I’ve been sleeping for the last 15 hours but I’ve been doing a lot of sleeping lately, so hopefully this isn’t all that alarming… I don’t even know why I’m telling you this… Moving on.
I spent the bulk of my Sunday in Indianapolis watching the 89th Indy 500. I was raised primarily on F-1 racing but my dad, Zayde, and Uncle Max really like the 500 and this is the 11th time they’ve taken me along. And in 11 visits, there are maybe two races that I can remember as being more exciting. The 1989 wheel-to-wheel duel between Emerson Fittipaldi and Al Unser, Jr. comes to mind, as well as the ’92 photofinish between Unser, Jr. and Scott Goodyear. I was 7 and 10 in those years and remember both battles like they were yesterday. But on the whole, the 200 laps of racing has been boring enough (for me), that I often relied on books, my Game Boy, or other devices like binoculars [redneck watching is highly enjoyable for me] for entertainment until the final laps. But this year, for obvious reasons, things were different.
I think it’s fair to say that I wanted to see Danica Patrick win just as much as I simply wanted to watch a woman race that could actually contend. I’m not old enough to have seen Janet Guthrie race but I’ve endured multiple performances by Sarah Fisher and Lyn St. James. I think it’s fair to say that they raced in mediocrity, always destined to finish in the middle of the pack or not at all. I remember the 1998 race where they actually collided to take one another out of the race. It was a pathetic moment, to say the least. But the truly pathetic thing is that they were never contenders and no one really expected them to be… just being in the race was enough. Way to go, ladies! You got in and that’s saying something. Fuck that. I’ll be honest.. in a lot of ways, I preferred they not be in the race at all. That sounds like an odd comment coming from another woman but it doesn’t do “the cause” much good when your sole representative really can’t hack it in the field. To make a loose analogy, Jackie Robinson couldn’t enter major league baseball and just be an ordinary, run of the mill ball player. He had to be one of the best, he had to set the world on fire. Doing otherwise would have set back the infusion of blacks into baseball 20 years. To break into a sport or field in which you are the minority requires one to be twice as good, twice as fast, twice as sharp. And finally, with Danica Patrick, there is a woman that can legitimately mix it up with the best – not for 75 laps but for the entire 200. It’s about time. A braindead rookie mistake in the pits saw her fall from 4th to 16, and she fought back admirably, only to lose the nose and wing of her car in a spin on the Turn 4. Somehow though, she came through relatively unscathed and eventually took the lead in an impressive display of grit, masterful racing, and impressive strategy. The only disappointing moment on Sunday was the collective realization that Bobby Rahal’s gamble on her fuel supply failed. She was passed 3 times in a lap and a half for a 4th place finish. But considering the madness she endured throughout the race, I can’t say any other driver, with the exception of winner, Dan Wheldon, had a better performance.
From green flag to checkered, it was one helluva race, boasting 27 lead changes and an English victor. But one thing is certain – Danica Patrick will win this race sooner than later… I just hope I’m there to see it. I also hope Robby Gordon’s there as well, racing the Jenny Craig car.
Good on, Indy.. Good show.
Now that I’m home for the summer, it’s my responsibility to take my nephew to gymnastics practice every day. He’s the love of my life, so I’m all about taking him here, there, and everywhere. Needless to say, we do a lot of aunt-nephew bonding. A part of that is our post-practice ritual of hitting Baskin Robbins, Cold Stone, or Dairy Queen and then playing games and watching cartoons after returning home.
I was on my way out earlier this afternoon when my cousin stopped by and opted to come along. I guess after 8 straight hours of MVP 2005, he was looking for a change in scenery.
We scooped up the little man and aside from a minor traffic entanglement with a black Silverado that insisted on battling me for road position (on a 3 lane highway), the drive was rather tame.
