Recently in Shallow Observations Category

From 2005 - 2008, I celebrated Festivus at my favorite blog The Airing of Grievances. But time took its toll on the old girl, and by the time Festivus 2009 rolled around, the AofG was no longer the mighty beast of awesome I'd come to know and love. So I checked out of the game. Well, a couple days ago, a request came through my inbox and I said what the hell. I returned to the AofG to bitch today, which means, obviously, I've returned to my own blog as well.

ESPN: You are some triflin motherfuckers. So Rex Ryan has a foot fetish. He and his wife even get down with BDSM and swingers. Big fucking deal. Does it affect the New York Jets? No. Does it affect his job performance? Please. Does it have any impact on the NFL? Not at all. So why do you have anything to say about it? You had no trouble going silent on Ben Roethlisberger's sexual assault allegations, but ensuring that Sports Nation knows that the NFL and the Jets consider this a personal matter we should all fuck off from is news? Fuck that. You're Deadspin with a larger staff, better videos, and a played out Bill Simmons. The sooner someone drops a bomb on Bristol, the better off the world will be. 

Chris Berman: I hate you with the fire of 10,000 suns. And no, it's not because your lack of preparation causes you to stutter and stammer while reading the teleprompter; or that your cultural knowledge was cryogenically frozen around the time Tears for Fears broke up; or even because you're so fat that you can't say more than five words without descending into a breathless grumble.

It's this: “Just don’t call me a personality. What is that? That’s a morning disc jockey. I entertain, but I take what I do, the journalism part, seriously.”

FUUUUCK-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK you. My left breast has more substance. You are an automatic mute; a clown; a jester; a jock sniffing beached whale in a Men's Warehouse suit whom Greenpeace needs to tow back to sea. Sports coverage is buried in the avalanche of your journalistic inadequacies, you fat, vaudevillian fuck, and it'll likely never recover. Die.

Jenn Sterger: While I enjoyed your near-botched shaming of True Grit Favre, why don't you and your gold digging cock socket do some real philanthropic work and mount Chris Berman? He'll die of a coronary, and I will celebrate you forever as the Whore of Occasional Good Deeds. It's win-win.

Size-challenged men who send pics of their junk: If you're attempting to seduce someone with this method, logic dictates that you send shots of your business at its largest, hardest, and most impressive. But most men aren't logical, are they? Instead of fluffing up and showing off a piece that's ready to do work and turn us out, too many of you send pictures of flaccid, wounded turtle cock and wonder why we aren't turned on. It's as if you're saying to yourselves, "She's been a little resistant. How can I fix it? Ah, yes - a picture of my dick. It's only four inches long and looks like an enlarged thumb, but if I get it at the right angle…" Sorry (Brett), but no. A rule of thumb to all you romantic gentlemen out there: show us something we can use. If your stock looks like it'd be at home with a little relish, mustard, and a bun, put it away.

The AofG: This site was a must visit for years, unlocking the magic on various topics five or six times a week. What happened? Your demise makes me sad, and it must become great again. Cozmo? Jackie Chiles? Frank? Are you out there? Please do something. I want to live here again.

My man's lesbian assistant: You asked your boss to donate sperm to you and your partner three weeks after he found out he's going to be a father. Then you told him that I should contact you if I have any questions or concerns. Bitch, are you crazy? This isn't a fucking sorority. His sperm is claimed, spoken for, taken. It flies my flag. So you and Vanessa need to take your asses to the sperm bank, Vietnam, or a foster home, because the only person having his babies on this planet is me. "We'd like to use your sperm." I ought to kick you in the goddamn neck.

Ron Washington: You do realize Neftali Feliz was in your bullpen, right? He of the 2.73 ERA, .176 opponents’ batting average, and 71/18 K/BB ratio in 69 innings? Since you kept running out Darren Oliver – a corpse with pubic hairs older than you – I wasn't sure. Oh wait, you're the type of fool who snorts up week-old cocaine when there's a purer, fresher batch wasting away right in front of you. Darren Oliver makes perfect sense.

