let me tell you what this means. In 2040, when our children are about 30 years old, my child will be hard at work supporting not only this dumb twat’s baby but also her baby’s progeny, all of whom will be sexuality active by 11 years old and have at least three carjacking and drugs violations under their belts. I fucking weep.
But back to the jobless scrounger. When asked how he feels about all this, he said:
“She is very young but was determined to keep the child. We were not going to force her into doing anything else. We don’t want her to hate us. She is not the only girl at her school to become pregnant or to have a baby. We don’t blame the lad who got her pregnant – it takes two.”
The noxious stench of white trash emanates so profusely from those statements that I don’t even know where to begin, but as you’d expect, it gets worse. The pregnant girl’s mum has two other children, who will no doubt procreate soon, and lives with another jobless layabout on a council estate “where they have a flat screen TV and Blackberry mobile phones.”
Of course they do. Of course they have expensive, cutting edge technology. How could it be any other way? They can’t work and they can’t pay a bill but they’ve got Blackberrys — the smart phone of businesses everywhere — to do what? Have these exchanges with one another?
“orite!” “ye…” “wot u doin 2nite ladies” “jus angin baat” “wana cum wi us?”
Someone tell me why I work again. I thought the point of working hard all my life and going to university, law school, and business school was to ensure that I could have nice things and enjoy carefree lifestyle that allowed me to do what I want when I want without being hamstrung by worries of finance. But alas, I could have done all of that without working 14 hour days in the City. I could have had a comfortable bloody lifestyle claiming benefits, living off the taxpayers’ expense, and turning my vagina into a fucking clown car while doing fuck all in my council estate. What the fuck was I thinking? These rotters make me sick.
The only person who had a chance of outliving Al Davis has shuffled loose our mortal coil and gone to heaven. And probably not because his body officially tapped out but because he was sick of inhabiting the earth with a bunch of lazy fat-fats.
Jack LaLanne, president of the Order of Certifiable Beasts & Badasses and jumpsuit wearer, passed away yesterday of respiratory failure due to pneumonia at the age of 96. For more than 70 years, he preached healthy eating and exercise, and every once in a while, he’d pull off an amazing feat of strength just to remind the world how much ass he kicked. Jay Cutler, the Chicago Bears QB who sprained his uterus playing the Packers yesterday, wishes he could be 1/4 the man LaLanne was. Here’s just a sampling of him in beast mode:
* Set a world record of 1,033 push-ups in 23 minutes
* Swam the Golden Gate channel while towing a 2,500-pound cabin cruiser
* Swam from Alcatraz Island to Fisherman’s Wharf handcuffed and shackled to a 1,000-pound boat
* Towed 65 boats filled with 6,500 pounds of Louisiana Pacific wood pulp while handcuffed
* Towed 70 rowboats full of people for one mile while handcuffed
“While shackled and handcuffed” seemed to be a theme for Jack LaLanne (I wonder if his appropriately named wife of 51 years, Elaine LaLanne, has insight into that), and I’m sad it didn’t come into play during his Power Juicer infomercials. I watched those on many nights in university when I either had insomnia or was in that weird phase of intoxication where I was too wasted to sleep. One time, I drunkenly succumbed to his charms and ordered a juicer, thinking I’d start this organic living revolution in my house. But once it arrived, I realised that using it took significantly more effort than it did to buy Simply Orange from the market and drink it directly from the bottle while standing in front of the fridge.
If Jack knew a customer did that, he’d be disappointed. So today, I will wear my baby blue Lycra onesie in his honour. It’s the least I can do.