I’m sure I’m late on this but am I the only one that didn’t realize that with Opening Day just 24 hours away (not that hyped up bullshit on ESPN), the true Opening Day has already come and gone?
Last Tuesday, I caught all of the news about the Red Sox trip to Japan to take on the A’s and what a magical event it was. Hell, I even caught a small portion of the game before flipping on MTV to watch that horrific yet oddly captivating America’s Best Dance Crew (Go Kaba Modern!!).
As it turns out, the entire country of Japan showed up for this spring training nonsense. Highlights included Daisuke Matsuzaka being treated like the Second Coming of Jesus and Manny Ramirez jacking a couple homers so monstrous another Godzilla was likely awakened in the Pacific. Now, I paid this news no mind because, like I said a moment ago, this was spring training nonsense.
But alas – this was actually Opening Day. The Opening Day. The only day of the spring so holy and glorious (and non-denominational even) that it deserves to be revered and celebrated at least on the same level as Thanksgiving. This a day that brought us Hank Aaron’s 714th and Bob Feller’s no-hitter. It’s a day so woven into the fabric of the national consciousness that it has become the only true symbol of rebirth – not just a sign that the despair of winter is long gone but of your team’s hopes and your ability to bump gums all year about your chances. Not only that, it brings millions together – all playing hooky from their respective life situations – in the joy and anxiety of knowing that if your team wins that day, you’re not gonna lose em all and maybe, just maybe that "next year" you’re always crowing about, has finally arrived.
But no. Leave it to the federal government to thumb its nose at a nation and celebrate President’s Day instead. Where does that get us? A day off to hit that big sale at Kohl’s and pick up a piece of cherry pie down at the senior center? Please. But leave it up to Bud Selig to take advantage and shit all over our special moment by shipping Opening Day off to Tokyo and then having the nerve to brag about it:
"Not only do you feel that you’re watching history in the making, but we’re doing what we really set out to do…. "The game has never been more popular than it is in the United States today. Our goal is to take that popularity and make it worldwide."
Hey dummy, here’s a tip – THE JAPANESE ALREADY LIKE BASEBALL! This is about like the English Premier League shipping its opener to Brazil to drum up international support and then sucking each other’s dicks over the success once a frenzied riot breaks out in the stands and the stadium catches fire.
Yet again, it’s time for someone to kick Bud Selig in the sodding face… GO YANKEES!
I’m so sodding depressed.
As has been abundantly evident on this blog, I had to check out for a while, which included more than simply not posting. In the process, I completely lost track of sports. So when I finally decided it was time to permanently emerge from the ether and plug back in to world, I couldn’t have been more excited. You see, spring is always the most exciting season in sports. What better time could there be to throw myself back into the fray?
Spring is the season that makes the world go round, as the Super Bowl leads into March Madness, which rolls right into fantasy baseball drafts and Opening Day. Soon after, the EPL and Champions League are rolling to their conclusions, Roger Federer is spiraling out of the French Open, I’m lamenting the Yankees’ early gaffes and missteps, Phil Mickelson is choking away another major and even the NBA starts getting interesting. Every day, there is something new to behold and though basketball is something like my 8th favorite sport these days, I live and breathe hoops when the tournament comes round. A self-admitted neurotic, I usually study, research and waste hours of my life on box scores, articles, team pages, stat sheets, and pictures (I don’t know why pictures, actually). And at the completion of these fruitless efforts, I fill out my brackets, run my mouth, put some money on the line, down a sixer to ease the nerves and tune into CBS and CSTV when it all begins. Not a moment is missed and I suck in basketball like crack from the pipe from Thursday at 1230 until Sunday around 10.
This year, it was a slightly different process. I’d been mentally checked out for so long that I didn’t catch much college basketball. So I filled out my picks the night before and transferred my neuroses for other exercises in futility like finding a man that will make me fluffy pancakes with crispy edges after a long night of getting down (Is that really so much to ask? It’s not like I’m high maintenance – it’s just one prerequisite, dammit. COME ON).
