Arsenal give me the effing sads. It’s 6 January and the Premier League title is officially Manchester United’s to lose because we couldn’t score a single goal on Manchester City even though those scrotes were operating like a McLaren F1 in third gear.
It’s not for lack of trying, though. Arsenal played a fantastic game from wire to wire. For once, we looked like a title contender, cutting them open early and firing shots at the goal at will. Trouble was, when balls weren’t abusing the woodwork, they were sailing over it, around it, or right into Joe Hart’s vortex. It was an unlucky outing, and while I hate the result, I’m proud of the performance.
However, I couldn’t say the same were I a Citeh fan. That squad is £350M of yawns and shame. For that money, you’d think these twats would, you know, play football instead of looking like they were moving in a field of molasses. However, it may not be their fault, but that of the forward-thinking, revolutionary tactician Roberto Mancini, who employed a courageous 9-1-0 formation with Carlos Tevez slotted in neatly just in front of the back nine.
Genius strategy, really. Why actively try to win the Prem when you can slowly but surely eat away at the top of the table one point at a time?
“Chelsea came here and lost. We left with a point,” former Gunner Kole Toure said. “It is very important to have a strong defence if you are challenging for major honours. Strikers can win you games, but defenders win you titles.”
Well zip-a-dee-doo-dah, Kolo! Chelsea lost! What a fantastic thing to hang your hat on. It just illustrates the one thing that separates Citeh from Chelsea — they fucking care, which is something I never thought I’d say. Chelsea came into the Emirates, fought, and lost like men (and lost badly ). You, on the other hand, lead a £350M payroll into the Emirates, erected Hadrian’s Wall around the goal, and grew roots. No one even tried to nick a goal yet you want to talk about major honours? Are you kidding me? What you “achieved” at Emirates last night wasn’t success. It was just a shameful case of not losing. You may have escaped with a point but you left your dignity behind.
In the next few hours to days, either Jim Harbaugh or Bill Cowher will arrive at the Oakland Raiders HQ in an angel-drawn, gilded chariot of light. You heard it here first. No, I don’t have scoops and I don’t have sources. What I do have are solid, unshakeable delusions based on the following:
Yesterday, Tom Cable gave an interview on NFL Sirius Radio talking about how much he wanted to remain head coach of the Oakland Raiders. He probably assumed another 10 or 12 days would pass before he received final word on the matter, but three minutes later, the Raiders released a statement informing the world that he was former coach Tom Cable. This move prompted a collective “WTF?” outburst from the whole of Raider Nation. You could probably hear whisper of it in the breeze.
Just so we’re clear, I’m not one of those fools who thinks Tom Cable is a saviour done wrong. After replacing Doogie Kiffin, he bungled the quarterback situation, made a variety of personnel errors, went 17 – 27, and didn’t reach the playoffs in a year where my company cricket team had a shot. He reached his ceiling. No one is going to the Super Bowl with this guy leading the charge.
But after seven years of tribulation in the dungeon that sits beneath the NFL’s moldy basement, the Silver & Black finished 8-8 and swept the AFC West. In fact, we scored 410 points this season (more than double the 197 of 2009), and finished second in the NFL in rushing, sixth in scoring, and 10th in average yards per game. If 2010 doesn’t count as a canyon-sized leap in the right direction, I don’t know what does.
So if you’re Al, and you’re releasing a coach who helped guide your team around the proverbial corner, shouldn’t you have a glory-restoring messiah waiting in the wings? Punting the 8-8 staff for a new, unproven one that will go 9-7 doesn’t make much sense to me.
Then again, messianic options Bill Cowher and Jim Harbaugh don’t make much sense to me either. They’re both ideal, but can you see either of them working in Oakland?
Bill Cowher would put up with Al’s meddling for about seven minutes before resigning or using his chin as a weapon in a crime of passion. Harbaugh, on the other hand, rejected our overtures not 12 months ago. A lot has changed since then but Davis’s reputation as a miserly slave driver has not. Why be one of the crypt keeper’s indentured servants when you can go across the Bay and print money while helping Jed York rebuild a once proud franchise? It’s like choosing to be the supervisor at the local tomato farm when the one down the street wants to give you the keys to their ketchup kingdom. Harbaugh’s not that stupid.