England World Cup team: God save the Queen, huh? For the fifth time in 10 years, you have shamed our nation. Eat a hot bowl of dicks, you preening, gutless slags. I would rather England quit footballing all together than see any of you on a pitch in Her Majesty's colours again. You disgust me.

Robert Green: Yes, I'm still mad at you. I'm also wondering why someone has yet to throw you down a well and fill it with hot tar and bricks. I'd do it myself but I don't know where you live.

Arsenal Football Club: No inspiration, no discipline, no passion, no glory. Oh to be a Gooner.

Arsene Wenger: Some say that Arsenal can't play beautiful football and win silverware. I disagree. It's a very real possibility, but do you know what stands in our way? You. We don't have a viable keeper, a true striker, or any experienced leadership because you sold it all away and replaced it with fetuses. What's that, you say? Cesc can lead us? Please. Cesc couldn't lead this squad of children into a hole in the ground.

"That was the big difference that played in our heads," said Fabregas, after ManUre humiliated us. "Sometimes we seem scared of losing these big games. We don't really go for it and we're tempted to drop back and see what the opposition will do."

Oh Captain, my Captain. Thanks for guiding the troops. The thing is, Arsene, I'd pray for the board to force you into action instead of allowing you to sit untouched in your ivory tower of footballing genius, but what good would it do? If you had to act, all of your buys would be 15 years old still sucking on their mamas' teets. "Our new captain has acne and isn't old enough to drive? That sounds about right, Arsene." Fucker.

My unborn child: Being pregnant is crap. These are supposed to be the most magical 10 months of my life, so this opinion probably makes me a bad mother. There have been magical moments, mind you. I cried when we heard your heartbeat for the first time and again when we watched you punch and kick like a lunatic before relaxing to suck your thumb during the ultrasound. But apart from those amazing 20 minutes and my ramped up sex drive, I'm in a bad way.

If I'm not peeing, I’m nauseated, and if I'm not nauseated, I'm playing chicken with your father's hands, which involuntarily grab at my boobs even though I keep reminding him that my chest feels like it's been pummeled by large, hot rocks. My OBGYN banned me from surfing until you're born (an understandable yet soul-crushing edict), a scene in the Boardwalk Empire finale made me cry, and random people touch my stomach without asking.

However, I now realize my grievance shouldn't be addressed to you but to your father – the guy whose enthusiastic sperm beat the pill; the guy who – much to my extreme dismay – already bought you Celtics onesies and then suggested your middle name be Truth; the guy who runs around dropping "we this" and "we that" as if he also has a human being growing in his body and jumping on his bladder. Some days all of this makes me want to knock his cheery ass out. Needless to say, Baby Flash, today is one of those days.

Happy Festivus, one and all! 

I like to think I can handle most scary things - psychos, serial killers, really aggressive dogs. But the one thing that scares the living hell out of me is the paranormal. The slightest hint of it and I'm running for the hills. And it's not just movies like The Shining and The Ring. It's campy and ridiculous things like Large Marge from Pee-Wee's Big Adventure and Ghostbusters, which I haven't watched since the opening scene turned me into a neurotic, six year old mess back in 1988. It's a sad state of affairs. I couldn't even handle the trailers for Paranormal Activity. For weeks, I kept my eyes closed whenever I woke up in the middle of the night just to be sure I didn't catch some specter standing over my bed.

So given my extreme fear of ghosts, I'm going to take an extreme leap in logic and assert that if anyone can identify them, it's me. And I'm pretty sure that's exactly what I'm seeing in the cockpit (left window) of this plane crash that happened outside of Cleveland yesterday.

I don't have much of a clue about life, the universe or anything that matters, but one thing I do know is that most athletes are cheaters. It doesn't matter if they're men or women, in the professional ranks, college or high school, to paraphrase Chris Rock, an athlete is as faithful as his or her options. Naturally, the ease (and therefore likelihood) of infidelity is often directly proportional to the athlete's status, skill and renown.

