The Verbal Scourging

Not what it used to be...and I'm cool with that

Sat, 03 Dec 2011 06:28:00 GMT

It's sort of like being single, then being in a relationship. When you're single, it's got this air of unpredictability that sucks when it goes wrong, but is like Adriana Lima naked in your hot tub fantastic when it's right. There's something unreplaceable about bringing a loaded flask with you everywhere you go, Friday nights with joints rolled as thick as Fat Albert's thumbs, $250 deep at a bar turned making out with some nameless, hot enough for the moment floozie on a dance floor before capping the night off either with entirely meaningless sex or better yet...Steak n Shake. You figure that's utopia, until maybe the night you get tossed into the joint and working out at Anytime Fitness suddenly doesn't make you look as big as 7,000 pushups a day on a concrete jail floor sitting next to dudes who look like they shit nails sideways and drink ceiling paint with every meal. Just because they can. But eventually, you get out, and are back on the streets in no time. High risk, high reward.

Then one day, it all ends. You figure the rush is something you never wanna let go of, but the reality is, the other side isn't bad either. You trade the wild nights for guaranteed sex, not having to go anywhere to get it, not spending as much on booze trying to get it, and not having your famly members ask you if you have mental problems or sexually transmitted diseases when you go to holiday gatherings unfettered. You also don't have splitting headaches, potential jail time, having to come up with excruciating lies the next morning, and generally life is good...if much, much easier.

This week is my own personal yearly hell. And hot damn, we're 6 days into it, and it's like it's not yet begun. It's Patriots vs Colts week, which when I pass on from this world, I feel will run on loop for eternity if I didn't find a way to get my shit together enough to get beamed up to heaven. This week for me typically is like acupunture with railroad spikes. The Colts make my skin crawl, from their coked up tweeting owner to their lucid, IQ-challenged fan base. The fact that I have to live here right now makes me want to jam an ice pick into my skull every time I'm at a local sports bar. It's like listening to the cast of Golden Girls give a seminar on how to frame a basement.

This year is different. The Dolts are flaccid. 0-11. Coming apart at the seams. Their owner is arguing with their sycophant GM, who admits the only time he was able to elicit enough of an erection to procreate was when he first stared at himself in the mirror before coitis with his wife...and this GM is arguing with local columnists, fans, and their franchise quarterback. Ever since they finally took the bolts out of Frankenstein Manning's neck, causing him to miss actual football games, and the Dolts have started sucking whereas the Pats have patched together a defense that looks like they found it holding posterboards outside Home Depot and had them all hop in the back of their pickup for a cube of Dr. Pepper and $4 an hour, I've gotten these questions...

"Doesn't it make you sad that the rivalry as we know it is over?"
"Aren't you not really excited for the game this year, since it won't be close?"
"Don't you feel bad for the Colts?"

I can answer all of those in one phrase: Fuck. No.

I won't miss the rivalry (even though New England easily had the edge betwixt the two) because I won't hafta be subjected to toothless, drooling inbreds of Hoosier-land claim die-hard fan ship and call me everything but a white man for a week every year. I feel about as bad as they felt (read: none at all) when Tom Brady went down with a ghastly knee injury 3 years ago. Which is, to say, not at all. And no I don't feel "bad" for them, since they loaded up Mayflowers and bolted Baltimore in the dark of the night. Ever since every Colt fan prior to about 2002 was a diehard Bear or Cowboy fan. And finally, YES I'm excited for the game this year, be it a Pats win, of course. If all goes as planned, this will be as great as a bottle of Red Stag after a forced stint in rehab. It'll be like conjucal visit sex. It'll be like getting paired up with the yappy asshole at the country club who acts like he's a PGA tour pro, and then beating him 5 and 4 while you guzzle down Stroh's in flip flops and Oregon basketball shorts (just...you know...pretending). I want it to be ugly.

With, say, Ohio State week, the other game that gives my heart and mindset total pause...there's at least respect for the history. Ohio State isn't Michigan's rivals unless they've won across the decades and have titles to speak of. There's hatred, but there's at least an understanding of respect. There's a reason Texas and Texas Tech aren't real rivals. Years ago, I had a southern girl on my arm that was all sorts of out of my league. I was playing with house fucking money, every single day. Eventually, with it being a long distance relationship for the most part, she met someone. Dude played for the Falcons. Of the Atlanta variety. When she honestly told me it probably wasn't going to work out, I shrugged, got depressed for a bit, got a handle of Ron Rico, and went to see some live music and grind on worthless midwest women. I "got" it. There's mutual respect there, because in spite of my boyish charm and allegedly good looks, I can't hang with millionaires. There's mutual respect for that dude's game (as a side note, she came back to me, albeit briefly. Him? He got dumped, for good).

