As most of you are aware, I’ve participated in the Festivus celebration over at Airing of Grievances for the last 4 or 5 years. Well this year, they held Festivus about 5 days early, which seemed to damper the enthusiasm a bit.. but well meh. Since this blog is one continuous aired grievance where I rarely say anything positive, you might find some of it a bit familiar
To Bernie Madoff: The world of finance was built on shameless, unapologetic thievery. But the rogue and the crooked have nothing on your shenanigans, you fraudulent, traitorous cunt. You are a rapacious, wild animal that preyed upon your own people under the guise of tzedakah. You’ve victimized countless charities and spiked another rise in anti-semitism yet you still have the audacity to walk the streets of Manhattan with that smug, shit-eating grin.
Is it because you know you should be in shackles? Is it because you squirreled away a large portion of the funds and confessed to provide cover? Or is it because you’re wearing a bulletproof vest under that $5000 Burberry coat and you think no one can touch you? Something tells me it’s all of the above.
If it were up to me, I’d take it to you Rikers-style with my strap-on of justice before dragging you to an alley, beating you with chains and bamboo shoots and throwing you into a lion’s den. Let’s see how smug you’d be then. Now, I’m not foolish enough to believe this will ever happen, so I’m going to pin my hopes on the goyim being right about the existence of Hell. Because if they are, I’m pretty sure you’ll be immersed to your neck in the ice of Cocytus for the rest of eternity. When G-d shuffles you loose the mortal coil and dumps you in the 9th Circle, tell Cain that we all said hello.
To Madoff "Victims" (the individuals): You followed that Pied Piper down the primrose path and straight off the cliff and now you want someone to feel sorry for you? Why? Because now your kid has to go to Rutgers and you’ll have to trade in the Bentley for a Jetta? Eat a fucking dick. When common sense advised that you look beneath the hood, you put greed on autopilot and bought another home in Montauk. And it’s not like you battled with that decision. It was easy for you. Why? Because you were making money. Oh, and because Bernie was a member of the Tribe and your 98-year-old Zayde thought he was a nice guy. If there was any justice in this world, you’d be spending next Hanukkah working as greeters at Wal-Mart. Chumps.
To Congress: Shame on you. You had a real chance to not only help the people of Detroit but NFL fans at large by forcing the Ford family to give up ownership of the Lions and Ford Field before allowing them to visit Capital Hill. What’d you do instead? You bitched about private planes. I know you people get paid to drop the ball and piss your collective pants at the site of union officials but have a little sack. If I went to Detroit and ran a campaign called "Oust the Fords from Football" I’d be elected in a landslide and wouldn’t be sweating the possibility of some backwoods schmuck like Ron Gettelfinger screwing me out of an election.
To Rod Blagojevich: Here’s a tip: teabagging the constituency is a right reserved for charming, handsome men, not a man that allows his face to turn him into the margarine to John Travolta’s cross-dressing butter. Know your place.
To Al Davis: I’m sick of this emotional abuse. Why do you treat me this way? Why do you make me think I don’t deserve you? Am I not pretty enough? Is it my hips? I bet you didn’t even know that I flirted with another team this year. Yeah, that’s right. I had a date with the San Diego Chargers when you were out of town but then Norv Turner showed up and I had to run off to vomit… then I wept in shame I still can’t believe I got so emotional about it but I guess that’s what happens when you try to cheat on someone you love that doesn’t love you back.
To PETA: Breast milk for ice cream? Is this some type of self-sabotage? It’s like you’ve gotten on your knees to beg us to blow you off. Your primary mouthpieces are porn stars, C-list actresses and a woman whose vagina could’ve hidden Roger Clemens and his ego from the Senate and still had room to accommodate Tommy Lee’s forearm-sized penis.
These women can’t even string 8 words together. All they can do is lie in a sexy repose and remind us that they’d "rather go naked than wear fur" and we should feel that way too. I’ve got a message for you silly broads – we already do! Being naked is awesome. It’s liberating. It’s divine. And it’s the best way to feel the breeze. Fuck off until you say something that we can take seriously. Breast milk in ice cream. Someone oughta knock you out.