So when news broke about Tiger Wood's International Cooze Tour, my only surprise was that people were, well, surprised. The shocked were divided in two camps:

1. "How could he cheat on Elin Nordegren? She's a goddess!" Yeah, she is. But show me one woman that no man would think of cheating on and I'll show you twenty that only the strongest of men could resist.
2. "I don't understand. He was such a focused family man!" No, he's a billionaire, larger than life athlete whose best friends are Michael Jordan and Charles "Around the Corner for a Blow Job" Barkley, two men whose four interests are money, sex, glory and the annihilation of anyone who interferes with that short list.

Unless you were a child or a naive fool, learning these things about Tiger shouldn't have been shocking. The only real surprise here is this:

These are some nasty bitches.

When a man has the ability to not only sleep with 98% of the women on the planet but also be permitted to have degrading, dehumanizing sex with 80% of them, why opt for the paper baggers? And this isn't just a problem that afflicts Tiger. A lot of men cheat with uglier and/or skankier women than they have at home. Maybe it's self-esteem, maybe ugly girls are freakier and easier, maybe these guys are addicts who don't mind dipping their puckers into toxic, cavernous wastelands. I really can't say. The one thing I know for sure is if a man disgraced me with random infidelities, the broads on his ho stroll had better be top shelf tail whose natural beauty would cause even me to nod begrudgingly with understanding. It's the least that cheating bastard could do.

At least then I could rationalise his behaviour. At least then, I could salve my wounds with the false belief that his fidelity was only compromised because a seductive temptress and her hypnotic vagina got in the way. But I tell you this. If he dared rub salt in my wounds by having sex with a woman whose face looks like a foot (see 3rd row, middle), I wouldn't take it out on him with an ironic 6 iron. I'd have a fucking weapon. You want to disrespect me with other women? Fine. Pack your bags and go. But if those women are gutter sluts who look like they just got bukkaked at a truck stop, I'm gonna fuck you up and then call a couple of hard, pipe-hitting fellas to go to work on you with a pair of pliers and a blow torch. What's that? I don't need to get medieval? Oh, well you must be confused. You see, this is what happens when you cheat with a bitch who looks like a fried running shoe.

So a much delayed bravo to Elin Nordegren for taking action. Maybe next time, she'll knock Tiger out on her own instead of having a tree and a fire hydrant handle the end game for her.

Awesome picture from: dlisted

As I'm sure you've ascertained, I was appropriately pwned for betting on Radiohead in the Breeders' Cup Juvenile on Saturday. I know it was dumb but I couldn't fight the compulsion. Sadness abounds. In any case, Radiohead never contended for the win and finished a middling 7th in the 13 horse field. On the bright side, this not so mighty emo steed surely hasn't the skills to qualify for a Triple Crown race, so I don't have to worry about foolishly screwing myself out of money in a few month's time.

---

In other news, Eric Mangini, head "coach" of the Cleveland Browns took stupidity and hubris to a new level today when he refused to announce whether Derek Anderson or Brady Quinn will be the one whose life comes to a sad, unfulfilled end at the hands of Ray Lewis next Monday night. According to reports, Mangini knows who he's going to choose but plans to make his QBs and, laughably, the Baltimore Ravens defense, sweat it out a little.

Ray Lewis should slap this bitch around just for having the nerve.

When you're the conductor of the biggest on-field trainwreck in the NFL, you have no right to be secretive or clever or coy. In fact, as a dead man walking, you have no rights. The only things on your mind should be:

• Finding ways to improve the team
  
• Making the final three months as painless as possible
  
• Showing NFL owners that you're a competent head coach in a bad situation

Mangini has struck out looking on all of the the above, but even worse is that he's arrogant (or delusional?) enough to think the Ravens will buy into his bullshit. What, like they'll develop two game plans? The Browns could start G-d and still lose by 30. Even G-d would tell ya that. What He'd also tell you and what the Ravens already know is that Brady Quinn will be under center on Monday night. Not because this QB selection process was like choosing between agony and despair and despair tasted a little better, but because throwing Quinn back in the mix at week 9 allows the Browns to boost his trade value without triggering $10.5M in performance incentives in his contract.