With the Colts, there's none of that. I respect them like piss respects toilet water. I hope the Pats are hungry this weekend. Hungry enough to eat the ass end of a menstruating skunk. Hungry for total eviseration. I hope they're up 40 at halftime, and Tom Brady, 5 touchdown passes in says "fuck it, I'll let the kids get a few snaps. I'll need extra energy to bang Gisele." And then Ryan Mallett gets in, and hangs another 30 on them. Just to let Bill Polian and his sound-piping-in, rule change whining, headgear wearing, cousin-banging "Colts nation" that The (venerable) Hoodie is going to beat the shit out of his teams for the next decade too, Andrew Luck or not.

Hell isn't a town in New Mexico. It's 7 days in the winter, when the two teams that have defined the NFL for the past decade meet up.
Typically I don't sleep much, don't eat a ton, and don't even drink at the usual yeoman's pace. Family members leave my house, lest I melt down like in the past, and when the deed is done, they all admit to privately praying that the Pats won, just so I wouldn't stick my head under a lawn mower. Last year, when James Sanders picked off that horse-faced schlep wearing 18, I mildly sprained my hand celebrating, and won't lie...had watery eyes. Before you give me shit, I've told at least 5 women "hell no" when they asked to watch "The Notebook" and I guarantee you haven't. Shameful, sir. Tearing up over football < watching girlie movies.

It will have a different flavor to it this year, and the epic battles of the past probably are nothing more at this point than NFL Films documentaries. There's a song I love. Called "Weightless," by a band called All Time Low. In it, there's a line that kicks into the chorus that says "maybe it's not my weekend, but its gonna be my year...". Well, my friends...come Sunday at 1 PM...once again it's probably gonna be both. One way or another...



                                                                                                                                                                  A Teddy D Joint

For a Moment in Sports, all is right

Mon, 18 Jul 2011 03:24:00 GMT

There’s a middle aged man at the end of a dimly lit bar on a lonely Sunday night. The juke box plays something faint in the background. Nothing he likes, but one of those tunes that sticks and forces you to annoyingly hum it the rest of the night because you can’t get it out of your head. Fifteen minutes pass like they’re 30 seconds. They always do when you’re staring down the business end of a 7 am alarm wake up and a week you’re desperate to not begin. One more shot seems like a bad idea, so he waves at the barkeep for a tab close. His wallet falls to the ground and out pops a picture of his son, his legacy, whom he gets with him next weekend. A wry grin forms inside, the way you feel when 5 grand is on the table and you have a straight flush in your hand. For that moment, all is right.

There’s a kid turned grown man, past his prime in the driveway of his house, face pressed against the steering wheel so no one can see the beginnings of tears forming in the corners of his eyes. The salty drain of sweat cascades into his lips as visions of yester year’s success dances in his head like marionettes, wondering where it all went. He’ll tell his wife that he’s done playing ball, because finally, this is the end. He can’t do it anymore, and that reality stabs him in the heart. It’s like losing a child, the game he always turned to when his parents were fighting, girls were walking out, and the end of the world seemed just an hour away. He’ll cry in the shower, alone, on bended, gnarled knee, left with dreams and stories that sound like a country song. In two weeks, he’ll give it one more shot, and it will go in. So will the next one. And the next one. And several more. Dreams only last for a night. So do nightmares. Time will eventually win this battle, and basketball will be given its rightful funeral, but for one more week, the ambulance got there quickly enough. The sweat will taste better after a win, and he’ll tell himself that he’s still got it, or at least some of it. For that moment, all is right.