To Cristina Ronaldo: Football has long fought for credibility in America, a pathalogically hypermasculine country where "real men" speak with "you-talkin’-ta-me" pugnacity and do pushups with their dicks. And yet here you are, the unofficial ambassador of our sport, prancing around Hollywood with shaved legs, booty shorts and a fauxhawk. Are you insane?
Look, the footballing world knows that you’re a lothario with a penchant for hookers but Americans do not, soon they’ll come off David Beckham’s fraudulent sack to anoint you as the new role model for their little punters. And when they see you flaming out all over Europe with your self-tanner, crotch-hugging Pepe jeans and Louis Vuitton man purse, they will snatch their kids off the pitches and run for the hills.
You are the greatest talent of a generation; not one of Ricky Martin’s dancers. Get your act together, you diving puss-in-boots.
To Beyonce Knowles: The crimes: –
(On having an alter-ego with a name like a bootleg drag queen) – "I have someone else that takes over when it’s time for me to work and when I’m on stage, this alter ego that I’ve created that kind of protects me and who I really am. Sasha Fierce is the fun, more sensual, more aggressive, more outspoken side and more glamorous side that comes out when I’m working and when I’m on the stage."
- (On being a pop star) – "There is a time limit on being a pop star, yes. Being a legend, an icon? Absolutely not. I’m over being a pop star. I don’t wanna be a hot girl. I wanna be iconic. And I feel like I’ve accomplished a lot. I feel like I’m highly respected, which is more important than any award or any amount of records. And I feel like there comes a point when being a pop star is not enough."
- (On the "B’Phone" by Samsung) – "When I was 10, I recorded a song called ’632-5792′ — a phone number. It’s a little embarrassing but it’s cute. There’s a recording of that song on the phone exclusively for my fans. I wanted to make sure people got a feel for who I really am. It’s only through this phone that you can get this close to my life."
Bitches like you make me wish I carried around a floppy dildo that I could pull o
ut of a hip holster and smack people with whenever the need arose. I don’t think I’m alone in saying that you are in serious need of a cock punch. A fierce cock punch. To the face. It’s time you and your busted weaves got a little street justice.
To Madonna: It seems like an eternity since Guy Ritchie was a wunderkind whose films rocked us with brilliant pacing, outrageous humor and genius styling.
But then you came across the pond with your mysticism, faux English accent and desires to act. In no time, you had Guy’s deflated balls locked in your roided-up vagina prison and a promising career was in shambles. I assumed that’d be the last impact you’d have on my life but then came reports that you’d used your crotch of destruction to trap Alex Rodriguez.
I’m sure it wasn’t tough to lure him in, given his weakness for women with vaginas that flex like they’re Mr. Olympia. But with the Yankees’ hitting troubles, the last thing we need is an evil succubus like you turning A-Rod into the Guy Ritchie of baseball.
Both you and I know that your va-jay-jay is like The Ring and once chaps stare into that black hole, few are able to recover. If you leave A-Rod now, he may be able to recover by the All-Star break. CC and Teixeira can keep us in reach of the wild card until then.
And with that, I’m spent. Merry Chrismukkah, boys and girls. I’ve got 8 hours to start and finish all of my holiday shopping and do so without getting arrested for assault. Wish me luck.
I posted this image by mistake but since it’s been up for a couple days, I’ll add a little text — not really for your amusement but because I hate the way the post formatted without it.
For Americans who don’t know the identify of this modern day Venus, meet Camilla Parker-Bowles. She not only serves as the Duchess of Cornwall but also concrete proof that money, fame and blue-blood status have no bearing on one’s taste in women.
In other news of pure awesomeness, the New York Yankees just signed Mark Teixeira to an 8-year, $170+ million deal.
Burnett (meh), Tex. Who are these mysterious chaps in the front office and what have they done with Brian Cashman?! It’s as if someone wants the Yankees to win again!
