If you've watched any television in the past few weeks, you've no doubt encountered Viagra's in-your-face "Viva, Viagra" advertising campaign (you can watch all the spots here). Thanks to an encyclopedic knowledge of the promotion of consumer goods, I was privy the campaign but had not seen an ad until the NCAA tournament. Imagine my surprise when what appeared to be an innocuous recording session turned into an extended jam singing, literally, the praises of the pill that gets you poised for penetration.
I'm still trying to wrap my brain around the minute-long encomium to erections, but a few things stand out in my mind.
1. Why the time stamp?
Really, what functional purpose does placing "Nashville 1:22 a.m." at the front end of the ad serve? Is it to tell the audience that boner jams only happen in the wee hours of the morning? Perhaps to let us know that after a marathon session in the studio deliriousness sets in and the only thing our twangy star can think about is a rock-hard uterus bruiser? Maybe it is to lend credibility to the countrified band since, after all, Nashville is HQ for all things Country.
2. How do they all play and sing along so easily?
Normally a group of dudes this in tune with their throbbing members is called a circle jerk. In this instance though, everyone picks up his (musical) instrument and joins the sing-a-long like Rodgers and freakin' Hammerstein are on set.
3. Why, exactly, are you SINGING ABOUT YOUR WEINER?
I suppose I can suspend belief enough to imagine a scenario where a bunch of guys are sitting around singing about sildenafil citrate, but why the hell would you? Look, you need a pill to make your unit work; you should be taking advantage of that toot sweet, not crooning about it. It's almost 1:30 in the morning dude, get home and start giving it to your wife. As much as she loves your albums, she probably loves your surprisingly non-flaccid man meat more.
Monday, March 31, 2008
HMNIG's Shameless Us Weekly Moment
So a movie is being partially shot in DC. It's called State of Play, and stars Russel Crowe, Rachel McAdams, and Ben Affleck. Now, I think it's clear how I feel about celebrity trash outlets. But friends of mine happen to live next door to the Masonic Temple and Library here in DC where they were filming scenes for the movie. Which is kinda cool.
And of course, Colleen, who lives in aforementioned apartment, collects Us Weekly and People magazines like they're cans of beans before a thermonuclear war. She feeds on this shit. Last week she showed me pictures she took of Crowe and McAdams standing outside her apartment. I think she's trying to sell them.
My second brush with celebrity (the first was running into John McCain outside an elevator at a hotel in San Diego) came Friday night, as I was walking to Brian and Colleen's apartment from my own. Jamie and I are walking, me carrying a twelver of Bud, her continuing a story that has already lasted six blocks. We're walking past the temple, because we have to. Nothing's blocked off, but there are trucks and equipment and people everywhere. Jamie's had a few, so she's talking like she's running out of air. I look to my left, and Crowe is walking past about six feet away. Jamie, deep in her story (and a bottle of wine), fails to notice until I ask if she saw him. By this time we're further down the street, and Crowe apparently already got in a black Escalade. Oh well.
So we get up in the apartment, and there's Colleen, glued to the window with a pair of binoculars. I promptly call her creepy, crack a beer, and start playing Wii baseball. An inning and a half later, I hear girlish commotion coming from the window, along with high-pitched shrieks of "Ben!!" I casually inquire what in hell is going on. Brian says something about Affleck being outside. Jamie, down about missing Crowe, desires to make up for it. So what better to do than open the window and yell, "BEN AFFLECK!!! GOOD LUCK WITH THE MOVIE!" To her delight, he acknowledges with a wave. Well, I guess it's hard to ignore something like that.
I look at Brian, and we share an unspoken desire to hide in a closet so as not to be associated with the drooling middleschoolers that our usually well-mannered and sophisticated girlfriends have been reduced to. Shrugging off the encounter, Colleen boldly asserts, "I wish it were Brad Pitt doing this movie." Ah, well. When you're as deep into The Industry as Colleen is, you're able to make such demands.
I admit, the whole experience was kinda cool. But those magazines still make me sick. If were any more shameless, I would post the pictures that Colleen took. But I'm not, so I won't.
The Temple, with Brian and Colleen's building on the right
And of course, Colleen, who lives in aforementioned apartment, collects Us Weekly and People magazines like they're cans of beans before a thermonuclear war. She feeds on this shit. Last week she showed me pictures she took of Crowe and McAdams standing outside her apartment. I think she's trying to sell them.