There’s the world’s dominant nation, with its most popular sport (football) in peril as billionaires fight with millionaires over rights the common man would never dream of having a shot at owning. They’re coming to verbal and legal blows over how to split 9 billion bucks, when either way, both parties will end up getting close to half. There’s a different sport, 2nd most popular in the world (basketball), where its millionaires are fighting with more billionaires, both hellbent on vacating an entire year for their greed if that’s what it takes. Baseball’s national cachet is limited to who’s been taking drugs, and if they deserve to go to prison for it. But then you turn on television, and there’s a golfer, portly fellow, looks like a cross between a furniture salesman and an alcoholic. He lost his wife a few years back, and he’s in his 40s…when in the sports world, even in golf, you’re staring down the barrel of life’s shotgun, and “success” has its hands on the trigger. He’s never won anything major, and he’s starting all over again in life, with a perfect world of his past intangibly looking down from above. Then, one magical four days, he knocks in a putt and wins arguably, golf’s most special championship after 20 tries and probably 8-10 years after he was supposed to. For that moment, all is right.

People ask me all the time why I watch sports, or get so into it. Folks, Sunday in Sandwich, England is why. Sports today highlights so many of the wrongs in society the way it was never supposed to. Greed, infidelity, drug abuse, cheating, cold-heartedness, detachment. That is what sports has become of late, from Roger Clemens to Tiger Woods to Lebron James. No one is holy, and anymore, you want to hide your kid’s faces from athletes who otherwise you’d want them looking up to in a sense of self motivation and dedication.

Darren Clarke saved sports, if only for a moment. Sports is riddled with pathetic personalities who are coached to be personality devoid mannequins. They barely seem any more real than Spider Man. Every game is a tough contest, every speech after winning a title looks like it was written by a lawyer. Then there’s Darren Clarke, who started out his acceptance of the Claret Jug by saying “as many of you know, I like to have a beverage every now and then…” Imagine Derek Jeter or Kobe Bryant spilling that line out. Hell, imagine Jeter, Bryant, whomever…halfway to winning the greatest title of their career…puffing cigarettes on the way there every 15 minutes. Then, after hoisting up the fruits of his title, admitting that he would be filling it with liquor, and praising his deceased wife, saying she was looking down on him with that all-to-unfamiliar mist in the eyes that echoes from a man truly speaking his heart. After thanking those around him, and summing up a career where he admitted only a week ago, that he might not have much left in him, Clarke humanizes himself even more if that’s possible. When asked how he’s going to celebrate, he admits that “I will be very, very hungover tomorrow.” No one in buttoned down pro sports would ever say that, would they? I mean, they like to think we’re all stupid enough to assume they maybe have a beer or two after the title, then go home to sleep well before closing time, only to get up, maybe do a few interviews, and hit the gym to start preparing for next year.

Clarke’s win was a win for sports. When you’re in your 40s, a bit tubby, and riddled with bad habits of the common man, you’re not supposed to be close to greatness. You’re supposed to be close to the end. Even in golf, life doesn’t begin after 40. It’s a young man’s game anymore, they way all sports have become. Yet there was Clarke, a guy with more trials than the average every man, crowned with one of sports most hallowed trophies. He lost his wife when she was a young 39, a day before his own birthday. Professionally, he’s been an afterthought ever since then. He hasn’t played in The Masters in 5 years. Aside from the PGA Championship, he hasn’t been around for the weekend in a major championship on US soil since 2006. No one had any reason to believe this was going to happen this week, not even the man himself.

When the smoke cleared, and he’d done the rounds hugging his family and friends, Clarke didn’t change for the cameras. He’s a bellowing, heavy drinking, heavier smoking Irish man, with no apologies to who he is. He is comfortable hiding little about himself, the way pro athletes are told they’re not supposed to. Clarke is the proverbial “every man”, with the open realism of your local mechanic, bartender, bank teller, or car salesman. He’s an inexplicable, rare example of life re-beginning at plus 40, when a world obsessed with youth has long passed you by, or at least is constantly trying.

From the ashes of despair often come hope from unlikely places. Sports is at an all time low, riddled with deceit and overwhelming greed. Guys we want to like, are desperate to like, or are told we should like can’t stop tripping over their own feet personally, to the point where they’re nothing you want to even walk on the same side of the street as. There are 5,000 reasons anymore to not like sports, from your Lebrons’ to your Bonds’. But what the hell, for one day, Darren Clarke makes you believe all of that can turn around one. Grab a cigar and your finest bottle of scotch and meet Darren at the end of the bar to celebrate. Maybe sports can turn around one day, maybe not. Maybe that guy paying his tab will be back in the same funk next week, at the same bar, with the same bill, and the same issues. Maybe that kid in the driveway will get hurt, get slower… quicker, and write the inevitable obituary on a game he loves. Maybe dreams and nightmares really do only last for a night. And maybe Darren Clarke making a few putts means nothing in the grand scheme of things. Lockouts, arrests, and drug use will be more talked about tomorrow. But what the hell, for a moment, all is right. And damn it, right now, that’s good enough.