Alonso and I went back and forth about the surging Marcus Giles while my nephew entertained himself with road signs. But then he asked, “How do you say o-t-h-e-r?” “That word is other.” “Other?” “The t-h make a thhh sound, you see?” “Yes! Thhhhhhh!! Thhhhhhhh!!” It’s a good thing I’m around since he misses Sesame Street every day. Alonso and I continued our conversation but in the background, I heard, “My… my… othhhhhher…. what’s t-o-y?” “Toy” “Ohhh! Toy has a… sss..ssss……….? How do you say s-e-t?” “That’s set, buddy. Set.” “Set!” I patted him on the head. “Of… t..t..tiiiii..tiiiiii….”
“My other toy has a set of tits!”
As I internalized the words just uttered by my precious nephew, a wave of shock and horror fell over me. He just said the word “tits.” And worse, he was still saying it.. “tits tits tits tits!!! That’s fun!!!”
I told him to stop but he wouldn’t. He clapped and said tits. Laughed and said tits. Tits tits tits. I asked him, in my most stern coolest aunt in the universe tone, where he’d heard such a thing.
“Duh, the black truck.” And sure enough, there it was, affixed to the tinted cab window in white block print: My Other Toy Has A Set of Tits. I resolved right then to pull alongside the Silverado and throw out my best evil stare… I’d leave it to Alonso to provide the childish, obscene gestures.
But before I could.. “Aunt Flash?” I looked at him, unable to imagine what could possibly come next. “What’s tits?” I nearly drove off the road. Wasn’t this a conversation his mother or father should be having with him? Should I just ignore him?? Why me? I didn’t hear the word tits until I was at least 8 and it was when my dad negligently allowed me to watch Beverly Hills Cop 2 with him and his buddies when my mom wasn’t home… I learned a lot of words that day. But still! I don’t know how these developmental issues work and the last thing I want to do is ruin him for life. Knowing my luck, he’d say it everywhere and when asked where he learned such a word, he’d happily clap and shout, “Aunt Flash!”
It was then that Alonso piped in from the backseat, “Hey Ro, tits are breasts. Everyone has them. You, me, everyone!” “What’s breasts?” Alonso reached his hand forward and pointed his index finger at my right one… “That’s one right there!” “Ohhh, mommy has those!”
I pulled the car over… Immediately.
After getting out, I encouraged Alonso to join me on the roadside. When he did, I beat him in the head and body until he cowered in the grass. Then I got back in the car, declared a quiet time, swung by the Dairy Queen drive thru, and headed home. We pulled into the garage around the same time my dad and brother, clad only in shorts and shoes, walked outside. Alejandro climbed out the car and took off towards my father, arms stretched to the sky, and full of excitement…
“Ohhhh, it’s my hombrito!”
“Papa! I see your tits.”
“And they are hard like rocks!”
We’ll be taking a different post-practice route tomorrow afternoon. I’m not taking any more chances.
Seattle is no stranger to mediocrity and unrealized expectations. They’re the home of the Seahawks, the Mariners, and the Supersonics, who, until Ray Allen showed up, would wet themselves if the Jailblazers so much as breathed in their general direction. So it should be no surprise to you that in the month of May, Ichiro, Adrian Beltre, and the Seattle Mariners are 3-10 and have scored a paltry 56 runs to their opponents’ 77.
Ironically, the Confucius for mind-boggling inconsistency and humiliating defeat threw out the first pitch for their game against the BoSox last Saturday. But alas, they were thwarted yet again, as the pigskin sage left his patented effect on the game …
After a pitcher’s duel through the first 3 innings, the Mariners managed to eek ahead, finding themselves with a 3-1 lead in the bottom of the 6th inning. Sadly (and almost appropriately), this lead was short-lived, as the Mariners were promptly blown out of Safeco Field – the victims of a 5-run shelling that all but ended the game.
At first I wondered if that outcome was inevitable given the curse put on the game when the first pitch was thrown… but ya know something? Maybe the Mariners should look on the bright side… Unlike some institutions graced by the futile presence of the kindest CEO on the collegiate gridiron, it took Seattle 13 games and nearly 2 weeks to be outscored by 21…
The heart and soul of ManUre has been sold to the devi-, er, an American. Pardon me while I laugh.