Now, I’ll be honest – I remain thorougly unhappy that we solve problems by dumping billions of dollars into the laps of high-flying free agents. $400+M are tied up in our 3 recent acquisitions but at least Sabathia and Teixieira don’t require Metamucil and Flomax prescriptions. At least they aren’t 8 years past their primes. If we’re going to spend money like a drunken hillbilly in a whorehouse, the least we can do is spend it on the best tarts in the building. Two of our recent moves reflect such thinking.
You know, when Madonna’s roided up vagina prison trapped Alex Rodriguez a few months ago, I knew the Yankees could be in serious trouble for years to come. With the Yankees’ hitting troubles and complete lack of pitching, the last thing we needed was that evil succubus turning A-Rod into the Guy Ritchie of baseball.
But with Teixeira in the lineup, we might just be okay. All we need now is another starter or bullpen arm and a relationship shakeup and the New York Yankees are back in business… the business of winning championships (that was cheesy and I am ashamed. My apologies).
Remember those three days in school (if you went to a mostly white school, that is) when you covered slavery in the United States?
If you’re having trouble recalling, think back to that one week in US History or Social Studies where the 2 black kids sat in awkward agony as the teacher recounted the details of slavery to them instead of the whole class, and the 30 white kids in the room stared at them with awkward, apologetic expressions. After the bell rang, a couple classmates that were truly overcome with white guilt would track them down in the hall after class and verbally apologize for how "their people" were treated before expressing how awful it makes them feel.
All of this inevitably occurred during Black History Month – the only time it was seemingly acceptable for anything other than Crispus Attucks to arise as a topic of discussion during school. [However, Mr. Attucks certainly popped up again during these 28 days.]
So I guess we should see it as progress that a Elaine Bernstein, a 7th grade social studies teacher from White Plains, NY, recently covered slavery before the calendar mandated. Trouble was, she tried to enliven the discussion (as if the subject needs it) by binding the hands and feet of two black girls with tape and then putting them under a desk… because.. you know.. the students needed to visualize what it was like to be an African captive on a slave ship. The only thing this tragic scene was missing was Ms. Bernstein’s Act 2, where a white student comes up and helps act out a scene from Roots.
Sadly, a mother raised hell only to have the teacher and the school authorities completely miss the boat (no pun intended):
"We encourage our teachers to deliver the curriculum in a variety of ways, to go beyond just reading the textbook," said Superintendent Brian Monahan of the North Rockland School District in New York City’s northern suburbs. "We don’t want to discourage creativity. But this obviously went wrong because the student was upset."
In no other place than the bedroom is bondage creative and even there it’s a bit old hat. But turning students into the gimp? Come on. Now you can argue that if she’d tied up white kids, there’d be no problem but the real issue here is that binding children of any color is a BAD IDEA. And being stupid enough to bind black kids during an already touchy discussion ought to result in you being taken to an alley and beaten with reeds. It’s not like she didn’t have other visualization options. How about measuring off the space slaves had on ships and try to fit the class into it? Is that not hands on enough?
I doubt the school will punish this woman for being a mental defective. So when her class reaches the Holocaust section of the book, I hope the school holds a convocation in the gym where Ms. Bernstein is stuffed in a covered Radio Flyer and wheeled to a gas chamber at faux Auschwitz. Hopefully, she won’t get upset.
This sad image is what happens when you’re only in it for the money.. and when you’re too
blinded by your 2,500-watt smile and million dollar paydays arrogant to see that you’re time has long since passed.
It’s easy to say that Oscar de la Hoya should have called it a day after Floyd Mayweather took his boot of justice to him in the final rounds last May, but even with hindsight being what it is, was there ever any doubt?