Man, Myth, Legend of Belichick a lot more Myth than the other two...

Sat, 30 Apr 2011 17:23:00 GMT

The Man, Myth, Legend of Belichick is more Myth than anything else

I slept on the anger from last evening that had me wanting to find some animal, small, large, whatever, and skin it alive thinking that the ole knee jerk reaction thing rarely goes over very well. But when I woke up, the facts were still dancing in my head like broke nursing students on “amateur night” at Brad’s Show Club.

We’ve gotten to the point as a sports media culture that if Bill Belichick dug up Elenaor Roosevelt and told a reporter that “she was the highest player ranked on the board” it would immediately be dubbed as “evil genius.” In the lexicon of sports history, the legacy of the greats is normally tied to other greats, of sorts. MJ had Phil. Magic had Riley. Montana had Rice. Shaq had D-Wade and Kobe. Phil had Kobe (okay, maybe this Phil-Kobe thing has some legs to it). The list goes on. The theory is that Belichick’s genius is responsible for the legend of Tom Brady, this generation’s best quarterback. This generation’s Joe Montana.

It was Belichick who shrewedly knew that Brady was a 6th round pick at best, and waiting that long to get him knowing he really was worth #1 overall. I mean, why take a chance he might get scooped up by someone when you run the risk of guys like JR Redmond not being on your roster the next year? It was Belichick who displayed his obsessive desire to win when he ran out Bledsoe in favor of TB12, and it was Belichick who put meager pieces around him, knowing all of those players were really 1st round picks in disguise waiting for him and only him to pick them up. It was all Belichick, just ask him. Truth is, he talks a lot about The Patriot Way, which is an ego-checking axiom used by NFL types to describe how the hell a roster of rag tags presided over 3 Super Bowl wins and 4 appearances in a decade rife with “parity” in the league. The actual truth is, that Bill wants egos checked because he can’t afford another team U-Haul to cart them around when he’s already got 3 trucks just filled with his own.

Again, the truth is, Tom Brady made Bill Belichick, not the other way around, and Bill knows it. People credit Belichick, because Brady is content to sit back and “do what it takes to win” even if that means giving up legacy points and glory to a guy who was an “overwhelming” 41-56 without Tom as a head coach. Stuff of legends, lemme tell ya. You think massive egos like Favre, McNabb, or Manning would let the ole head coach be the only voice coming out of the locker room? Hardly. But to TB12, greatness is defined solely by wins, regardless of what selflessness needs to be displayed to get them, maybe at the cost of yourself.

Belichick’s arrogance has probably cost Tom Brady at least 1 more ring, and probably 2 more Super Bowl trips. Belichick has done little for Brady aside from giving him an initial roster spot. Since then, he’s peppered TB12 with talent no QB could win with, and a deteriorating defense that can’t possibly support the offense. In 2006, Belichick was such the “roster guru” that he managed to go into the season giving his QB Reche Caldwell, Doug Gabriel, and Jabar Gaffney as the receivers to work with. What, was Jacquez Green or Reidel Anthony not available? Still, Tom was a complete defensive meltdown away from another Super Bowl, getting 30+ points in the AFC title game. Only last year, he traded away the one offensive asset he’s given Tom in his 10 years at the helm, Randy Moss. I’d love to have seen him explain that one away…”I know Randy’s a top 10 wideout of all time, but dammit, I need draft picks to hoard, so I’m gonna need you to throw to Julian Edelman and a few rook tight ends. Okay?”

Brady: Can we at least tape up Deon Branch, who I think has 15 yards receiving since he left here?

Bill: I suppose, but there better be draft picks involved. Damn, I spoil you…

A&E needs to do a Hoarders story on Bill. The guy who has 6 acres full of future draft picks and isn’t content unless he collects more. And for what? We all assumed THIS was the year it came to fruition. Tom’s on his last contract coming off of the first unanimous MVP season in the history of the league, and the defense looks like it has leprocy on 3rd downs (32nd in the league…you know, when people PASS the ball). So what does Bill do with this terrible defensive trend and the #1 offense in the league? Trade a bunch of picks in a pass rusher-deep draft, and then select 2 running backs and a QB. Stuff of legends, I tell ya. Nevermind that New England has a 1,000 yard rusher returning on their roster, or that you could apparently toss high schoolers around Tom Brady and get at least an AFC East title…why upgrade the defense when we can bring Texas Tech to the NFL!?