But after receiving an injection of what amounted to a 96-hour speedball, I’m now left with no reasonable form of entertainment. I didn’t have enough sense to DVR real sports over the weekend and came home around 8 all ready to enjoy an athletic event – something, anything. National Championship of Darts, Pinochle, whatever. It wasn’t gonna take much to feed my need. So I tuned into CBS fully expecting to see more basketball. Logically, I knew it wouldn’t be on but that didn’t stop me from watching The Big Bang Theory and How I Met Your Mother in some "maybe the Sweet Sixteen will magically pop on!" fog. Eventually, I snapped out of it and hit ESPN, only to find the also-rans of the Not In Tournament. So I moved on to ESPN2 and caught a disappointment larger than having my bracket destroyed by Stephan Curry and Davidson: women’s basketball – the last refuge for girls that want to be athletes but aren’t agile, flexible or fast enough to hack it anywhere else.
Why doesn’t ESPN just send Dick Vitale and Jay Bilas to my house to my house to take turns slapping me around and kicking me in the ass while we watch JJ Redick highlight films. It’d hurt less. Watching the women’s tournament during the Final Four is one thing, as UConn, Tennessee, LSU and Rutgers/Duke/No Chance University might actually produce 7 – 10 athletes on the floor at one time. But not this Monday night bullshit. Not these first and second round shenanigans where a girl getting fouled on a "drive" to the hoop looks like a slo-mo video with crash test dummies.
But enough on that. What I actually want to know is what jerk is sitting in an office saying, "Scheduling? Well, how about we follow up the greatest weekend in American amateur sports with women’s basketball. That’ll keep the fires burning in the hearts of Joe and Jane Sports Fan!"
No, corporate suit! It does not keep my fire burning! It is destroying my spirit! I don’t appreciate getting all manic over 32 games of basketball only to be punched in the mouth by 3 days of the great shooter with an ugly stroke that wouldn’t know true agility if it goosed her; the tall, semi-mobile forward that uses her elbows to free up space for her 4-foot banked shots; and the girl that’s slow as molasses but has a great body for collecting ticky tack fouls and turning the ball over.
A sport that opts for fundamentals over a base level of athleticism found in every other women’s sport is NOT okay with me. I get that the women’s game is basketball in its purest form but damn. I don’t want to spend 2+ hours seeing which team can make the most consecutive layups, fall down the least and seal it off with a 1-and-1 at the line with 8 seconds to go!
If you’re going to advertise this tournament as March Madness, then that’s what you need to give us – straight up madness where we get all basketball all the time until the last team standing needs a crane to hitch them up to cut down the nets. No more of this three week wanked schedule that is supplemented on the weekdays with a “tournament” that fields 56 teams too many. Eventually something has to give. Being driven away from sports to watch countless episodes of “Walking with the Dinosaurs” on Discovery is an absolute shame.
After the Raiders signed safety Gibril Wilson a few weeks ago, I had a glimmer of hope that this off-season just might go well. This was a fantastic FA get. Sure, we massively overpaid (7 years, $39M) but it’s reasonable to believe that Wilson – one of the most consistent safeties in the league – will turn out to be worth the cash. At least, he will be until he realizes he plays in the Bay and completely flakes out a la Charles Woodson.
But then we signed DT Tommy Kelly for an insane $50M dollars and then Kwame Brown – a middling OL that didn’t start a game last season – for $16M over three years. And now, Al Davis has emerged from his oxygen chamber to cock things up yet again.
I’m sure most of you saw the news last week that the Raiders signed malcontent Javon Walker and his irreparably shredded knees. Even in Walker’s diminished condition, I’ll take him because we have a wide receiving corps that consists of Ronald Curry, To Be Determined and To Be Determined. In a situation like this, it’s hard to be picky.
But in his infinite wisdom, Al Davis has somehow found a way to make this the worst move of all time. Instead of paying beaten up, broken down, waiting on a new hip Javon Walker what he’s worth, the Crypt Keeper is giving him $55M for 6 years. My first reaction was, "Well, I’m sure it’s totally backloaded, so no big deal." And while that is somewhat true, Walker still gets $16M in guaranteed money and $27M for the first three years. Hell, if he gets cut this season, he still gets $11M and if he’s cut in 2 seasons, he’s got $16M!