This leaves us with offensive coordinator Hue Jackson, who isn’t a messiah but could be a demigod in disguise. He was instrumental in turning around our impotent offense this season, and is regarded as a rising star in the NFL. I’ll take him instead of Cable, but if anyone else is on a podium with Al Davis in the next few days, I’m forming my brute squad, traveling to California, and laying waste.
For nearly eight years, Oakland was a black hole (no pun intended) for NFL talent, and now – after solid drafts and reasonable moves in free agency – we’re just a few players away from being a perennial playoff team. Other fans may be willing to sit on the sidelines with their Pollyanna delusions but not me. If Al Davis cocks up this coaching search, something will have to change. We’ll have to get a break, and if a little case of the murders is what it takes, so be it.
Brett Favre and the New York Jets are being sued for sexual harassment by Christina Scavo and Shannon O’Toole, two late-to-the-game opportunists former massage therapists looking for 15 minutes of fame and a settlement cheque. Shocking, I know. I’ll give you a second to pick yourself up from the floor.
The suit alleges that prior to sending pictures of his wounded turtle cock to Jenn Sterger in 2008, Favre tried to seduce the aforementioned masseuses via text message. It also maintains that Favre stared at Scavo “like a hanging slab of meat”, treated Scavo’s husband with disdain when the poor bastard tried to defend his lady’s honour, used a Jets employee to do his bidding on other occasions, and got the duo fired after they resisted his impotent advances. Favre also attempted to lure in an unnamed third therapist with this gem:
No, Brett. All you have is bad game. “Bad intentions.” Favre’s amateur approach is a disgrace to professional athletes everywhere. These women rejected him and didn’t have to see his thumb drive penis before making the call. They received his messages, weighed their options, and simply said no. Do you know why? No, it’s not because they have self-respect and dignity or aren’t fazed by fame. (They’re massage therapists who service players at home – let’s be real.) It’s because they’re from the east coast and have no interest in protecting him.
Unlike the corn pone cheesehead pussy Favre is used to, it takes a little more than the promise of a Budweiser and a bowl of pretzels to get these women to come to a hotel, drop their knickers, and keep quiet about it. It’s no wonder the dude left New York so fast. He can’t have gotten laid more than a handful of times in the 6 months he was in town.
I don’t know if Brett Favre has designs on getting laid again, but if he does, I suggest he redirect his efforts towards his eternally patient wife or move back to Wisconsin. It’s the only way anyone will be remotely impressed with what he has to offer. “ Kinda of lonely tonight. I guess I have bad intentions.” Who says that? It sounds like some dialogue straight out of a soft core porn on Cinemax.
Breaking news from the Daily Mail: Hugh Hefner is the Viagra-taking warden of a squalid sex prison. Not only that, he plies the women in his harem with quaaludes and Dom Perignon so they won’t be squeamish about bouncing on his ancient, marshmallow balls.
I’ll admit, I’m shocked. Where is Hef getting quaaludes? Did he stockpile them in 1978? And if so, did Scarface teach him nothing? Everyone knows that a woman hopped up on ludes will love you for a little while, but, eventually, she won’t fuck you anymore because she’s in a coma.
In any case, Izabella St. James, a former Playmate and author of Bunny Tales: Behind the Closed Doors of the Playboy Mansion, claims that Hef’s den of iniquity is a grubby world where girlfriends live in bedrooms with old, mismatched furniture and stained mattresses and sheets. Adding insult to injury, they are required to clean up their own dogs’ poo and must make 9:00 pm curfews, survive on $1,000 weekly cash allowances (plus free room and board, plastic surgery, etc.), meet celebrities, go to clubs, and engage in twice-weekly orgies with Hef – a sexual dead fish.
“If we’d been out of town for any reason and missed one of the official ‘going out’ nights, he wouldn’t want to give us the allowance. He used it as a weapon… Little did I realize that by moving into the mansion I was losing all the freedom I associated with the Playboy lifestyle.”
Hugh Hefner treats these twats better than I ever would. Their job isn’t to live the Playboy lifestyle. Their job is to fulfill a dying illusion for their employer and the hard cocks who troll the grounds and read his magazines. How one doesn’t limit their expectations going in to a situation like this is beyond me. Then again, how one doesn’t realise she’s a high priced whore going in to a situation like this is something I can’t begin to fathom.