Belichick’s hubris will ultimately do him in. It’s easy to argue that his water to wine atmosphere with draft picks, refusal to gamble on talent rather than trade it down, and desperation to litter his roster with guys no other GM wants has cost him 2 more rings. Last year, his defense made Mark Sanchez, he of the 55% completion rate over his career look like…well, look like Tom Brady despite a myriad of injuries. Mark Sanchez, folks. Bart Scott was right last January when he said “they can’t stop a nosebleed.” It got traction across the airwaves. Belichick must not listen to the radio. Right now, Bart Scott looks like he’d be a better GM.

There’s a fine line between arrogance and genius. Once you find that find line, it’s tougher than 14 year old Jack Links being eaten by Dale Davis naked on your couch to stay there. And once you cross the river, there’s no going back. If the 2011 Pats draft, headlined by a coke snorting QB that even the frigging Seahawks, with 0 NFL caliber QBs on their roster passed on tells us anything about Belichick, it’s that his ship hasn’t sailed…it may have never actually left the dock. Tom Brady just painted water around it and told you it was in the Bahamas. If I’m waking up next to Gisele this morning (and a more cruel fate, I can most certainly think of), I’m calling a team that values defense and asking for a trade. Let’s see how The Hoodie and the Blowhards do then. They say history repeats itself one way or another. Too bad for Bill. Pretty good for U-Haul. 41-56 only looks good in the NBA’s Eastern Conference, Bill…

Melo Just Bought the NBA a Casket. RIP.

Tue, 22 Feb 2011 18:08:00 GMT

Le-Melo-Drama

Sat, 19 Feb 2011 05:10:00 GMT

I got this question a few times this past month…

“Since you basically called Lebron James everything but a Nazi fetus eater, when are you gonna be consistent and speak up on Carmelo?”

There were also a lot of “which one’s worse?” questions. The truth is, I’d tell you if I knew. We assume at some point in the next 3-7 days, Carmelo Anthony will get the answers he desires. After all, he’s in his mid 20s and a millionaire, doesn’t the world owe him less stress? Tongue so far in cheek, you’d think 1972 Gene Simmons was giving anal cunnilingus to Kim Kardashian.

As a fan, I’m still coming to grips with the reality that the NBA is little more at this point than inmates running the asylum. It lacks the business acumen of the heavyweight NFL, which has figured out how to sodomize us with parity and rake in TV ratings with clubs from Green Bay, Wisconsin as the headlining act. Can you see Stern sporting wood over the ratings of San Antonio-Charlotte? Not unless it’s played on a court full of quarters (shameless anti-semite reference).

We thought after last summer, LeBitch had cornered the market on stupid, self indulging pro athletes. It couldn’t get worse than a turncoat tanking playoff games because he wants easier daily access to beaches and AIDS. But as Carmelo has always done behind the scenes, he’s tried to one-up James again.

Melo’s situation is different, though his handling of it is terrible. Some of what makes the NBA so unlikeable anymore is the fact that it’s a feeder league source wise. Certain lackeys (hi, Chris Broussard) are nothing more than filters by which players’ “handlers” pass information they want displayed to the public. Then morons like Broussard pass it off as gospel with the 4 letter network branded on his ass cheek like some sort of court vow when really it’s a bunch of stoned fuckers who went to high school with said athlete trying to manipulate the system. Lakers in serious talks to land Carmelo? Please. More fodder to scare the Knicks into putting more into the till. Denver trading Melo to the Lakers would be like me coming home to find some dude banging my girlfriend and then giving him a penis pump and telling him “have fun, and I hope she ends up liking your rod better after this.”

Also, Melo’s situation is different because he didn’t pledge undying allegiance to Denver at any point in his career. Melo isn’t Denver, whether he should be or not being up for debate. Melo also hasn’t been handled with kid gloves either. He of the domestic dispute means I’ll go get ripped on scotch and jet around Denver isn’t exactly known as squeaky clean. He smokes dope. Drinks. Fights with his wife. Shit the rest of us do as hobbies.