It makes me positively giddy that Malcolm Glazer, the owner of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, has taken majority ownership of Man U (71.8% to be exact) and knows absolutely nothing about football. Apparently Joel, his son, fellow football ignoramus, and “avid fan”, will run the day-to-day operations of the club and, in so doing, put the club into the red (pardon the pun).
On one hand, I’m worried. Though I hate United with every fibre of my being and will continue to do so until the day I die and get shipped off to hell (where I’ll continue to hate them), they are an English football institution that should never be tampered with in such an obscene manner.
I want the Red Devils to meet their demise at the feet of The Arsenal and not some American swooping in to satiate his lust for green and power. It won’t be long before the club is delisted from the London Stock Exchange, ticket prices soar, all debt taken on in this gargantuan deal is transferred to the club, and Old Trafford is sold off to the highest bidder.
Fans are threatening to boycott games and season tickets, while sorry saps like Fergie and Gil could be left for dead. This is a truly sad day for football. I suppose the only “good” thing that can result from this nonsense is more Red Devil merchandise sold on this side of the pond. While idiots that don’t know anything will say, “But that’s good exposure for soccer!” I say, sod off.
90% of Man U fans aren’t good for anybody… they’re much like your run of the mill Yankee (also acceptable fill-ins: Notre Dame, Lakers, Duke, Red Wings) fan that 1) doesn’t realize the Bombers exist until October when it’s cool to be a fan and you get to sport a Yankee knit cap, 2) is insufferable, fairweather, ignorant and has two abilities: pointing out 26 and 1918, or 3) roots for the Yanks because Derek Jeter and A-Rod are hot [See: David Beckham].
But let me stop. I’m starting to sound like a sobbing United tart and as a respectable Britican woman, that is simply unacceptable.
For now, let’s take some time to rejoice in their pain:
Weep, you sorry bastards, weep!!! Let the lesson be learned: You should have cheered for The Arsenal!
All things bright and beautiful
All creatures great and small
Arsenal will win the FA Cup and Man U won’t win fuck all
Cos we are the Arsenal and we are the best
We are the Arsenal so fuck all the rest
Lebron James just kicked his agents, Aaron and Eric Goodwin, to the curb. I guess that’s what you do after a 3-year relationship that, thanks to a $90M Nike contract and $45M in additional endorsements, makes you the 4th-highest-paid athlete endorser in the world behind Tiger Woods, Michael Schumacher, and David Beckham. What a bunch of fuckin’ chumps! Hey Aaron, Eric! Nice work… You call yourselves agents. Shame on you.
“I’m stunned by everything that is happening,” Aaron Goodwin said. “We did everything for Lebron to help mold him off the court and become the next big icon in sports. If what we did over the past two years led him to believe that he no longer needs an agent, then I guess we didn’t do too badly.” … Aaron Goodwin said there was “no indication from Lebron that he was unhappy.”
But in all seriousness, this is a big shame, indeed! The Brothers Goodwin aren’t being replaced by major players like David Falk, Arn Tellum, IMG, SFX, or hell, even Arliss. No sir. While on the brink of brokering a deal with McDonald’s, these schmoes went down like a hookers with a deadline to Lebron’s highschool teammate and confidant, Maverick Carter (insert Top Gun joke here), and Def Jam Records.
I’ll say that again… Def Jam Records.