What’s next, Al? Gonna pull Keyshawn Johnson out the ESPN-abyss with a guaranteed 1-year, $25M deal? I assure you that he’s a lot more functional right now than Walker, he of the 28 catches, 287 yards (200 of which came in the first 2 games), 0 touchdowns and 8 games in 2007. Former Pro Bowl, 1000 yard receiver or not, this is pure madness. The only thing I can see explaining this mentally defective contract is if the price of bribing formerly capable players to waste their careers on our shores has ballooned to an additional 85% of market value.
Speaking of ballooned, there are rumors that Stay-Puft, also known as Jamarcus Russell, is currently weighing in around 300 pounds. Now, if that’s true, what does it matter who we sign when we’ve got a heifer for a quarterback that might be tempted to eat the damn ball?!
2 thumbs down!
So I stopped at the post office over the weekend to mail a card. For some unknown reason, the last time I mailed anything, the cost of stamps was something like 29 cents, so I was woefully lacking in metal funds at the vending machine. Not wanting to walk the 40 feet back to my car for a dime, I popped in a $20.
This was a huge mistake.
The machine spat out 1 stamp and then blew up like I’d hit 3 cherries on the nickel slots on the senior gambling boat. At first, it didn’t seem so bad. I saw a couple quarters, a nickel, a few pennies. But then came the gold coins and more gold coins and even more gold coins. 19 Thomas Jefferson dollars in all.
A little pissed that the post office had the nerve to give back gold doubloons as change, I tried to exchange them for dollar bills at the window. The woman all but put her hand in my face. So I stuffed them into my white trash, mini-Crown Royal bag that I use for change (I’m a classy broad, I know) and forgot about them until this morning when I went into the BP for some milk. While fishing a couple $1 coins out of my bag, the illiterate, illegal alien behind the counter stopped me:
"Miss we don’t take no old coins."
"Oh no, these aren’t old," I responded. "They say 2007."
I grabbed 2 Thomas Jefferson dollars and a quarter and handed them to BP Clerk, who then had the nerve to scoff at me. "Pfft. Miss, we don’t take treasure."
"No treasure alright?"
"This is legal US tender! Sanctioned by the government! It’s MONEY! It says $1 on the back!"
"Credit card or dollars or coins please."
I asked for the manager. He scoffed again and then stared at me like I was the one with the problem. We had a non-lethal Mexican stand-off until some hilljack with hairs on his balls older than my parents told me to "run along to school." After I shouted at him, I was asked to leave.
Perhaps it had to be thus.
But what kind of bullshit is this?? First of all, if I thought somebody had a sack of treasure and I worked at the BP gas station, I’d smack them with a roll of lottery tickets, thieve the coins and try to buy my own island. I wouldn’t stand around with my hands on my hips having melodramatic breathing fits behind the counter. That said, I’m still giving Paco a pass for our interaction. Though the experience left me a little heated, I did keep strange looking coins in a purple and yellow bag that looks like something pirates throw at the ruffians as payment for a kidnapping well done. That’s my fault. But what dickbag clowns are pushing these things at the U.S. Mint? There is no logical reason for the government to issue money that looks like you can unwrap it and eat the chocolate inside. Something has to be done!
So check this out – a throng of Massholes Patriots fans have united in petition over the outcome of the Super Bowl. Unhappy with three Super Bowls and an undefeated season, these spoiled gits now “demand that the National Football League and Commissioner Roger Goodell review the last 1:40 minutes of the Super Bowl held February 3rd 2008. At 1:22 in the fourth quarter, after Jacobs attained a first down the clock was stopped.” They then go on to list all of the rules of game time clock management, as if the NFL was unaware of how that all worked. After that comes the rationale that only a bitter rotter liquored up on Samuel Adams could provide:
“Nowhere in the above rules does it state that in the conditions of what was happening on the clock should be stopped. Also in addition to this six seconds were added to the game clock. Had this illegal clock stoppage not occurred there would have been 40 seconds less time on the clock, 46 seconds less if you consider the six seconds added on after the play. This means that after that play, if the clock was running the way it is supposed to by the rulebook, there would only be 42 seconds left on the clock. Furthermore if this was not enough on the subsequent play time was not taken off during the play followed by a random flashing of numbers on the clock.