Oh, and Melo has tried at times. Two weeks ago, I bet on the Jazz in Denver. Had a hunch. +9 my ass. Not on Jerry Sloan, I say. Late in the game, bout mid 4^th, Melo saunters on over to the free throw line and misses the first one. I coach. I know all about watching body language. 95% of communication is nonverbal. When it comes to athletics, about 99.9999% is. After missing the front end of a double bonus, Melo gyrated like his first born kid was at stake in this game. It didn’t seem like a man who didn’t care, like Queen James and his Clay Aiken rollover vs Boston last year. Shit man, he had a party to get to. The Celts were cramping his style. Why couldn’t they just pull off a sweep!?

Still, Anthony botched this badly. Most of us are looking for better jobs while we work the one we have. Most of us hide that from our employer. What’s the point? It would just cause tension, and besides, if you don’t find what you’re looking for, you keep the nose to the grindstone where you’re at. Most of us are looking for the next big thing, but doing our part to make sure that if it doesn’t happen, the present doesn’t suffer for it. In a recent study, 100% of people could envision a better scenario than they were currently in. Fact.

Melo’s issue is that he has been way too open about basically tanking in this season for his teammates, his coaching staff, his bosses. He wants to go to New York. We get it. It’s his “dream” and it doubles with the fact that he appears to be a bit pussy whipped by his wife, who was named after dead space in the Holiday classic, “Deck the Halls.” Who names their kid “La La”? Never mind his classy coach just overcame the life equivalent of the 72-10 Bulls…cancer. I mean, why would a guy like Melo think he owes a little effort for a guy who came back from the grips of death to coach HIM? They must not teach them how to spell “selfless” at rookie camp.

The smart move (not that anyone recently would confuse a single NBA player with being smart) would have been the Albert Pujols “I ain’t sayin shit, homie” stance and saying things like “I’m just trying to win here. After the season, we’ll sit down and talk and Denver will have the first opportunity obviously to speak with me. Why didn’t I sign the extension? Because things change. My coach might not be back, the roster might be overhauled, and I’d like to see how this season plays out before making a decision.”

Anything of that woulda been acceptable. Just tell Chris Broussard, after he wipes his gums with Maverick Carter’s spunk. Instead, Carmelo has basically ruined one of the great American candy bars with his deception, as I can’t even buy the gooey goodness I used to call “breakfast” every day in college. Melo learned nothing from Lebum, and to be honest, I expected more. Melo is a winner. He has a ring, albeit college. But make no mistake, it was him. Jim Boeheim still hasn’t figured out that zone defense only wins titles in 3^rd grade. Melo was drafted by the previous season’s worst team, and has helped them to the playoffs every year he’s been there. All things considered, Denver has overachieved in his tenure. Cleveland isn’t getting to any NBA finals with LeStink if the Spurs, Lakers, Suns, and Mavs are all lingering like a bad fart on your side of the playoff bracket.

Melo said tonight that he just wanted all of this to be over with because he couldn’t sleep with the stress. Give me 65 mil a year to stew about, and the only reason I’m not sleeping is because Lindsay Lohan and I are snorting coke off of Leighton Meester’s tits. I don’t feel bad for him. These athletes bring this on themselves with their lack of loyalty and inability to keep their mouths shut. Carmelo did Denver dirty, and the NBA will ultimately suffer like the NFL never will allow itself to. Just another step in The Association being nothing more than stuff you watch when you have two channels, and Mad About You is on the other network.

Oh, and Lebron James is a Nazi fetus eater.

Wrecks Ryan and his band of Rubes

Thu, 13 Jan 2011 16:48:00 GMT

Wrecks Ryan and His Rubes

I can only explain it with a scene that plays out along white trash corridor, anytown USA every day.

Assume this conversation is happening in a Dollar Tree a stone's throw from the town trailer park. Two buddies run into each other sometime in the AM.

"Man, you look rough? You and Darlene fighting again?"

"Dude, I got no sleep. She come at me with a kitchen knife last night, threatenin to gut me after I bought some new rims and our water got shut off."

"You leavin her then I take it?"

"Nah. She's a crazy bitch, but she's my crazy bitch and I get her n she gets me."