Now, I’m not trying to knock the godfather of hip-hop. As an entrepreneur, Russell Simmons is nothing short of phenomenal. He forged his empire, incubating and developing a vast array of businesses on the simple premise that hip hop music and culture has a commercial appeal unlike any other across the United States and around the world. As hip hop blossomed in Iowa, Connecticut, and Paris, so too did his wealth, power, and influence. But what in the hell does any of that have to do with basketball or even sports? While in a lot of ways, business is business, I think it’s fair to say that music deals and clothing lines are entirely different monsters from the game of free agent contracts and endorsements. Is Def Jam gonna hook up Lebron’s new team with stylized, off-court Phat Farm gear? Will they promise to boot DMX from the label the next time he makes another one of those “Steven Seagal IS…” disasters in exchange for getting Lebron extra dollars? [A simple move like that would not only help Lebron but also help society as a whole. No one needs more Seagal or his "Commando"-caliber bad dialogue. I recently caught about 20 minutes of one of his suckages on UPN, where some sad sack "star" delivered a sequence of moving lines in a rather villainous tone. I imagined how he agonized over the text, going through the gamut of emotions that could appropriately convey the beauty of this silver screen moment. Would he opt for ferocity or a calculated cool? Would he be playful or somehow filled with regret? When it's time for the take, he notices that his reflection lays cleanly on the microwave window. He takes a fleeting glance. And then, with beads of sweat on his brow, and a bottled water in hand, he delivers it... "I'm gonna take you to the bank, Senator Trent. To the blood bank!" Magic. Magic that must be stopped] Would conflicts of interest arise with Jay-Z? He’s not only a Def-Jam president, he also shares ownership of the New York Nets.
All my mindless babbling aside, what this comes down to is that I’m failing to see how this is an intelligent move. I wish Lebron all the luck in the world but I fear that this is a beginning of a whole new King James. He’s maintained a pretty reasonable image since leaving the scandals of high school but when your entourage starts running your roost, forget it. All we can hope for, I guess, is that joining the Def Jam family won’t mean a rap career is on the horizon. Frankly, that’d be worse than more Seagal.
National Masturbation Day’s roots extend as far back as 1995, when a San Francisco sex shop called Good Vibrations held an AIDS/HIV fundraiser that encouraged sponsors to donate money for every minute they spent masturbating on May 7.
I’m sure some of you “2 minutes is all I need” types could escape the day on the cheap but I like to enjoy myself. I like to savor the experience. And I know that I’m too much of a tightwad to be on the hook for $45 to some sex shop. Good thing May is National Masturbation Month… I’d hate to miss out on the festivities.
The amusing thing, to me at least, is that the day
comes arrives one day before Mother’s Day. I hate to be crass [I don't really but I have to say that for some of my more sensitive readers] but imagine how many potential yous were recklessly abandoned before your father happened upon a kindly woman and turned her into your mother.
Good luck with that nausea
I don’t know what to say… other than, Goddamn. You keep on rockin out, Cadet. Those skills may not help you with the F-15 or whatever high-tech fighter is out when you get going but I’m sure there’s a woman out there that’s gonna love the way you get down. Good luck to ya, buddy.
I’ve never wished ill will on the Cleveland Browns. How can you? It’s like hoping the kid with down syndrome trips. But due to certain circumstances, I try to pull for them when I can. So when the Browns first drafted “a fuckin soldjah,” I cringed but hoped it would work out. When he held out for 12 days in an effort to secure a deal similar to Charles Rogers’ (even though he’s a rookie that plays a position about as sexy as a dented ’78 Chevy Nova), I continued hoping for the best. Then, during non-contact 7 on 7s, he blew up Roosevelt Williams.
And then, having never taken a snap in the NFL or knowing what it truly takes to prepare for a battle on the professional gridiron, he challenged his teammates to match his level of aggression. I don’t know about Browns fans but in my humble opinion, Junior’s opportunities to redeem himself from a history of ego-driven histrionics and idiocy were well exhausted.
Could I root for Cleveland while simultaneously hoping for repeated beatdowns from veterans and Ray Lewis doing that epileptic fit dance all over Winslow’s face? Not a chance. This guy was supposed to open up the Browns offense. If Cleveland does well, he’s the likely cause. I just couldn’t live with that. Besides, it’s much easier to root for a player and against his team than the other way around. Luckily, the Dallas Cowboys took care of that for me:
CLEVELAND (Sept. 20, 2004) — Kellen Winslow Jr. broke his right leg during the Cleveland Browns’ loss against Dallas and is expected to miss a major portion of his rookie season. The Browns said the tight end has a broken fibula. Typically, the injury will sideline a player for 6-to-8 weeks.