“The following drive took the Giants a total of 52 seconds on the game clock from the point that six seconds were added to the clock. However if the time was managed the way it was supposed to be there would have been no time left on the clock after Eli Manning was tackled at :50 seconds on the game clock. This irrefutable proof demands that Super Bowl XLII be reviewed from the point of the first illegal stoppage.”
The petitioners then provide the commissioner ways in which he is permitted to respond – again – as if he does not know.
All in all, the petition has been signed by 24,611 people thus far… Brilliant, reputable chaps like Dave Rosenthal, who “can’t believe this isn’t a big story. I mean, we should be 19-0, but the NFL hates that Pats, so instead we have to go through this the rest of our lives knowing we got jipped.” And others like “Number One Pats Fan,” whose intelligence serves as a true beacon of light with, “Good job Giants, you cheated and won a SB. Try to win one on an even playing field. Also, why don’t you try to win a game by more than 3 points once, then we’ll talk.”
Am I alone in thinking the sporting world would be better off if somebody dropped a strong sedative over New England? When the Pats started winning Super Bowls, that was one thing. But when the BoSox sent my Yankees to Hell on a shutter in 2004, these people became completely insufferable and about 180 miles past out of control. And year after year, they suck more innocents into the fray, transforming them into obnoxious, irrational fanboys without a lick of sense.
But please understand, I don’t say this out of bitterness forged from rivalries in other sports and situations. Victors are entitled to bump their gums for as long as they see fit. It’s one of the perks of winning. But when you lose, gripe for a day or two and then shut the fuck up. It’s as simple as that. Trust me, I know. I’m a Yankee fan that went to one of those asshole universities. From birth through three diplomas, I have been trained in the art of self-righteous, obnoxious, irrational fangirl-ery. Hell, my sense of entitlement alone is bigger than your house. But even I understand that when defeat comes – and it comes far too often these days – there’s a grace period for sulking and then you need to admit defeat, shut your mouth and go home. And New England, that’s where you are now. You haven’t just cornered the market on post-season assholery, you’ve gone off the deep-end. It’s time to recognize that the Patriots lost, not because of a clock snafu in the final minutes but because Justin Tuck, Osi Umenyiora and Michael Strahan had Tom Brady on his back more than Giselle and Bridget Moynihan combined. If he could have completed more than 3 passes in a row, maybe you wouldn’t have lost by the skin of your teeth. But he couldn’t and now the world has to spend another season being reminded that Mercury Morris is still alive.
So instead of wasting your time with this, maybe you ought to petition the Giants’ speed rushing corps for turning Tom into a bitch. Better yet – why don’t you put together a petition requesting an explanation for why Richard Seymour, Adalius Thomas, Jarvis Green and the entire secondary were all but holding their dicks while Eli Manning was pulling a Joe Montana with David Tyree?
Might be fruitful.
I’m not one to harp on politics around this joint. What the hell am I talking about? I haven’t harped on anything at all in ages. But in the interest of getting things rocking again in a suitable manner, we’re going to start with this painfully shallow, fairly obvious observation.
I wouldn’t vote for Hillary Clinton if she promised me my own blue and red locomotive and then spearheaded a deal between Al Davis and the Devil that allowed Al to buy his soul back. Now, 90% of this has to do with my being a government-hating libertarian, so it’s not like I agree with her on much of anything. But the other 10% of me is completely turned off for two reasons, 1) she’s a ball-busting, insincere, poll-catering dragon with the personality of a cold muffin, and 2) her voice sparks memories of my mum henpecking my dad into oblivion for not fixing that squeaky kitchen cabinet.