Being a Playboy girlfriend isn’t some no-strings attached operation where you receive $52,000 tax-free cash and an endless list of prizes by doing nothing in return. Like most things in our world, it is a business transaction. And some of the stipulations in that transaction are living in Hefner’s time capsule mansion, abiding by his parental rules, and having sex with him. It could be worse. The old fool is so decrepit that he has to overdose on Viagra just to avoid peeing on his slippers, which means you saddle up less times in a year than most whores do in a month. Don’t like it? Pack your bags.
But for a pneumatic slut with little self-esteem, even fewer prospects, and an Elektra complex, it doesn’t sound like a bad gig. Something tells me Izabella St. James agrees, but is so bitter that all she got from the arrangement was new set of tits instead of temporary fame and an unsustainable fortune a la Kendra Wilkinson, she’s decided to get even.
Sorry to break it to ya honey, but we already knew that Hugh Hefner was a dirty old man who paid gold digging blondes to fuck him and help him promote his image, and guess what? We still don’t care. Do everyone a favour and throw yourself off a bridge. You’re of no use to us.
Five minutes ago, I decided to write here again. Three minutes ago, I realised my version of Movable Type is two-plus years out of date. Whoops. If the site breaks during the upgrade, cross your fingers that I’m smart enough to figure out how to fix it.
Update: Totally broke it. You can look at the front page though! w00t?
Update 2: So the site now works – for the most part. The monthly archives are completely jacked, and if you arrive here via Google or another search engine, you could encounter everything from “page not found” to a previous incarnation of my site that lives on another database.
I’d like to say that I’m making these changes to enhance your user experience, but that’s nothing but lies. None of this was truly necessary. I liken my blog adjustments to sitting around the house at 2 am and getting the sudden urge to rearrange the furniture. You move a lamp and think about a new place for a table, and the next thing you know, the sun has risen and set on you three times and you still aren’t done.
From 2005 – 2008, I celebrated Festivus at my favorite blog The Airing of Grievances. But time took its toll on the old girl, and by the time Festivus 2009 rolled around, the AofG was no longer the mighty beast of awesome I’d come to know and love. So I checked out of the game. Well, a couple days ago, a request came through my inbox and I said what the hell. I returned to the AofG to bitch today, which means, obviously, I’ve returned to my own blog as well.
ESPN: You are some triflin motherfuckers. So Rex Ryan has a foot fetish. He and his wife even get down with BDSM and swingers. Big fucking deal. Does it affect the New York Jets? No. Does it affect his job performance? Please. Does it have any impact on the NFL? Not at all. So why do you have anything to say about it? You had no trouble going silent on Ben Roethlisberger’s sexual assault allegations, but ensuring that Sports Nation knows that the NFL and the Jets consider this a personal matter we should all fuck off from is news? Fuck that. You’re Deadspin with a larger staff, better videos, and a played out Bill Simmons. The sooner someone drops a bomb on Bristol, the better off the world will be.
Chris Berman: I hate you with the fire of 10,000 suns. And no, it’s not because your lack of preparation causes you to stutter and stammer while reading the teleprompter; or that your cultural knowledge was cryogenically frozen around the time Tears for Fears broke up; or even because you’re so fat that you can’t say more than five words without descending into a breathless grumble.
FUUUUCK-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK you. My left breast has more substance. You are an automatic mute; a clown; a jester; a jock sniffing beached whale in a Men’s Warehouse suit whom Greenpeace needs to tow back to sea. Sports coverage is buried in the avalanche of your journalistic inadequacies, you fat, vaudevillian fuck, and it’ll likely never recover. Die.
Jenn Sterger: While I enjoyed your near-botched shaming of True Grit Favre, why don’t you and your gold digging cock socket do some real philanthropic work and mount Chris Berman? He’ll die of a coronary, and I will celebrate you forever as the Whore of Occasional Good Deeds. It’s win-win.