In rounds 9 – 12, Pretty Boy taxed the gold finish off de la Hoya with 71 connects (vs. 27) and 27 power shots (vs. 23). And what was so disheartening about it all wasn’t that Mayweather’s slick counterpunching was suddenly too much to handle; it was that Oscar didn’t have anything left for a proper response. He had no legs, no power and a connection rate that you’d expect of a tomato can on Friday Night Fights. Still, he managed a respectable split decision that allowed him to leave the ring with his head held high. And with Mayweather’s retirement scuttling the possibilities of a rematch, it was the perfect opportunity to walk into that quiet good night.
But no, de la Hoya went looking for trouble because as much as he loves making money, he clearly loves blowing big fights even more. What’s worse is this time, he not only blew the fight but also had to sit idly by while his corner threw in the towel. It was a shameful moment for boxing that never should have happened.
Sure, de la Hoya v. Pacquiao seemed like a waste of time what with ODLH sporting 4-inch height and 6-inch reach advantages against an undersized guy with a suspect jaw that jumped 2 weight classes to fight him. But Manny Pacquiao isn’t The Contender’s Steve Forbes and he isn’t a smoking, boozing and slightly insane Ricardo Mayorga either. Manny Pacquaio is a tenacious, ferocious pugilist. And while that wouldn’t have mattered against Oscar even three years ago, it certainly does and did in a year when a guy that couldn’t even win a boxing reality show easily took him the distance.
Oscar de la Hoya should have been doing the rumba with one of those oversexed broads on Dancing with the Stars. He should have been buying a Grammy for another one of his lame Latin Pop "records." He should have been making a bajillion dollars promoting young, talented fighters through Golden Boy Promotions. He should have been anywhere but the ring and now his legacy will pay dearly for it.
It’s pretty sad. But let me take a selfish angle here and tell you what else will suffer – any affection I ever had for Oscar de la Hoya. And no, it’s not because he and his old balls went down like a one-eyed bitch. Or because he’s been a weak 3 – 3 since his failed rematch with Shane Mosley. It’s because now, Manny Pacquiao will fight and beat Ricky Hatton and do you know what that will do? It will pull Floyd Mayweather Jr. out of retirement to counterpunch Pacquaio back to the Philippines and take official ownership of the mythical pound-for-pound title. Don’t get me wrong, Pretty Boy is a joy to watch but I’ve had enough of his "I’m an insufferable, ungrateful, preening douchebag that leaves my house just to wave around hundred dollar bills" to last a lifetime. We get it, Floyd. You’re the best. You’re the greatest. You’re rich. And even more, you hang out with 50 Cent.
Thanks to Oscar de la Hoya, we’re about to hear more about it. Times ten.
Great work, Oscar. Ass.
As an Arsenal Gooner and believer in the triumph of good over evil, I loathe Cristiano Ronaldo. He’s a diving puss-in-boots that deserves a solid kick to the neck. As such, I’d like to think that if he ever crossed my path, I’d choke him out and break his knees but the truth is – he’s a mesmerizing talent and the best footballer on the planet. It’s not enough that his body is capable of doing things that others cannot; he pulls off moves that others can barely conceive of, let alone attempt. No one is as fast and agile, nor is anyone more inventive or cunning, and it’s for that reason that he’s rapidly becoming the face of football.
But when you become the unofficial ambassador of a sport, it’s important to remember that you’re not just catering to over-tanned Euros who know that beneath the crotch-hugging Pepe jeans and Louis Vuitton man purse is a man that frequently has orgies with hookers. You’re also serving Americans – Americans that are finally realizing how lame and fraudulent David Beckham actually is.. Americans that will snatch their kids off youth pitches and run for the hills upon noticing that their little boys are wearing the kit of a preening Mediterranean gigolo:
Come on, Cristina – we have to do better than this! You represent a sport that has long fought for credibility in a pathalogically hypermasculine country where "real men" speak with "you-talkin’-ta-me" pugnacity and do pushups with their dicks. And yet here you are, prancing around Hollywood with shaved legs, booty shorts and a fauxhawk. You are the greatest talent of a generation; not one of Ricky Martin’s dancers. Do the game a favor and put on some cargo shorts and grab your crotch every once in a while. There are Americans to impress!