My second brush with celebrity (the first was running into John McCain outside an elevator at a hotel in San Diego) came Friday night, as I was walking to Brian and Colleen's apartment from my own. Jamie and I are walking, me carrying a twelver of Bud, her continuing a story that has already lasted six blocks. We're walking past the temple, because we have to. Nothing's blocked off, but there are trucks and equipment and people everywhere. Jamie's had a few, so she's talking like she's running out of air. I look to my left, and Crowe is walking past about six feet away. Jamie, deep in her story (and a bottle of wine), fails to notice until I ask if she saw him. By this time we're further down the street, and Crowe apparently already got in a black Escalade. Oh well.
So we get up in the apartment, and there's Colleen, glued to the window with a pair of binoculars. I promptly call her creepy, crack a beer, and start playing Wii baseball. An inning and a half later, I hear girlish commotion coming from the window, along with high-pitched shrieks of "Ben!!" I casually inquire what in hell is going on. Brian says something about Affleck being outside. Jamie, down about missing Crowe, desires to make up for it. So what better to do than open the window and yell, "BEN AFFLECK!!! GOOD LUCK WITH THE MOVIE!" To her delight, he acknowledges with a wave. Well, I guess it's hard to ignore something like that.
I look at Brian, and we share an unspoken desire to hide in a closet so as not to be associated with the drooling middleschoolers that our usually well-mannered and sophisticated girlfriends have been reduced to. Shrugging off the encounter, Colleen boldly asserts, "I wish it were Brad Pitt doing this movie." Ah, well. When you're as deep into The Industry as Colleen is, you're able to make such demands.
I admit, the whole experience was kinda cool. But those magazines still make me sick. If were any more shameless, I would post the pictures that Colleen took. But I'm not, so I won't.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Love/Hate List
It's Friday, and that means more things I love and hate:
Love
-When guys get older and fatter, their ties get longer in order to end at the same place on the belly. See illustration.
Love
-When guys get older and fatter, their ties get longer in order to end at the same place on the belly. See illustration.
In this example, y = the height of the tie, from neck to bottom. This is not a measure of distance. The length of the tie is measured by x. In a normal adult male, x/y = 1. In the fatbody pictured on the right, x/y = >1. This is because x has been increased in order for y to remain constant. x is elongated in order to compensate for the curve of the belly, which is quantifiable as the function -(x^2-x)=y.
-Lupe Fiasco's new album, especially single "Superstar"
-The upcoming live-action GIJoe movie
-Puppies
Hate
-My Microsoft Paint skills (top of page, this article)
-The Jonas Brothers. Who the fuck are these hippies, and why are they in Thursday's USA Today and all over the radio?
-Accidentally erasing all the music on my iPod yesterday
-Foreigners
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Why You Suck (2)
This week's edition of Why You Suck is brought to you by the retard in the cubicle four down from you. Let's call him...Bob.
Wife: Hello?
Wife: Oh, hi honey.
Bob: SO LISTEN TO HOW MUCH MOLLY IS SCREWING UP.
***Hour passes***
Bob: AND DOESN'T SHE HAVE DANCE LESSONS TODAY? LET'S TALK ABOUT HER COLLEGE OPTIONS. AND HER COMMUNITY SERVICE IS ALMOST DONE WITH...
Bob: HELLO!?!!?
Wife: Hi, it's me!
Bob: HI! HOW'S YOUR DAY GOING? MINE'S FINE. I HAVE A LOT OF WORK TO DO. BUT BEFORE I GET TO ANY OF IT, TELL ME EVERYTHING THAT'S HAPPENED TO YOU IN THE TWO HOURS SINCE I'VE SEEN YOU.
Wife: Well, ok...Do you wan't to talk about all the crap that can probably wait until eight hours from now when I see you again?
Bob: OF COURSE. WHY WOULDN'T WE TALK ABOUT THAT?
***Fifty-eight minutes later***
Bob: HOLD ON, DEAR, MY CELLPHONE IS RINGING. I'LL CALL YOU BACK.
Wife: Ok, I love you!
Bob: I LOVE YOU TOO! TALK TO YOU SOON!
Molly (name has been changed): Hi Dad!
Bob: HI! HOW'S YOUR DAY GOING???
Molly: OMG! (Continues to spill guts)
***Thirty-three minutes later***
Bob: OK, HONEY, I HAVE TO GO GET SOME WORK DONE. I'LL TALK TO YOU IN SIX HOURS WHEN I GET HOME.
(Dials number on office phone)
Wife: Hello?Bob: HI, IT'S ME AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Wife: Oh, hi honey.
Bob: SO LISTEN TO HOW MUCH MOLLY IS SCREWING UP.
***Hour passes***
Bob: AND DOESN'T SHE HAVE DANCE LESSONS TODAY? LET'S TALK ABOUT HER COLLEGE OPTIONS. AND HER COMMUNITY SERVICE IS ALMOST DONE WITH...