Look, I know that a double standard applies with the ball-busting issue. Hillary gets aggressive and she’s a bitch. Obama and McCain get aggressive and they’re strong leaders. Truth be told, being labeled as a bitch really isn’t so terrible. "Bitch" isn’t just a word; it’s a lifestyle. Embrace it. But if you’re gonna be a bitch, don’t be an insincere, poll-catering dragon and don’t have a voice that puts angels into the fetal position. It’s as simple as that.
When Clinton and Obama got into it during that hellish Democratic debate a couple weeks ago, I had to plug my ears and resist the temptation to clean my room or take out of the trash. I felt lazy just watching. As if there were chores to be done and I was futzing around with video games, Legos and cartoons. If my mum had called, I would have broken down in tears and apologized for having to be told so many times.
In some ways, it’s really too bad for Hillary. We can’t help the voices with which we’re born. I sound like a sultry English vixen. Hillary, on the other hand, sounds like a screeching harpy with a voice that makes me want to throw my brain into a blender. I guess God just hates some of us.
At first I thought Hillary had a tone issue or maybe she was just dealing with tough subjects. But even when she’s pretending to be comforting, I want to yell back, "Ugh! I know! I did it!!!" And then mutter "bitch" and something about how I can’t wait to move out under my breath. As a result, I can’t imagine the reaction of psychos like Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Kim Jong Il and other chaps that don’t even like women when she scolds them for being hate-mongering killers. Hillary’s first words to these men may be her last.
What, too much?
I know I’m way off topic here but in context of all of this, it’s really no wonder Bill Clinton couldn’t/can’t keep his snake in its cage. Close your eyes and imagine getting head from a woman that looks like the Witch in Snow White (when she was the haggard old woman with the apple, not the Queen. She was a hot bitch) and then looks up and asks if you like it. Not only does this translate into "Get the hell off my lawn!" but your penis has likely retreated somewhere near your liver and is quivering in fear.
Dammit. Now I’ve gone too far.
My original point to this post was to laugh at the following display of awesomeness. While perusing Paste last night, I spotted an article indicating that the Grateful Dead were reuniting for one show – "and one show only – in an attempt to Barak voters all night long." I didn’t even know these chaps were still alive. But I have to say that no matter how many high-delegate states Hillary wins, when the Dead are so offended that they come out of their ganja-induced haze to re-purpose their logo and motivate people to vote for your opponent, you’re in trouble.
All the props in the world to the New York Football Giants, who managed to resist the temptation to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory on Sunday night. But I have a sneaking suspicion that this occurred only because the NFL did not properly communicate the contents of the Favre memo, which I imagine read something like this:
"Look, we’ll crap on the Seahawks, Packers and Cowboys, enabling you to skate relatively unscathed to the Super Bowl if you can do us just one solid — let Favre win. I know you think this is ludicrous but if you look at the big picture, this really is for the best. Remember back in 2002 when he was kind enough to give Michael Strahan the all-time sack record by going down faster than a hooker at a prison rodeo? Well, that’s all we ask you to remember here – pay it forward. He took care of one of your own when that chap needed it most and now, we at the NFL need you to take care of us, and, really, everyone outside of Wisconsin. No more will he or won’t he. No more self-righteous indignation. No more biased, obnoxious commentary. Think about the greater good (and the money we can make), Giants. See ya at Lambeau."
God forbid the Giants cooperate. You know, for a while, I thought they might be on board with the plan; at the very least, Lawrence Tynes was. But I guess there comes a point where you’re just too damn close to keep hooking kicks and you have to send one through. As such, Favre will be back for his 18th season – not because he has anything left to prove or the itch to lead what is likely the best young nucleus in the NFL to the Promised Land is so great, but because he can’t leave the game with such an offensively bitter taste in his mouth.
When a legendary champion like Brett Favre takes his final walk in the sun, he’s supposed to go out in a blaze of glory or die trying, not walk away following a mistake-riddled travesty that he’d rather block out than think about again.
So after 6 months of obnoxious, gratuitous speculation, we’ll see him again and frankly, that just fucking sucks. I’m trying not to be a hater on this one, which is rare for me, but I AM SO SICK OF BRETT FAVRE. And the thing is, it’s not even his fault!