HT: Just Jared
On Sunday, Candace Parker of the Los Angeles Sparks became the 2nd woman in the history of the WNBA to guide the ball into the hoop without losing it on the way. This display of ridiculous athleticism made June 22nd a true red-letter day, as yet another woman showed the big boys that we can do it just like they can… with a smaller ball… on a fast break… once every 6 years.
The league and media are blowing this up as if the girl jumped out of the gym and shat diamonds upon the masses. I got an email from a WNBA-loving friend on Monday morning claiming, "It’s only a matter of time until we’re huge now!" Oh really? Tell that to the league’s collective 18-inch vertical leap.
If anything, Parker’s dunk (and the overreaction to it) proves that she’s as much a freak of nature now as she was when she embarrassed a group of boys in the 2004 McDonald’s All-America High School Slam Dunk Contest. But according to Parker, we need to brace ourselves for the slam revolution:
"I do know that more and more women are going to do it and it’s something that people are going to have to accept."
Accept? Who’s going to object? Step right up, ladies. The only problem people have with women playing basketball is that they’re totally unwatchable.
Dunk for us. Sky for us. Jump 2 feet in the air without falling down like a sniper tagged you from the rafters. We’ve been waiting on some legit output since you started telling us you got next in that totally misleading ad campaign where Dawn Staley, Lisa Leslie and Sheryl Swoopes rolled up on the playground to challenge the men.
Those commercials left 14 year old me thinking I’d see women playing organized playground ball – slick moves, smooth shots, a little trickery. Got next, indeed. They couldn’t play at the rim, let alone above it. But I shouldn’t have been surprised then and I suppose I shouldn’t be now. Of the thousands of women that have played D-1 ball in the last 25 years, only 4 have registered dunks in games. And before Lisa Leslie showed out for the Sparks in 2002, the professional dunking woman was a myth like Bigfoot, wish-granting fairies and unicorns that dance under rainbows. There were always sightings at playgrounds and closed practices but when cameras appeared for documentation, hops would scatter like cockroaches in the light.
I’ve long held that this game is the last refuge for girls that want to be athletes but aren’t agile, flexible or fast enough to hack it anywhere else, and Parker’s dunk reinforces that belief. You can turn a soccer or volleyball player into a basketball player but you’d have more luck catching a naked, Vaseline-covered crackhead than trying to go the other way.
While the best female athletes tear up tracks, soccer pitches and tennis courts; spike balls over volleyball nets and hit 110 mph pitches out of softball fields, hoops continues to offer up a few talented athletes and a horde of slow-as-molasses girls with pointy elbows and skinned knees that can barely walk and chew gum at the same time. If the league was made up of 150 Diana Taurasis, Candace Parkers, Sue Birds, Tamika Catchings and Lisa Leslies, you wouldn’t hear me say a word. But it’s not even close. You’ve got these 5 ladies and 145 female Luc Longleys. And while it’s fantastic that Parker went up one-handed and sent the ball home, the gratuitous coverage is not only patently absurd but it is also pretty sad.
Wake me up when a couple women start abusing league centers like they’re Shawn Bradley. Contact me when players stop shooting ugly rockets off their hips. Give me a tap when watching a matchup that isn’t the championship game no longer means 40 minutes of underhanded layups and cramps. Christ – just let me know when something consistently entertaining sets up shop instead of pimping what you don’t have. When the league can pull that off, I might watch more than 6 minutes without falling asleep or passing out from shame.
I got in my office around 6 am today, hoping that with a diligent morning, I could wrap things up and skip town for 6 or 8 weeks. My diligence only lasted 17 minutes before I hit hulu.com. In the 12 hours since, I have watched 5 episodes of Lost, 3 – 30 Rocks, 3 runs of Arrested Development, left once for a sausage egg mcmuffin, again for lunch and had a nap. But lucky for you, I remembered that I have a blog about 10 minutes ago, so I’m going to take a break from sucking at life to negatively contribute to your day.