Repeat at least twice daily. Take cyanide as needed.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Birdman Checks in Wit Ya's
Birdman here, checkin' in wit ya's. Welp, we're in da depths of another offseason. I'm home more and my wife gets beat less. She says she breaks even, whatever da hell that means.
It's lookin' good for Da Iggles dis year. Like ya didn't fuckin' know, we picked up Asante Samuels. Good get, Birds. Up'pere wit Lito and Brian? SHUT DOWN. Now if we can draft a good reciever, it looks like another NFC Championship year. Of course, we're gonna do it without recievers, anyways. Cause were Da Birds.
I got dat goin' for me, dat and my season tickets should be coming in da mail soon. I had to take out a second mortgage on da house, but if da Birdman ain't at da games, what da hell are da Iggles gon' do? Dey NEED me! If only my wife appreciated me as much as da udder Iggles fans. Speakin' of which, where is dat bitch? Da kids need picked up from school and Birdman needs dinner, and he ain't about ta put pants on ta do eeder a doze.
Dis is Birdman, signing off. GO BIRDS!!!
Political Minute
In the spirit of the 2008 presidential elections, I’m giving you an inside-the-beltway look at the secret lives and accomplishments of past presidents to get you geared up for November.
William Howard Taft (1909-13) was both the 27th president of the United States and the 10th chief justice of the United States, the only man to ever hold both offices.
But it was his innate curiosity and work with fluid mechanics – most notably his discovery of displacement – that history has, regrettably, forgotten.
See the man was fat. Orca fat. But Taft and all his largesse existed in a pre-modern era -- before the modern photograph, before moving pictures, even before magnetic resonance imaging. There was no way to measure BMI.
And what a BMI it must have been. Taft’s military advisors joked that Taft was "too young to fight in the Civil War and too fat to take part in the Spanish War." Even his own mother wrote in a letter, a few weeks after William was born, that the baby “is very large of his age and grows fat every day."
Prophetic.
Taft got stuck in the White House bathtub and it took four men to remove him. After that incident, a new oversized bathtub was installed that was 7 feet long and 3.5 feet wide. After it was manufactured, four men fit inside the tub for a photograph.
Author Andrew Tully recalled the bathroom for a May 1952 issue of The Plumbing News: "Our President's tub was a good seven feet long---the kind in which a man can stretch out in when he comes home from the office, all tired out from working over a hot Republican."
It was in this oversized basin – which was nicknamed the “Fountain of Time” (no lie) where Taft discovered – among other things -- that displacement occurs when an object (in this case, Taft) is immersed in a fluid, pushing water out of the way and taking its place.
He figured (correctly) that the volume of the fluid displaced could then be measured and from this, the volume of the immersed object (again, Taft) can be deduced, thus changing the landscape of junior high science forever.
Bonus: a woodcarving of the actual moment where Taft discovered displacement.
Since Taft lived in a simpler time, before photography, artists who sketched the president were able to liberally improve the president’s image, which is why he looks so ripped in this woodcarving.
William Howard Taft (1909-13) was both the 27th president of the United States and the 10th chief justice of the United States, the only man to ever hold both offices.
But it was his innate curiosity and work with fluid mechanics – most notably his discovery of displacement – that history has, regrettably, forgotten.
See the man was fat. Orca fat. But Taft and all his largesse existed in a pre-modern era -- before the modern photograph, before moving pictures, even before magnetic resonance imaging. There was no way to measure BMI.
And what a BMI it must have been. Taft’s military advisors joked that Taft was "too young to fight in the Civil War and too fat to take part in the Spanish War." Even his own mother wrote in a letter, a few weeks after William was born, that the baby “is very large of his age and grows fat every day."
Prophetic.
Taft got stuck in the White House bathtub and it took four men to remove him. After that incident, a new oversized bathtub was installed that was 7 feet long and 3.5 feet wide. After it was manufactured, four men fit inside the tub for a photograph.
Author Andrew Tully recalled the bathroom for a May 1952 issue of The Plumbing News: "Our President's tub was a good seven feet long---the kind in which a man can stretch out in when he comes home from the office, all tired out from working over a hot Republican."
It was in this oversized basin – which was nicknamed the “Fountain of Time” (no lie) where Taft discovered – among other things -- that displacement occurs when an object (in this case, Taft) is immersed in a fluid, pushing water out of the way and taking its place.
He figured (correctly) that the volume of the fluid displaced could then be measured and from this, the volume of the immersed object (again, Taft) can be deduced, thus changing the landscape of junior high science forever.
Bonus: a woodcarving of the actual moment where Taft discovered displacement.
Since Taft lived in a simpler time, before photography, artists who sketched the president were able to liberally improve the president’s image, which is why he looks so ripped in this woodcarving.