Cue Wrecks Ryan. Exactly how I feel about him, aside from him "getting" me. He has no idea who I am. And I "get" what he's doing. It doesn't make it any less white trash trailer park crazy. There's a reason you need to go to school 8 years to do anything with a psychology degree, and Ryan drives that point home weekly, it seems.

Anyone that can't see through it is a miter saw sized tool. The effusive praise of Peyton Manning was a ruse. How many people put piano wire around the neck of someone on their knees verbally felatting them? Not many, unless there's a clause in the hooker-buyer deal that allows you to torture for fun. Everyone knows Manning is Neil Patrick Harris on John Amechi choking in the playoffs, so why not take a stab at your next opponent while assuring a few comments that will have Peyton looking only at checkdowns? Great players are wired differently, and Ryan's trying to tap into that in the league's two premiere QBs, because clearly scheming against them is outta the question. Manning becomes less aggressive in the playoffs (when, you know, he can't fatten up on Jaxy, Houston, and Tennessee 6 times a year) and even less aggressive overall when you publicly ballwash him. It worked to a tee. The Colts, ever formidable at home no matter what, gagged on 67 3rd and 1's en route to a loss that I think Ryan thought would be a little easier to get.

Onto the next one. Tom Brady, the league's resident playoff czar, a man 3 wins away from all but owning the "Greatest of All Time" title, is wired the complete opposite of Manning in spite of their both Hall of Fame resumes. Brady is a spit fire. He's as cerebral as S&M. He hollers, headbutts, curses, and talks to himself. If he has a flaw, it's that he loves to throw a barb here and there. Afterall, Wrecks is probably channeling Brady's 1 and only playoff choke job (hard to really call it a choke when he orchestrated a TD drive with under a minute left but still lost). The Jints famously said they'd shut down New England's record offense and the Pats wouldn't get 17. Brady barbed back about how they'd "try" to in jest, where the team hadn't had a HALF not scoring 17 all year it seemed. Brady also took a shot at the Jests in week 2, only to have probably the worst game of he and Randy Moss' career, which led us to where we are now.

Ryan clearly is terrified of Brady. He mentions him on weeks when he plays other teams, so that suggests he's seen enough film to know one thing: Tom Brady will be stopped only if he does it to himself. Ryan knows he's fucked 8 ways from Sunday if he ballwashes Tom like normal. So he has to drag him into circus of idiotry that is the New York Jets. All hoping to goad Brady into chucking passes into the abyss to prove a point. Brady for the most part has bit his tongue. He's the consummate pro. People loved when Brett Favre yelled at opponents. He was a "gamer." Brady? When he does it, he's an "asshole." You know why? Because Brady has 3 rings, and you knew in the end, you could pick off Brett Favre.

And that brings us to Antonio "Contraceptives? What the fuck are those?" Cromartie. On Brady: "he's an asshole. Fuck him." On a side note, it's nice to be able to curse in articles and just say to my mother "I was just quoting for accuracy!" The truth of the matter is, when I need commentary on who may or may not be an asshole, maybe I'll fish up the numbers of the EIGHT women Cromartie has NINE kids in SIX states with. What, does he leave his dick places and it does this on his own? I can hear every money grubbing whore in every town when the Jets are in for the weekend...."Aw shit, look girls...it's Antonio Cromartie! Who wants to not work the rest of their lives and collect fat child support!? Hike up those skirts, ladies!" Cromartie is exhibit A on what an asshole looks like. A guy who admitted he didn't know some of his kids' birthdays. BTK was a better dad.

One thing I'm sure of though, for all this psychiatry tactics and blunt force verbal trauma...the Jets are pussies. They can't handle what they dish out, like most bullies. They curse, swashbuckle, flap gums, and brag. But they get their labias in a twist when Tom Brady supposedly points at the sidelines up 35 after all you've done all season is talk about how much he and his team suck? After talking about how you're going to "beat their asses?" Thou must take it if thou is going to dish it. The Jets are a study in menstrual cycles. They make no sense. They talk in circles. And heaven forbid you talk back to them to let them kindly know they're wrong. They'll never get over it. Time will tell if Wrecks Ryan and crew are geniuses, or suicidal. It won't stop them from talking. Hopefully the Pats stuff their cornholes full of the verbal vomitus the Jets are spewing out. Oh, and the neighbor lady is pregnant. I should go find out if it's Antonio's. Afterall, the Jets were in Indy last week, so the odds are 50-50...