Favre is one of the most admirable sportsmen of the last 20 years and whether he’s throwing 5 touchdowns or 5 interceptions, watching him play is always an absolute joy. But I just can’t handle hearing about him anymore. Not that stories about Adam Jones or Michael Vick are better but the way the media tongues his balls from August to January and then waits around Hattiesburg like lost puppies looking for a bone in the off-season has completely crossed the boundaries of reason. Just the other day, that beached whale Chris Berman actually said, "Cheering for Brett Favre is like cheering for America!" Are you kidding me? I know I’m being selfish and that I’m in the minority on this one but since Favre isn’t going away for at least another season (nor should he, to be honest), is it too much to ask for the media to give it a bloody rest for once? Or maybe, perhaps, can we just call Greenpeace and have Berman towed back out to sea?
I’m sure one of these options is totally within reason.
picture via: citypages.com
As the loyalists know, I am an annual participant in the Festivus Extravaganza with my boys at The Airing of Grievances. But since Festivus falls on a Sunday this year, things are being celebrated today in order to maximize participation. Though I am somehow more angry this year than last (surprising given the rancid bitterness in last year’s grievings) and about even with the year before, my complaints are really pretty tame. I don’t even know if I dropped an f-bomb… it’s kinda depressing really and I’m sorry.
It’s fair to say that grievances are aired here at flashwarner.com in virtually every post but there’s still something fun about finding the things that chap my ass the most (at present) and participating in a mass bitchfest. This is my third year doing so (2005 and 2006) and it is unbelievably gratifying. But enough fellatio. It’s time to get things rolling.
I’ve got a lotta problems with you people…
To Al Davis: Thanks for nothing! We have Randy Moss, the most dangerous receiver in the NFL for, what, three years and this guy couldn’t accomplish dick. And it’s not like he rolled into the Bay with his typical "Yeah, I’m the laziest SOB on the planet. What’s it to ya" attitude either. In the beginning, Moss was actually trying! But it’s hard to stay positive when Martin Lawrence is "throwing" you the ball.
So you ship him off to New England for 3 cheeseburgers and a pack of Newports and now he’s got a Hall of Fame career. It’s like you felt bad for bringing him to Oakland at all, so you tried to make amends. So what do you do as an encore to an epic case of hospitality? You take a role as the Crystal Skull in Indiana Jones 4.
Nice commitment to YOUR excellence, Al. How about spending a little time on the Raiders now. Jerk.
To DirecTV: Your advertising agency needs to be slapped around with sticks and tossed off a bridge. The whole point of commercials is to get people to buy your products, not ram their heads through walls. Every time I see Beyonce Knowles gyrating, foot shuffling, and fierce walking through your spots (which is every 3 minutes), I beg the nearest person to choke me out.
This Upgrade commercial is the most baffling and preposterous ad of all time. I don’t know if it’s Beyonce’s bizarre Axl Rose-like foot shuffle and scallywag, her horrendous speaking ability or the way she rolls over to reveal a gold "UPGRADE" chain in her mouth that was no doubt purchased from a bubble gum machine outside Wal-Mart. The whole spot is truly astonishing in its hideousness. I’m almost inclined to believe it was funded by the cable industry to put you out of business. If so, is Beyonce in on the joke? Likely not; she’s too busy 1-click ordering boomerangs off amazon.com.
"Lemme lemme lemme upgradejya-gradejya." Upgrade, indeed. The only thing you’re upgrading me to is suicide watch, DirecTV. 2 enthusiastic thumbs down.
To Faux Punk Avril Lavigne: I was caught in traffic the other day and flipped through radio channels only to discover that you actually had the nerve to sing this:
I hate it when a guy doesn’t understand
Why a certain time of month I don’t want to hold his hand
I hate it when they go out and we stay in
And they come home smelling like their ex-girlfriend
I’m just spitballin here, Avril, but my guess is that your boyfriend cheats because you won’t hold his hand simply due to the fact that you’re menstruating, you stupid bitch.