If I can figure that out, so can the rest of the league, Eric. It's not rocket science. I just wish I could go back in time and un-do that Radiohead bet, so I could throw 5 grand down on the Frowns to be torn limb from limb, set aflame in a funeral pyre and then sent out to sea.

I would have been the winner on that one. 

My gambling problems started at 13 years old. I was selected for a gymnastics team competing in an invitational in Spain; one of those trips where parents don't come - just coaches. As the youngest person on the squad by about four years, I was stupid enough to do anything my teammates suggested. So when they started playing a card game called Between the Sheets (explanation), I dove in.

At first, it was just a pound here and there, but then I got on a roll and landed what had to be the Holy Grail of the game - a high ace and a low ace. "Bet the pot, kid! Bet the pot!" Back then, I was an albino outcast with mad athletic ability but no social skills. You have no idea how good it felt to be palling around with 17 and 18 year olds who were living and dying with your every move. So I did exactly what they told me to do, and, perhaps justly, went down in flames when another ace landed in-between.

As devastating as it was to lose, I'd never felt such a rush. From then on, when I wasn't competing, I was gambling. The last of my £100 pounds spending money was lost to a 17 year old boy on the plane back home. We bet on the flight attendant's hair color. Turns out she wasn't a natural blonde after all.

These days, I'm backed by a self-replenishing gambling fund that keeps me from turning into Antoine Walker. Though I still betting on everything from horse races to sporting events to whether I can beat you in a footrace (you don't want to take that bet), I like to think that I go about things with more smarts. But every once in a while, gambling nirvana sends down signs that force me to remove any amount of good sense from the equation. Case in point:

Radiohead to get crack at Breeders' Cup

Radiohead, the impressive winner of the Norfolk Stakes at Royal Ascot during the summer, has been sold to the New York-based owners of 2008 Kentucky Derby hero Big Brown for a crack at next month's Breeders' Cup Juvenile.

IEAH Stables have purchased a controlling interest in Radiohead for an undisclosed fee, with current connections Carmen Burrell and Jonathan Harvey retaining a 10 per cent stake.

Radiohead will remain in trainer Brian Meehan's care until Santa Anita but the colt's future beyond then has still to be determined.

The deal represents a calculated gamble on behalf of IEAH, as Radiohead has yet to race beyond 1200 metres or on an artificial surface.

In addition to doubts about his stamina to see out the 1600-metre trip of the Juvenile, his new owners will also need to fork out the bulk of an entry fee because Radiohead was not Breeders' Cup registered as a foal.

However, on the upside, his sire, Johannesburg, successfully bridged the distance gap from the Norfolk to the Juvenile during his unbeaten two-year-old campaign in 2001.

"IEAH have been keeping a close eye on Radiohead ever since Ascot, specifically with the Breeders' Cup in mind," said Bloodstock agent Andy Smith, who helped broker the sale.

"He reminds me of Wilko, the horse Jeremy Noseda won the Juvenile with five years ago - a feisty, well-built sort who should do well out in America."

First, WTF on the Wilko bit? How random. Second, long time readers of this site know about my Radiohead fanaticism. The band captured my heart a good year before gambling did, so even though this mighty steed "has yet to race beyond 1200 metres or on an artificial surface," this whole thing just seems like destiny.

The Breeder's Cup Juvenile race is today at Santa Anita Park in Arcadia, California. Since I can't beam myself to California from London, I'll do the next best thing -- get liquored up and hit Ladbrokes. Right now, Radiohead is a 20/1 but I've never been more sure of a bet in my life.

(Picture courtesy of Pitchfork)