Today’s question: Does PETA actually hate animals or are they brain dead?
I’m not a serial killer, which means I have a fondness for animals and think that they have an inherent worth. And while I don’t believe an animal’s life has more value than yours or mine, I wholeheartedly believe that groups should exist to advocate for their protection from cruelty, increase social awareness and expose abuses. So in that vein, I’m glad that watchdog organizations like PETA exist. But while PETA’s heart always SEEMS to be in the right place – or, at least, the general area, its unabashed stupidity has done more damage to its cause than any other rights group in history. And by the looks of their activity since Eight Belles’ death, they have no intention of changing course.
Tangent – am I the only one that thinks this prefer to go naked over fur campaign of theirs is ridiculous? Being naked is awesome. Being naked under something warm and cuddly like a mink on a crisp winter day is even better. Stupid PETA.
Since horse racing is a sport fueled by greed, the tragedies that have befallen it of late should come as no surprise. To say that the horses aren’t as sturdy as they used to be is like saying David Beckham has a voice like a pre-teen girl. Bred for speed and strength, today’s animals are majestic, tremendous athletes whose bodies have become too strong and heavy for a skeleton that is still too light and fragile. To put it simply, they have chicken legs like Babe Ruth. And when you have 2 – 4 year old animals with that frame that are mad to compete, mad to win and bred to burn like roman candles that explode like spiders across the stars, career ending injuries and euthanasia are going to be the nature of the beast.
But with racing suffering two casualties in as many years on its biggest stage, this should have been an animal activist’s wet dream. With true backing from the public, they could have made a legitimate push toward changes and improvements in breeding rules, track safety and veterinary medicine. What’s more, they could have burrowed deep in the ear of the Jockey Club to demand that they spearhead initiatives on changing the nature of an overpriced breeding market. Though it’s true that plenty of level-headed groups have been spurred to action, the largest, most influential one of all has only proven itself to be operated by mentally defective, exploitative pods. Again.
In the last 5 days, PETA has done everything from claiming that the jockey whipped the filly so mercilessly that he didn’t know she was injured until after the finish to raking Hillary and Chelsea Clinton across the coals for giving a rah-rah in support. Now, don’t get me wrong, the Clintons need to be bashed on – and even kicked in the face – but when you go so far off the deep end that even they seem like innocent victims, something in the plan has gone horribly awry.
At this point, I have to wonder – is PETA really an animal rights group? Is it possible that they’re actually against animals?
There are really only two choices here — its people have shoe size IQs like Leon Spinks or PETA is intentionally trying to do harm to animals by operating on a level of self-sabotage previously reserved for James Dolan. But unlike Dolan, these tools aren’t just destroying a franchise; they’re causing millions to turn a blind eye to the true problems of horse racing with their reprehensible, outrageous behavior. By this Saturday, the reaction to the Eight Belles tragedy won’t be "Horse racing needs better policies and regulations." It will be "Meh. PETA sucks. They won’t rest until the animals rule us."
Truth be told, I really don’t know what I should have expected from an organization whose primary activists are porn stars, bad actresses and a woman whose vagina could’ve hidden Roger Clemens and his ego from the Senate and still had room to accommodate Tommy Lee’s forearm-sized penis.
But whether it’s stupidity or sabotage, these people should find a large sword on which to throw themselves.
It’s the humane thing to do.
Sometime last year, I was astonished to learn that in a time that sees the masses growing dumber by the minute, CNN added bullet-point summaries to their articles, effectively throwing in the towel on the effort to keep us moderately literate.
But since we all have ADD these days, I suppose that was inevitable. What I could not (and should not) have anticipated, however, was the possibility that CNN would completely forgo journalistic integrity in order to boost revenue and give The Onion a run for its money. Granted, you don’t get gems like “Why Do All These Homosexuals Keep Sucking on my Cock” at CNN but it’s fair to say that the level of news at this once venerable site has strayed well beyond the ridiculous and into the shameful. And now, they’ve taken things a step further by selling t-shirts that feature their own nonsensical headlines from articles and video posts.