The Day You Were Born Was the Day I Learned to Hate
A very special birthday to Brunswick P. Danforth, my erstwhile constituent. Today marks his 26th birthday, which happens to be March 26th. Some call this a "supersonic" birthday, but to them I say, "puh." Sounds pretty gay.
It is, however, another reason to get wistfully pissed at the local pub. Barkeep! Another snifter of brandy, my good man. And make it stout. Today is this fellow's 26th anniversary of birth!
But in all seriousness, I'm glad Brunswick was born today. Otherwise I'd have nothing else to post.
But in all seriousness, I'm glad Brunswick was born today. Otherwise I'd have nothing else to post.
HMNIG to Wednesday: Fuck You
Wednesday sucks. Sometimes you think it's Thursday, but it's not. Thursday's are Friday's gatekeeper; you have to pay your dues to get to Friday, but once you're there, it's freakin' sweet.
Monday is a unavoidable. Accept it.
Tuesday is the day to get things done, because there's nothing you can do about the fact that it's Tuesday. Friday is so far away it's not even worth thinking about.
But Wednesday is like a tickle on the balls without a handjob. All tease, no substance. At least Thursday has Lost.
And who the hell thought Wednesday should be called "hump day?" I want to pull that person's small intestines out through their nipple hole. Not that it's such a bad idea; a day for humping sounds good to me. But the reality of the expression is it's halfway through the week, hence, getting "over the hump." Like I need one more reminder I'm only halfway through the fucking week.
...
Sorry, I had to stop typing for a minute. I was busy gagging on someone's ill-advised attempt to poison me with office coffee. That shit was corrosive. It burns. I'm convulsing. I'm shivering. I just vomited. The aftertaste is still lingering. It probably will all day. I'm going to kill everyone.
But hey, at least it's hump day.
Monday is a unavoidable. Accept it.
Tuesday is the day to get things done, because there's nothing you can do about the fact that it's Tuesday. Friday is so far away it's not even worth thinking about.
But Wednesday is like a tickle on the balls without a handjob. All tease, no substance. At least Thursday has Lost.
And who the hell thought Wednesday should be called "hump day?" I want to pull that person's small intestines out through their nipple hole. Not that it's such a bad idea; a day for humping sounds good to me. But the reality of the expression is it's halfway through the week, hence, getting "over the hump." Like I need one more reminder I'm only halfway through the fucking week.
...
Sorry, I had to stop typing for a minute. I was busy gagging on someone's ill-advised attempt to poison me with office coffee. That shit was corrosive. It burns. I'm convulsing. I'm shivering. I just vomited. The aftertaste is still lingering. It probably will all day. I'm going to kill everyone.
But hey, at least it's hump day.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Friday Love/Hate List
Due to my recent (and until Shamrock Fest, successful) stint in rehab, I wasn't able to create my weekly posts. Well, today begins the Friday Love/Hate list. It's self-explanatory, but you might be a retard. Regardless, I'm not going to explain it.
Love
-St. Patrick's Day. Really, no elaboration needed.
-Along those lines, Shamrock Fest. Smelled pot for the first time since college. Yeah, I'm a square.
-Putting money on NCAA Tourney. Makes me give a fuck about Drake.
-Call of Duty 4, XBox 360. Modern weapons, modern tactics, modern war. Modern geek.
-The Wire on DVD. Never watched when it was on HBO. So bitchin' when you can watch one episode and immediately watch the next. Question of the day: what dude is Omar gonna bang this season?
Hate
-The Day After St. Patrick's Day. Notice no new posts from Tuesday.
-Losing money on NCAA Tourney.
-Getting stage fright when I really do have to piss. Why is it that when dude goes to piss next to me, suddenly my pee pee muscles seize up like C3PO on Tattoine. Investigation to follow.
-Celebrity ANYTHING (see below)
-Buying "Medel of Honor: Airborne" for 50% off at Best Buy, and not being able to play it because "Seriously? You can't think of ANYTHING better to do than sit around and play video games like you're 12?" Honestly, girlfriends just don't understand the finer points of conducting airborne operations deep behind German and Italian lines in order to destroy anti-aircraft or artillery installations which will allow the attack or movement of follow-on forces for the continuation of the invasion of mainland Europe. Maybe you'd like to be speaking German, but me, I got a war to win.
Love
-St. Patrick's Day. Really, no elaboration needed.
-Along those lines, Shamrock Fest. Smelled pot for the first time since college. Yeah, I'm a square.
-Putting money on NCAA Tourney. Makes me give a fuck about Drake.
-Call of Duty 4, XBox 360. Modern weapons, modern tactics, modern war. Modern geek.