Size-challenged men who send pics of their junk: If you’re attempting to seduce someone with this method, logic dictates that you send shots of your business at its largest, hardest, and most impressive. But most men aren’t logical, are they? Instead of fluffing up and showing off a piece that’s ready to do work and turn us out, too many of you send pictures of flaccid, wounded turtle cock and wonder why we aren’t turned on. It’s as if you’re saying to yourselves, "She’s been a little resistant. How can I fix it? Ah, yes – a picture of my dick. It’s only four inches long and looks like an enlarged thumb, but if I get it at the right angle…" Sorry (Brett), but no. A rule of thumb to all you romantic gentlemen out there: show us something we can use. If your stock looks like it’d be at home with a little relish, mustard, and a bun, put it away.
The AofG: This site was a must visit for years, unlocking the magic on various topics five or six times a week. What happened? Your demise makes me sad, and it must become great again. Cozmo? Jackie Chiles? Frank? Are you out there? Please do something. I want to live here again.
My man’s lesbian assistant: You asked your boss to donate sperm to you and your partner three weeks after he found out he’s going to be a father. Then you told him that I should contact you if I have any questions or concerns. Bitch, are you crazy? This isn’t a fucking sorority. His sperm is claimed, spoken for, taken. It flies my flag. So you and Vanessa need to take your asses to the sperm bank, Vietnam, or a foster home, because the only person having his babies on this planet is me. "We’d like to use your sperm." I ought to kick you in the goddamn neck.
Ron Washington: You do realize Neftali Feliz was in your bullpen, right? He of the 2.73 ERA, .176 opponents’ batting average, and 71/18 K/BB ratio in 69 innings? Since you kept running out Darren Oliver – a corpse with pubic hairs older than you – I wasn’t sure. Oh wait, you’re the type of fool who snorts up week-old cocaine when there’s a purer, fresher batch wasting away right in front of you. Darren Oliver makes perfect sense.
England World Cup team: God save the Queen, huh? For the fifth time in 10 years, you have shamed our nation. Eat a hot bowl of dicks, you preening, gutless slags. I would rather England quit footballing all together than see any of you on a pitch in Her Majesty’s colours again. You disgust me.
Robert Green: Yes, I’m still mad at you. I’m also wondering why someone has yet to throw you down a well and fill it with hot tar and bricks. I’d do it myself but I don’t know where you live.
Arsenal Football Club: No inspiration, no discipline, no passion, no glory. Oh to be a Gooner.
Arsene Wenger: Some say that Arsenal can’t play beautiful football and win silverware. I disagree. It’s a very real possibility, but do you know what stands in our way? You. We don’t have a viable keeper, a true striker, or any experienced leadership because you sold it all away and replaced it with fetuses. What’s that, you say? Cesc can lead us? Please. Cesc couldn’t lead this squad of children into a hole in the ground.
"That was the big difference that played in our heads," said Fabregas, after ManUre humiliated us. "Sometimes we seem scared of losing these big games. We don’t really go for it and we’re tempted to drop back and see what the opposition will do."
Oh Captain, my Captain. Thanks for guiding the troops. The thing is, Arsene, I’d pray for the board to force you into action instead of allowing you to sit untouched in your ivory tower of footballing genius, but what good would it do? If you had to act, all of your buys would be 15 years old still sucking on their mamas’ teets. "Our new captain has acne and isn’t old enough to drive? That sounds about right, Arsene." Fucker.
My unborn child: Being pregnant is crap. These are supposed to be the most magical 10 months of my life, so this opinion probably makes me a bad mother. There have been magical moments, mind you. I cried when we heard your heartbeat for the first time and again when we watched you punch and kick like a lunatic before relaxing to suck your thumb during the ultrasound. But apart from those amazing 20 minutes and my ramped up sex drive, I’m in a bad way.
If I’m not peeing, I’m nauseated, and if I’m not nauseated, I’m playing chicken with your father’s hands, which involuntarily grab at my boobs even though I keep reminding him that my chest feels like it’s been pummeled by large, hot rocks. My OBGYN banned me from surfing until you’re born (an understandable yet soul-crushing edict), a scene in the Boardwalk Empire finale made me cry, and random people touch my stomach without asking.
However, I now realize my grievance shouldn’t be addressed to you but
to your father – the guy whose enthusiastic sperm beat the pill; the guy who – much to my extreme dismay – already bought you Celtics onesies and then suggested your middle name be Truth; the guy who runs around dropping "we this" and "we that" as if he also has a human being growing in his body and jumping on his bladder. Some days all of this makes me want to knock his cheery ass out. Needless to say, Baby Flash, today is one of those days.