To people that bitch about the Patriots: I have sat in seething hatred of the New England Patriots since the Tuck Rule ruined my hopes way back in 2002. But even though I’m a depressed, Silver & Black degenerate, I’ll still take awe-inspiring dominance every day of the week and twice on Sunday over the rest of this season’s mediocre shit snoggery. Parity is for sucks. Stop complaining.
To Steve McClaren: You should you should have been sacked AT Wembley – right on that jacked up pitch. And I don’t mean fired. I’m talking literally sacked – beaten with your brolly, black bagged Peter Creedy style and carried away into the rainy night. Good luck with your prehistoric tactics in Iraq or Kansas City or whatever sorry squad settles on you as their shaman of mediocrity.
To Tony Dungy: "I won the Super Bowl the Lord’s Way." Why, because you don’t come from the Vince Lombardi School of Verbal Assault and don’t seem to have a pulse? Let me fill you in on something – the fire and brimstone G-d that I know – Christians will know him from the Old Testament – isn’t about calm and chill. Though it’s true that He can love and be compassionate, the Almighty is vengeful and hot-tempered and He will not hesitate to kick you in the teeth with his Mighty Boot of Justice, also known as Samael, the Angel of Death. This cat doesn’t turn the other cheek and He doesn’t brush things aside. He rolls down from on high to beat that ass. Casting Satan out of Paradise, torching Sodom and Gomorrah, lighting people up in the New Testament’s Apocalypse? THAT is the Lord’s Way. The only thing you’re practicing is the Tony Dungy Way. Stop giving credit where it isn’t due.
To Jewelry Stores: You’ve been shilling a false Economics of the Pussy propaganda for years. It’s offensive and you’re just setting men up for failure. You know what happens to the guy that really believes the Kiss Begins with Kay? He makes out a little, she goes to bed and then he’s cranking one off in the shower like Lester Burnham. Sure, the kiss begins with Kay but it ends there as well.
As such, I’ve created a totally reasonable and legitimate Diamond Reaction Index to let men know exactly what they should expect to collect as a return on different levels of investment:
Happy Festivus one and all, boys and girls!
About a half second after being considered a candidate to replace He Who Shall Not Be Named, Portsmouth boss Harry Redknapp was arrested on suspicion of conspiracy to defraud and false accounting following Lord Stevens’ football bung investigation.
Psst, Americans! Bungs are bribes – secret and unauthorised payments that agents make to club officials to help secure transfer deals. The club pays the agent a fee for arranging the transfer of a player, but the agent then illegally returns a cut of this sum to the club official personally as a "payment" for allowing the deal to go ahead in the first place.
In the biggest crackdown on football corruption ever mounted on a single day, the police also raided the homes of and arrested: former Portsmouth owner and current Leicester chair Milan Mandaric, Pompey chief executive Peter Storrie, Charlton player Amdy Faye (on loan at Rangers) and agent Willie McKay. This follows Tottenham defender Pascal Chimbonda’s arrest for similar issues in September. McKay, who once named a racehorse ‘Harry Redknapp’, was involved in Chimbonda’s £4.5m move from Wigan to Spuds last August.
Well there goes the only legitimate English candidate for the England job and frankly, that’s just fine with me. In an ideal world, we’d have an English boss but none of the available options have the desired talent or experience. So thanks but no thanks. All Redknapp did here, aside from become the first name to drop in what will likely be a rather eye-opening investigation, is save the FA from dealing with the thousands of jingoistic whingers that would prefer to sacrifice highest quality for preferred nationality.
Now, it’ll be months or years before we learn if Harry Redknapp had any real involvement in this but one thing he is presently guilty of is being a freaking dumb ass. After being fingerprinted, DNA swabbed and kept at the Chichester Police Station all day before being released on bail, the Pompey boss had this to say:
"We all helped the police with their inquiries, but it doesn’t directly concern me, it’s other people involved. I’ve been answering questions to help the police. I am not directly concerned with their inquiries… "They have to arrest you to talk to you, for you to be in the police station. I think that’s the end of it, it didn’t directly concern me."