-The Wire on DVD. Never watched when it was on HBO. So bitchin' when you can watch one episode and immediately watch the next. Question of the day: what dude is Omar gonna bang this season?
Hate
-The Day After St. Patrick's Day. Notice no new posts from Tuesday.
-Losing money on NCAA Tourney.
-Getting stage fright when I really do have to piss. Why is it that when dude goes to piss next to me, suddenly my pee pee muscles seize up like C3PO on Tattoine. Investigation to follow.
-Celebrity ANYTHING (see below)
-Buying "Medel of Honor: Airborne" for 50% off at Best Buy, and not being able to play it because "Seriously? You can't think of ANYTHING better to do than sit around and play video games like you're 12?" Honestly, girlfriends just don't understand the finer points of conducting airborne operations deep behind German and Italian lines in order to destroy anti-aircraft or artillery installations which will allow the attack or movement of follow-on forces for the continuation of the invasion of mainland Europe. Maybe you'd like to be speaking German, but me, I got a war to win.
Why You Suck
If only I had the rest of my life to write this. I think I'll make this a new Thursday feature, unless I'm hungover and think it's Thursday but it's actually Tuesday. Lot of similar letters there, easy mistake to make. Just yesterday I thought it was Thursday. That's not even CLOSE to the word "Wednesday." But then, Tuesday was a washout, what with post-St. Pat's armageddon raging in my skull. As was Wednesday. Which, for two hours, was Thursday. After that it was Angryday, otherwise known as when Thursday reverted back to Wednesday. But I digress.
Back to not liking you. This time, it's because you think celebrities are "OMG, soooooo beautiful and awesome and [eyes widening, speech becoming rapid] and talented and interesting and [head exploding]. Because, in reality, no.
Seriously. No.
Recently my breaking point for the amount of this shit I can take was today when, from three different news sources, I heard/read about 1) Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony's twins, 2) Halle Barry's kid, and 3) Brad and Angelina's (OMG, BEST couple EVER!) upcoming twins.
The happy couple
Isn't it enough that every time Britny Spears has an off-colored shit we have to know about? Now we have to know everything about every celebrity's fuck trophies? Dammit.
Back to not liking you. This time, it's because you think celebrities are "OMG, soooooo beautiful and awesome and [eyes widening, speech becoming rapid] and talented and interesting and [head exploding]. Because, in reality, no.
Seriously. No.
Recently my breaking point for the amount of this shit I can take was today when, from three different news sources, I heard/read about 1) Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony's twins, 2) Halle Barry's kid, and 3) Brad and Angelina's (OMG, BEST couple EVER!) upcoming twins.
The happy coupleIsn't it enough that every time Britny Spears has an off-colored shit we have to know about? Now we have to know everything about every celebrity's fuck trophies? Dammit.
Why do you care? Really, why? Email me, write me, call me (not really), something, anything. Is there something I'm just not getting? Why do you care what these people's kids look like and what they're doing. There's a 94.7% chance you're kids will be ugly, anyway. And possibly retarded. No need to raise your expectations.
So put down your can of PBR and your Us Magazine, turn off Entertainment Weekly, call Cletus and Marlene in from the landfill and spend some time with your own demon spawn. Stop worrying about people that shouldn't matter to you's kids.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Pennypacker and Danforth: An Historical Retrospective
Yes, I've linked to it before, but the folks at someecards are really bang on. The makeup of the acquaintanceship between Pennypacker and me is best described in the following five cards:
Forgive the redundant nature of this redundantly published exercise in redundancy.
Forgive the redundant nature of this redundantly published exercise in redundancy.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
March Matters
Aside from being the birth month of yours truly (though it is debatable whether that is a plus or minus for humanity), along with some other top notch folks I know, March is important for a number of reasons. Perhaps in his newfound sobriety, Pennypacker forgot that St. Patrick's Day used to be his favorite holiday. Guy had a year-long countdown and would awake at 6 a.m. for a ceremonial car bomb, amongst other nefarious hijinks. Anyway, enjoy a sampling of March happenings:
The Good
Articles of Confederation established - 1781
Sir William Herschel, amateur humorist, discovers Uranus - 1781
Stoners of the Revolution, a lesser known offshoot of Daughters of the Revolution, rejoice as Vermont is welcomed into the Union - 1791
Ulysses "The S stands for shitkickin'" Grant takes control of the Federal Army - 1863
Bicycle enthusiast Albert Einstein born - 1879
Star Spangled Banner becomes our National Anthem - 1931
Dictator/wedding singer Joseph Stalin calls it a life - 1953
The Bad
Ohio (1803) and Nebraska (1867) enter the Union
Texas becomes a free agent - 1836
Congress outlaws polygamy - 1882
Congress fucks with time, approves daylight savings - 1918
America's greatest president, by weight, William H. Taft dies - 1930
Yoko Yoko's the Beatles; marries Lennon - 1969
Genius television producer decided "We need more boring!" C-Span hits the airwaves - 1979
The Ugly
The soothsayer was right! Caesar carved up by his pals - 44 B.C.