Head over to CNN.com and take a gander at the headlines area. You see that t-shirt icon next to the video headlines? Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. For $15.99 plus shipping and handling, you can get t-shirts that say things like:
You know, it’d be one thing if these headlines were actually funny. At least then you could give CNN some credit for being creative as they continue their descent into becoming the American version of News of the World. But like The Simpsons these days, these efforts don’t even elicit a smile, let alone laughter, and after the link cycles off the page, no one will ever know why (or how) it was supposed to be amusing.
“Oh my shirt? Well that was a craaaaaazy headline that I saw on CNN 4 months ago! … What? … No wait, seriously! It’s hilarious! Just let me explain — there was this guy that paced all the time – you know those nervous types right? Well, he ended up stuck on an elevator for FORTY-ONE HOURS! Can you imagine? I mean, don’t you see the irony of it? Totally nuts!”
By the looks of things, people are already buying into this crap.
Clowns like the ones seen above make me wish I carried around a floppy dildo that I could pull out of a hip holster and smack people with whenever the need arose. I don’t think I’m alone in saying that the witless clowns shelling out cash for these shirts and the sad sack jokers in Atlanta that thought them up are in need of a cock punch. A fierce cock punch. To the face.
While having my senses abused by Joe Morgan during the Yankees/BoSux game last night, I noticed that Peter Gammons’ teeth are an amazing shade of butter. I know he’s this legend and all but he’s not so big that someone at ESPN – or maybe even his bloody wife – can’t force him to put a tube of Crest and maybe even some of those fancy White Strips to use. Being a Hall of Famer shouldn’t mean that you can get away with having teeth that, if pulled out and sold, can put Parkay out of business. Unacceptable.
But to the story at hand. It’s well known that huge sporting events like the World Cup, Olympics and Super Bowl are boons for the skin trade. After the host site is announced, girls from far and wide grab their chinchilla coats, head to the destination like birds flocking south and get prepared for the influx of indiscriminating, drunken chumps with money to burn on cheap ass. You’d think they’d be unbiased about the fans coming in to cheer on their teams but it seems that when you’re in the game of blowing and blanking as many men in possible, the nationality of your punters can be an important factor. At least, that’s what these South African hookers believe.
Meet Levola, Yolanda and Samantha [Note: moments before the interview, the trio was fined by police for exposing themselves to drivers] – three prostitutes from a South African shanty town that link England’s success in World Cup qualifications to the prospects of escaping prostitution. According to them, the Army of the Three Lions (that’s really what we should be called, you know) will bring in a wealth of cash:
“We just can’t wait. We only get paid about £10 for sex when drivers stop for us here. English men will pay a lot more…
Why, because they can’t do better at home?
“We’ll probably have to fight over them with the girls who already have pitches in that area, but it will be worth it.” – Yolanda Lorika
Now, a part of me thinks, “Hey! Maybe it’s time you raise your games, you filthy mingers! Work harder, blow faster, incorporate something new. There are three of you – maybe you can put on a show! If you get creative over the next two years, you may not have to worry about having the jackhammer taken to you 1,800 times over by insane Englishmen and getting your hips broken. Besides, if that happens, then how will you make money??” But then I realize I’m just being a a foul asshole. So let’s look at this realistically:
Assuming England actually reaches the World Cup, we’ll most assuredly have two uninspired, nauseating showings before going down 2-1 to some sad sack side like Poland. One of these matches will feature a controversial performance by David Beckham that not only reflects how talentless we are as a nation but also shows that he’s 8 years past his prime, remains the source of too much agony and must die. Under the circumstances, it’s only good manners to be looking forward to servicing thousands of drunken reprobates for a tenner apiece, right? Ease the pain? A little salve, so to speak, for the perennial wound?
But when those good feelings come with a side of HIV, that’s no good for anybody. You see, one in every two South African hookers is dogged with that pesky, fatal occupational hazard and no matter how much bad I wish upon our stupid hools, all that will happen is that these diseased bints will infect them and they’ll bring the bug back to the Isles. How delightful.