Happy Festivus, one and all!
You’d think someone with 27 touchdowns, 29 interceptions, and a 55.9 career completion percentage would get a little more respect — especially from the league that employs him.
Those are the only reasonable explanations for what happened in the NFL Draft last night. No, I’m not talking about Josh McDaniels scoring an F minus at the Bill Belichick School of Outsmarting Everybody in the Room. I’m talking about the Oakland Raiders breaking from its commitment to exasperating foolishness by picking Rolando McClain, a 6’3, 254 lb. beast out of Alabama.
With the best DTs (a desperate need) off the board, it was an incredibly logical and intelligent move. McClain’s not a project or the guy with the fastest 40 at the combine. He’s a real football player – a difference maker who rocks an off the charts football IQ that allowed him to keep the Alabama defense running like a well oiled machine. I have no doubt that he has the talent not only to step in and have an immediate impact on a tissue-soft run defense but also to become the centerpiece of a great one.
It’s enough to make a penitent, weary fan at her wit’s end zip over to the NFL Shop and pick up her first jersey since Tim Brown retired. Truth be told, I very nearly did, and then I remembered something: as a member of the Oakland Raiders, there’s an 80/20 chance that Rolando McClain’s career is over before it even has a chance to begin.
The pollyannas amongst us might believe that this decisive, abnormally prudent selection is a sign of great things to come but I’m not buying it. Tom Cable is still the coach, Stay-Puft Russell is still the quarterback and Al Davis still lives. Until those things change, this organization will continue to be a backwards place where talent goes to die. And for a guy as seemingly awesome as Rolando McClain, that’s just not fair.
So Tiger Woods is making his triumphant return to sport at Augusta. Fantastic news, really. Tournament sponsors and networks get their ratings; tens of millions will watch a round of golf without waking up 3 hours later in a puddle of their own drool; and Phil Mickelson gets a valid reason for that “No one knows I just took it up the arse” look he always has on his face. We’re all winners.
As such, the only thing that can spoil the 2010 Masters is mind-numbing commentary about Tiger’s time away from the game and how that’s affected his play, the sport itself and, really, the world at large. Even though all of that has been covered ad nauseam since last December, it’s all we’re going to get from Thursday to Red Shirt Sunday (even if Tiger doesn’t make the cut). Sure, they’ll try to even things out by mentioning Camilo Villegas’ new haircut and making remarks about Phil Mickelson’s banned Ping fiasco, but by and large, we’re effed.
So like any immature drunkard, I have devised this simple yet effective game for surviving the Masters (or dying in the middle of it).
Take a shot or chug any time the following is said:
I have an inkling that Tiger will tee it up at Bay Hill, so there’ll be an opportunity to get my body acclimated to this level of abuse. But if that doesn’t happen, I’d really appreciate it if one of you could be a pal and call the paramedics for me around 8 pm on the first day of play.
No, that didn’t actually happen. Wayne Rooney scored his 100th goal in the Prem against Arsenal, the second score in a horrific 3-1 shellacking of the Gooners that left me sad and nauseated, but don’t tell Sports Illustrated that.
I’m picking nits here but this carelessness is not only annoying, it also illustrates just why football will never gain a true foothold in American culture. The one medium that claims to do all it can to improve the game’s popularity in the States (and the only one with the power to do so) can’t even pull together the effort required to generate an accurate headline. And it’s not just any headline. It’s one that covers a massive accomplishment from one of the world’s best players who happens to play in one of the world’s best leagues.
Further, it was in the top stories for hours before cycling off the page, and in all that time, no one noticed. Or maybe they thought no one would notice who actually cared. Either way, it’s ridiculous.
When Kobe Bryant scored his 20,000th point against the Knicks, the headline didn’t read Celtics. When Ken Griffey Jr joined the 500 Home Run Club against the Cardinals, the headline didn’t claim it was the Cubs. I know not many people care about football in the States and the media doesn’t take it particularly seriously but have some respect. Chelsea and Arsenal have achieved too much in the world of football to be treated as interchangeable afterthoughts by some web editor who can’t be bothered to read the article to which he’s linking.