Boston Massacre - 1770
Three Mile Island validates "Harrisburg is a toxic shit hole" claims - 1979
Booze and huge oil tankers don't mix; Exxon-Valdez - 1989
The Good
Articles of Confederation established - 1781
Sir William Herschel, amateur humorist, discovers Uranus - 1781
Stoners of the Revolution, a lesser known offshoot of Daughters of the Revolution, rejoice as Vermont is welcomed into the Union - 1791
Ulysses "The S stands for shitkickin'" Grant takes control of the Federal Army - 1863
Bicycle enthusiast Albert Einstein born - 1879
Star Spangled Banner becomes our National Anthem - 1931
Dictator/wedding singer Joseph Stalin calls it a life - 1953
The Bad
Ohio (1803) and Nebraska (1867) enter the Union
Texas becomes a free agent - 1836
Congress outlaws polygamy - 1882
Congress fucks with time, approves daylight savings - 1918
America's greatest president, by weight, William H. Taft dies - 1930
Yoko Yoko's the Beatles; marries Lennon - 1969
Genius television producer decided "We need more boring!" C-Span hits the airwaves - 1979
The Ugly
The soothsayer was right! Caesar carved up by his pals - 44 B.C.
Boston Massacre - 1770
Three Mile Island validates "Harrisburg is a toxic shit hole" claims - 1979
Booze and huge oil tankers don't mix; Exxon-Valdez - 1989
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Smarch Madness
Lousy Smarch weather. However, this weather brings us once again to the only thing March is good for: March Madness.
Finally, all your college basketball watching has paid off. It's been a long winter. You know what teams are good. You know what teams are bad. You know the hot conferences. You know the conference powerhouses. You're up on key injuries, key hot streaks, key rape trials. You don't only know the starting five; you know the whole bench. You know the assistant coaches. You know their wives and kids. You know where each game will be played, the exact mileage from the arena to each school; not only for the first round games, but for all potential games (you've run the scenarios) throughout every round until the last game. That tells you potential "home team" advantages. You know what teams do better at what times during the year. You know the strength of every schedule. You watch Selection Sunday with a hard on, making phone calls and telling all your friends who to pick. You fill out your bracket with the precision of a diamond cutter. You look at other people's brackets and scoff. Your picks are better. You put money down. No, not just in one pool. There's the office pool, the friends' pool, the bookie pool, the Vegas pool, the online pool. The money flows, but who cares. You know what you're doing. ESPN agrees with you. Sports Illustrated agrees with you. Hell, you should work for THEM. Your brackets are set. The money is on the line. You've done all the research. You know every team. You know every player. You know every game. You know all the odds. You know your picks are perfect...
You knew that girl would win again. You knew she'd make her picks based on how cute the mascots are. And she won again.
Don't worry, Jonny B-ball. Next year, you'll do more research.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Da Iggles, What Da Fuck Else!?
Sos me an' Vinny here was talkin' last Toosday 'bout WHAT ELSE!?!? THA Iggles. He was sayin' dat dere ain't no way Andy's gon' trade dat bum McNabb. What da hell is Andy thinkin'? Dat fuckin' bum can't even win us a fuckin' Sooper Bowl, and he's gon' START him next year? Vinny says his buddy Paulie up in Allentown heard his bookie say dat if McSlabb stays next year, he'll definately start. Fuck dat.
All I know is, dat no matter what, me an' my boys will be at all da Iggles games next year, and every year TIL WE FUCKIN' DIE! 'Cause we're true fans of the GREATEST TEAM ON EARTH! So what dat da fuckin' Giants won a third Sooper Bowl, and we're da only team in the East wit' no Sooper Bowls. Do the math and get educated! Philly's been the better team year after year, and besides, we got da best FUCKIN' FANS ON THE PLANET!
See dat? Ma looks good in her Nest of Death gear. She's a classy broad, dat one. She's already got her batteries ready ta trow at all those pussy Giants fans. Da season can't come soon enough. Just like Vinny! Ya get it? Huh? Well, fuck you. But GO IGGLES!!!
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Link Time
Sign it. You know you want to.
Bird Rage, though I'd probably have anger issues if my name was Tripp.
Friday Night Lights is getting renewed. Shalom!
So what if it's old. Holograms, laser guns, cowboys, ninjas, mustaches and falsetto are all part of the Greatest. Music. Video. Ever.