They have to arrest you to talk to you. What in the hell kind of nonsense is that? The police just don’t go around arresting witnesses all willy nilly. What they do is contact you and say, "Hey ‘Arry, we’ve got an investigation going on. You mind coming in and telling us what you can? Yah? Brilliant." They don’t fingerprint you, swab your DNA, raid your home, take your computers, detain you or release you on bail like a criminal unless, oop!, they suspect that you ARE a criminal! Dumb bastard.
An additional thumbs down to Harry’s son Mark, former model and failed football agent, who believes the arrest is a big conspiracy to scupper his dad’s chances of becoming England boss:
"Why is this happening now when the England job is vacant? There was no need for them to come around like this."
Smart chaps, those Redknapps. Someone in the English justice system has manipulated a multi-million pound investigation just to make sure Harry isn’t as attractive an option to the FA as, say, Fabio Capello, Jose Mourinho or Juergen Klinsmann. That makes complete sense. About as much sense as the police arresting people in order to talk to them.
So I live with three boys. I love them dearly but like most men, when they put their heads together, they turn into prehistoric idiots. Normally, this doesn’t faze me but last night, I was left nothing short of lost.
For at least two weeks they’ve been talking about building a bonfire – not for a party or anything, which is completely legit, but because "that’d be cool." But with an inch of snow on the ground, what’s the point, right? No. I got home to find a heap of wood in my backyard and the lads going to town on it with axes. They were wearing work gloves and hats and the whole deal. It was a ridiculous sight that I, sadly, let pass without comment. But when I happened upon 2 economy cans of Dinty Moore beef stew simmering on the stove, I poked my head back out to ask where they parked Babe the Blue Ox. They were not amused.
Eventually they called me back outside to join them in the supposed magic. Now, I was told a bonfire was in the making, which, to me, meant I’d see a free-wheeling beast made of anything and everything that would inspire drunkards and potheads to magically appear, hold hands and dance around in one of those scenes reminiscent of a Grateful Dead concert.
But this was no bonfire. Christ, it wasn’t even a campfire. This looked more like the Dinty Moore flame from the kitchen. If I got a toothpick, I might have been able to roast a mini-marshmallow. So you know me – I couldn’t help but point these things out and, yet again, they got indignant. To make amends, I offered to get some lighter fluid…
"Ugh! We don’t need lighter fluid, Flash!" "Yeah! We can build a fire without all that, THANKS!" I don’t know who they thought they were. This isn’t Man vs. Wild, ya know? I didn’t see flint and a bunch of rocks just laying around.
In any case, they stacked, steepled, prodded, poked, rearranged and stacked some more. After another 10 minutes of poking, a real fire began to sustain itself. It reached one foot in height and then two. And that’s when they went crazy. Hooting, hollering, patting each other on the back. It was like watching the monkeys at the zoo. Somehow in this process, 5 more males arrived with a dog in tow, as if they sensed fire creation and were drawn to our house by primal instinct. Not surprisingly, the emoting continued and soon they were all heaping on more logs. After the fire reached 6 or so feet, the herd sat around it and watched in amazement.
"That’s an incredible fire," commented one. "Yeah, that’s reeeeeeally, really nice." Heads nodded in agreement. "We should throw on more logs and see how big it’ll get." "No. Let it chill. Goood stuff." My mouth fell open. This shit was not that deep. But after four or five minutes passed without another word, I went in the house. Fucking weirdos.
Now, fires are a breathtaking and quite fun to look at – I get that. But what’s the deal with the self-congratulatory bonding over building one? And why be so enamored with the quality of blaze? It took 3 hours to make it and in a quarter the time, a separate fire could have spontaneously erupted on its own and burned down half the block. To make matters worse, these goons were outside for God knows how long, doing little more, than staring at it, nodding to each other and randomly poking it with sticks. When I woke up this morning, it was gone. I’m not sure how they put it out but if they all peed on it, I wouldn’t be remotely surprised.
About an hour ago one of them called me, "Hey, did you see the fire last night." "Uh, I was out there with you." "Yeah, well… it was a gooood fire."