What a fascinating turn of events. Thanks, Dallas! I imagine he spent the whole winter rehabbing and recovering, preparing himself for a breakout sophomore season – The Chosen One cometh. And then:
WESTLAKE, Ohio (May 2, 2005) — Browns tight end Kellen Winslow sustained internal injuries when he was thrown from a motorcycle, the team said. Winslow, who missed most of last season with a broken right leg, also has swelling in his right shoulder and right knee. The extent of those injuries won’t be known until further tests are performed and the swelling subsides. The Browns didn’t provide details of Winslow’s internal injuries, but said they are not life-threatening. Winslow had complained of chest pains after he was injured May 1. Winslow is being treated at the Cleveland Clinic by the team’s medical staff, Browns spokesman Bill Bonsiewicz said. He will be hospitalized overnight and there is no timetable for his release, the team said.
What? How stupid do you have to be to ride a motorcycle at 35 mph in A PARKING LOT? Who could have imagined that a curb would jump out in his way and send him flying over his handlebars? (pre-crash video)
The 21-year-old Winslow was wearing a helmet, but it wasn’t strapped on and flew off his head… He landed in a landscaped area at the edge of the parking lot, falling hard enough to tear out a small tree… He was testing the bike out learning to ride.
Somebody oughta put this braintrust out of his misery, but what more can you expect from a Miami Hurricane? After two knee surgeries, it’s always advisable to learn how to ride crotch rockets in a parking lot, especially when you wear a helmet and don’t strap it on. He’d have had as much protection with a birthday hat from Chuck E. Cheese.
Were I the Browns, I’d be suing his dumb ass for breach of contract. This guy is a complete disaster and he’ll be nothing but trouble for the rest of his NFL career…
Maybe the Raiders will trade for him.
Penelepe Cruz regrets grabbing pal, Salma Hayek’s, backside at a recent press conference for their new movie, Banditas. “I grabbed Salma’s ass just to keep things moving, because everyone was a little slow. And, of course, the energy changed when I did that.”
That wasn’t a change in energy, Penelope. That was the stirring breeze created by 40 simultaneous hard-ons. To make matters more interesting, Cruz also insists that she had the flu, which in turn, made her delirious and that is what really what caused her hand to linger.
Hmm… First she’s keeping things moving and then she has the flu. Now, I’ve had the flu many a time. It causes confusion, delusion, and hallucination. It’s a mad devil. I thought my Yankees hat was flying once. Turns out one of my roommates was walking out of my room with it on his head. There was another time when I was sure my 3 foot plush Tigger doll was talking to me – and only me. But I also had a 103 degree temperature and was completely out of my mind, forgetting that whenever you touch Tigger’s chest, he spouts out any one of 12 available phrases. “IIIIII’M TIGGER!” left me relatively frightened for hours.
But through all these insane moments, never have I reached out to caress boobs, tubes, chests, or butts in a delirious fog. Those things aren’t on your mind when you’re delirious! Remember when Dumbo got drunk at the circus? THAT’s what being delirious is like. Now, if the grabbing of butts while drunk with delirium is, in fact, a legitimate phenomenon, then I offer profuse apologies to anyone that’s done such a thing to me and slurred, “Whoa! Was that your ass? My bad… I’m SO drunk!” Hey, it’s a-okay. You were delirious.
“There are magazine covers in Mexico describing us as these lesbians because of that. A lot of people were saying we were lovers.”
Perish the thought. I guess it’s only fair that we assume that Penelope is the postergirl for this incredible, delirious ass-grabbing affliction… Either that or she felt queasy and needed a firm, round support structure to steady her balance. I mean, it certainly couldn’t be that Salma Hayek has a ridiculously incredible ass and anyone, be they gay or straight, would like to cop a feel.
Fess up Penelope. You know you liked it.
This stopped being funny about a month ago but I’m curious to see what nitwit thinks this domain is cool enough to buy… I imagine it’s the same one that came up with the Ron Mexico Name Generator.