Burning bush a figment of Moses' drug-addled imagination.
WTF
WTF II
Finally, wasting time has never been so colorful.
Bird Rage, though I'd probably have anger issues if my name was Tripp.
Friday Night Lights is getting renewed. Shalom!
So what if it's old. Holograms, laser guns, cowboys, ninjas, mustaches and falsetto are all part of the Greatest. Music. Video. Ever.
Burning bush a figment of Moses' drug-addled imagination.
WTF
WTF II
Finally, wasting time has never been so colorful.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Brett Favre to football: "I love you, but I'm not IN love with you any more"
After 17 gunslingin' years, Brett Favre is finally calling it a career. Good riddance.
*Before this anti-Favre rant continues, it should be known that I am an unapologetic Dan Marino backer, though that only plays a small role in my overall distaste for all things #4.
Most of why I am not a Favre fan can be traced to the media's ongoing deifying (read: cock gobbling) of him. His ability to turn respected journalists into fawning, love-struck 15 year-old girls hoping that cute senior they've been crushing on asks them to Prom is both mind boggling and disturbing; dude is an NFL quarterback, not an amalgamation of Christ, Allah, Buddha and Vishnu.
To say objectivity gets cast aside when talking about Favre would be a massive understatement. Beaten severely and left to die in the shadow of his golden arm is more appropriate. For example, Ricky Williams will forever be remembered as a goofy stoner that quit on his team, but Favre's Vicodin addiction and subsequent trip to rehab have long been forgotten and are never mentioned. Nevermind that in the two years before Williams retired he led the league in rushing attempts and that both seasons rank in the top 14 of most rushes per season. Think he wasn't banged up a little? Or how about his well documented social anxiety disorder? Just so happens that marijuana has been proven effective as treatment for both pain and mood and mental health disorders. Meanwhile, Favre is lauded for his consecutive game streak, a streak partially fueled by pain killers. I'm not saying he should be vilified, but to go on and on about his lion heart while painting Williams as a coward and quitter is shameful since both were medicating the best way they knew.
Broadcasters and other media members seem to stop watching when Favre's propensity for throwing terrible interceptions rears its ugly head. Since taking over the full-time job in 1993, he has been in the top 10 in interceptions thrown in all but three seasons and he never had a season in which he threw less than 13. He is the career leader in interceptions thrown and only five people have thrown for as many touchdowns as he has picks. In 2003 he cost the Packers a trip to the NFC Championship when he wildly tossed a pass up for grabs against the Eagles and a similar mistake against the Giants this year prevented them from going to the Super Bowl. Coincidentally, neither was given so much as a mention when they happened and you can bet they won't be featured in the numerous career retrospectives we'll be subject to this week.
Now the Marino apologist in me can shine through. All quarterbacks are judged by whether or not they won a Super Bowl and because of this Favre will go down higher on the list than Marino (breaking his records doesn't hurt). However, in the year Favre led his team to victory, they had a balanced offensive attack that was in the top 10 in passing and rushing and ranked number one overall and the league's best defense, one that featured Reggie White, arguably the greatest defensive lineman of all time. Those Packers didn't have to face one of the greatest teams ever either. The 49ers of 1984 ranked fourth in passing, second in rushing and first in overall defense. I can accept that the ring makes the quarterback (which is why I think John Elway is the best ever), but I think they should be judged equally. The lack of a running game during Marino's career forced him to carry the team and allowed defenses to adjust as such. Anytime this is brought up people say stop making excuses for Marino not being able to get the job done, yet when Favre went 4-12 two years ago and he threw 29 interceptions the accepted reason was because there was a lack of talent around him. Favre couldn't win in Dallas and in his other Super Bowl appearance the Broncos won despite being heavy underdogs. This isn't necessarily forgotten, but it isn't his legacy. Marino, however, will forever be known as a guy that couldn't win the big game, regardless of similar career numbers and the inability to beat a rival when it mattered, in his case Buffalo.
Finally we come to his love of the game. To hear anyone else speak of it, you'd think the rest of the NFL was made up of a bunch of football playing robots waiting to cash a paycheck. One could never love the game as much as Farve did and no one ever will. awdgh...Sorry, I just vomited and some hit the keyboard. Give me a break. Professional football is a dangerous sport and many players experience terrible effects long after their playing days are over; just look at the fiasco that is happening with retirees and the NFLPA. Of course there are me first guys in the league, just as in any profession in the country, but to insinuate that Farve, or anyone for that matter, loves it more than anyone else, no questions asked, case closed, period, is laughable and a disservice to those that came before and those that put on the pads today.