Our only hope is that every single one of them chooses to forgo the hordes of toothless women lining the dirt roads and opts instead for 3 or 4 minutes with the chicks in this interview – modern marvels that have beaten the odds thus far by stealing heaps of condoms from the free clinic.
“They would give us some for free, but not enough for our work,” said Lavola, who spurned paid sex with a Somalian man because a Nigerian man was willing to have sex in the comfort of his own home (and give her £7).
How very classy of the Nigerian man.
It’s fantastic that these chicks are eager to get drilled into oblivion by the debauched nutters in our fanbase but let’s be real here — The Three Lions have left England in a state of perpetual pain and heartache since the 1960s, with each year more shameful than the last. The more people depending on this team’s success, the worse they fail. So why these dumb bitches really think England is going to come through and help them get off the mean dirt streets is beyond me. If anything, we’re more jinxed now than ever.
Thanks, South Africa!
I leave XM Radio’s MLB Home Plate on in my office most of the day and when I came back in yesterday afternoon, Rob Dibble was busy fellating himself over being so fearsome on the mound from about 1990 – 1992. This is a pretty run of the mill occurrence on The Show, a shitefest hosted by Dibble and Kevin Kennedy – a couple of assclown braintrusts with no opinions that make any sense. When they aren’t congratulating each other on careers well done or getting unnecessarily furious about this topic or that, they attempt to answer questions from hapless callers.
Yesterday featured a call from a panicked Tigers fan that was concerned over the (then) 0 – 7 squad’s chances of making the post-season. No really – I’m serious. And I don’t mean that he was worried. He was in an absolute fright. How could that hack Jim Leyland engineer such a catastrophe? How can the 2nd highest payroll in the league not make the post-season? So much for hope.
And he’s right. Looks like it’s time for that paper bag, Tigers Fan.
Though no team has ever gotten to the post-season after losing its first 7 games, you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that there are 154 games left to play and these are the Detroit Tigers, not the Texas Rangers. [I can't believe I just said that.] Hell, you shouldn’t even have to be a Rob Dibble.
But rather than talk about a week’s worth of games full of flukes, aberrations and mishaps or the fact that the Tigers are a good ball club with good hitters making mental errors and pressing a bit too much, the Nasty Boy took up the torch and pitchfork. After excoriating the organization for being such a colossal waste of talent, he and Kennedy then tried to calculate the number of games Detroit would need to beat the odds, eventually deciding that going .500 in April MIGHT leave Detroit with a chance but even then – who knows because other teams are good too – like the Royals and the Cubs!
Seriously? Is this where my subscription money is going? To keep this mindless dickbag employed? They can’t find anybody better than this? The reality is that at 1-7, the Tigers are 3 games behind the Indians – their true competition come September. And with their lineup, this team should be able to sleepwalk through April and still be able to hit their way into the wild card. Christ, the Yankees don’t even get out of the rocking chairs to participate in the league schedule until it gets warm in mid-June.
Case in point, here’s where we are now:
And honestly, I can deal with all of that for now. Even being outscored 19 – 7 in two losses to Tampa Bay, which is pathetic, can be taken in stride… I think. But something that cannot be tolerated – and something even the Tigers wouldn’t allow – is scoring just 2 runs in 2 games against the Kansas City Royals.
We’re missing Jeter and Posada, sure, but that’s no excuse for getting pwned by the dregs. Zach Greinke shut us down and shut us out, allowing 6 weak sauce hits over 8 innings.
Have we no pride? Is there no line that is drawn where the team agrees to not be bent over and rogered by every perennial bottom dweller in the league? Now, I know that the Royals are all new and improved but they’re still the Royals and managing 2 runs with Rodriguez, Matsui, Abreu, Damon and Cano in the lineup is nothing short of foul. That said, at least we’re not the Tigers. If you haven’t heard – they’re not gonna make the playoffs. Chumps.