All of this isn't to say that I hate Brett Farve, the man or the player. The Monday night game after his father died was one of the greatest performances I've ever seen in any sport, even if it did whip John Madden into a orgasmic froth. I just find it maddening that sports fans, those that cover him and the country in general worship him while criticizing others for similar transgressions or athletic deficiencies. So Brett, enjoy the Wranglers and thank you for making my future Sundays more enjoyable. Until Tony Romo's rapidly growing love surpasses yours.
*Before this anti-Favre rant continues, it should be known that I am an unapologetic Dan Marino backer, though that only plays a small role in my overall distaste for all things #4.
Most of why I am not a Favre fan can be traced to the media's ongoing deifying (read: cock gobbling) of him. His ability to turn respected journalists into fawning, love-struck 15 year-old girls hoping that cute senior they've been crushing on asks them to Prom is both mind boggling and disturbing; dude is an NFL quarterback, not an amalgamation of Christ, Allah, Buddha and Vishnu.
To say objectivity gets cast aside when talking about Favre would be a massive understatement. Beaten severely and left to die in the shadow of his golden arm is more appropriate. For example, Ricky Williams will forever be remembered as a goofy stoner that quit on his team, but Favre's Vicodin addiction and subsequent trip to rehab have long been forgotten and are never mentioned. Nevermind that in the two years before Williams retired he led the league in rushing attempts and that both seasons rank in the top 14 of most rushes per season. Think he wasn't banged up a little? Or how about his well documented social anxiety disorder? Just so happens that marijuana has been proven effective as treatment for both pain and mood and mental health disorders. Meanwhile, Favre is lauded for his consecutive game streak, a streak partially fueled by pain killers. I'm not saying he should be vilified, but to go on and on about his lion heart while painting Williams as a coward and quitter is shameful since both were medicating the best way they knew.
Broadcasters and other media members seem to stop watching when Favre's propensity for throwing terrible interceptions rears its ugly head. Since taking over the full-time job in 1993, he has been in the top 10 in interceptions thrown in all but three seasons and he never had a season in which he threw less than 13. He is the career leader in interceptions thrown and only five people have thrown for as many touchdowns as he has picks. In 2003 he cost the Packers a trip to the NFC Championship when he wildly tossed a pass up for grabs against the Eagles and a similar mistake against the Giants this year prevented them from going to the Super Bowl. Coincidentally, neither was given so much as a mention when they happened and you can bet they won't be featured in the numerous career retrospectives we'll be subject to this week.
Now the Marino apologist in me can shine through. All quarterbacks are judged by whether or not they won a Super Bowl and because of this Favre will go down higher on the list than Marino (breaking his records doesn't hurt). However, in the year Favre led his team to victory, they had a balanced offensive attack that was in the top 10 in passing and rushing and ranked number one overall and the league's best defense, one that featured Reggie White, arguably the greatest defensive lineman of all time. Those Packers didn't have to face one of the greatest teams ever either. The 49ers of 1984 ranked fourth in passing, second in rushing and first in overall defense. I can accept that the ring makes the quarterback (which is why I think John Elway is the best ever), but I think they should be judged equally. The lack of a running game during Marino's career forced him to carry the team and allowed defenses to adjust as such. Anytime this is brought up people say stop making excuses for Marino not being able to get the job done, yet when Favre went 4-12 two years ago and he threw 29 interceptions the accepted reason was because there was a lack of talent around him. Favre couldn't win in Dallas and in his other Super Bowl appearance the Broncos won despite being heavy underdogs. This isn't necessarily forgotten, but it isn't his legacy. Marino, however, will forever be known as a guy that couldn't win the big game, regardless of similar career numbers and the inability to beat a rival when it mattered, in his case Buffalo.
Finally we come to his love of the game. To hear anyone else speak of it, you'd think the rest of the NFL was made up of a bunch of football playing robots waiting to cash a paycheck. One could never love the game as much as Farve did and no one ever will. awdgh...Sorry, I just vomited and some hit the keyboard. Give me a break. Professional football is a dangerous sport and many players experience terrible effects long after their playing days are over; just look at the fiasco that is happening with retirees and the NFLPA. Of course there are me first guys in the league, just as in any profession in the country, but to insinuate that Farve, or anyone for that matter, loves it more than anyone else, no questions asked, case closed, period, is laughable and a disservice to those that came before and those that put on the pads today.
All of this isn't to say that I hate Brett Farve, the man or the player. The Monday night game after his father died was one of the greatest performances I've ever seen in any sport, even if it did whip John Madden into a orgasmic froth. I just find it maddening that sports fans, those that cover him and the country in general worship him while criticizing others for similar transgressions or athletic deficiencies. So Brett, enjoy the Wranglers and thank you for making my future Sundays more enjoyable. Until Tony Romo's rapidly growing love surpasses yours.
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