David Brandon, the Michigan Fan

Tue, 04 Jan 2011 03:45:00 GMT

"What would I do?"

It's iconic message board nomenclature, a social staple of our lives now that is almost universally popular because people can answer said question on any number of topics. What would I do is why fantasy football is big business. Hell, it's why porn is big business. Everyone wants to tell you what they'd do if given the opportunity. Everyone wants to give their two cents on coming home from a long day of work with a latin maid dusting their end table in a skirt that shows her ass cheeks, watching the clock and aching for your piece.

Our lives are about this question. When someone asks us about a relationship. A job issue. A leaky faucet. There's a belief, mostly among people who have the jobs...that "what would I do's" from fans is simply the banter of idiots who don't understand the mindnumbing quantum physics that happens to be building a sports team or caretaking an athletic program. The reality is, like any other job, it's not that hard once you get used to it. But most fans will never know past a blog or beer conversation with their friends.

David Brandon is not that man. He's the athletic director at Michigan. You may have heard of him this week. Maybe. David Brandon, for better or worse, has handled the Michigan program like a fan. Because he is that. A fan that got a chance. Sure, Brandon came in as a wildly successful businessman, somehow convincing people that Domino's Pizza is better than the Jack's you can get out of the freezer for a buck at the local grocery store. Jack's doesn't have you vomiting razor blades at 4 am. And Brandon was a former UM player in the '70s. But what Brandon was between the 70s and 2009 on Saturdays was a guy with a suite. A booster. A fan. He read message boards. He probably said to his pals "if I was the coach" or "if I was interviewing someone" a time or two. Now he is. And he's shown us what the fan in us would do in a similar situation.

Fans want everything. Michigan fans want everything and then dessert. Brandon, being the fan turned AD wanted what fans want. A bowl win, a coach that would restore Michigan as a college football titan in more than just the Dead Sea Scrolls Football Edition, and he realized there was only one way he could have both.

He knew firing Rich Rodriguez before the bowl game would lead to...well, you want me to insert the Miami-Notre Dame Sun Bowl box score here? Rich wasn't gonna hang around and stroke Michigan's ego for a bowl game. He'd have things to do, like get a new job and move on. And trust me, people want in the Rich Rod game. So Michigan would have been left with mailing in the bowl game coached by some random guy on staff that has no business making peanut butter and jelly for three hours, let alone calling plays in a game that pays 2 million to each participant. So Michigan would have been drubbed, players defected, and morale stupifyingly low. Brandon couldn't get his coach anyway in November...if at all, so why not turn the bowl game into an overbearing "Play for your jobs" type?

That way, the bowl game looks like a peepshow for how much the coaches want to not update their resumes, which will lead to max effort and a win of some variety. That was the thinking. Somewhere along the line, thinking and reality had a one night stand and decided that dating wasn't going to be an option. The worst case scenario to DB? Team gets blown out, and the decision is made for him. Other worst case scenario? Coach leads team to...oh...something like a 52-14 win and you're forced to keep him instead of getting the guy you want. Let's be honest. A one game vaccuum against a team you haven't seen in 120 years of Michigan football and probably won't see in another 120 years is not a forum for making big decisions. And Brandon covered his split tail by saying the "on the forefront classy" statement of "I don't evaluate until the entire body of work is complete" as if to say he was doing his job better than the knee jerk crowd that makes decisions after the season instead of avoiding anything and everything for a month and one exhibition game.

Well, color Brandon 0-1 as a fan/AD. The team got murdered by Mississippi State, which most people thought was just a 3rd world country, or some place where camera crews filmed starving children for PSA ads asking for pennies per day. The only place Mississippi as a state is ever ranked ahead of Michigan is in those studies that come out yearly ranking the most undereducated states in the nation. I think about -2% of people in MS have college degrees, and it keeps dropping. Surely you can't lose to them? 52-14 happened, and it's been worst case scenario every 5 minutes since. Michigan people are sick of being a sperm rag for college football one liners. And the "coaching search" has rendered Brandon a frigid ice princess for not at least giving Rich Rod and staff the proper exit so that they might move on with their lives. Instead, Rich twists in the wind, with a family to wonder if/when he has to uproot as the days pass unceremoniously on the ability to find another job for 2010 in his profession. Surely, the cool 10 mil in 4 years he'll walk away with will make this a little less heart wrenching, but Rich is a human being, if a very wealthy one. And his staffers aren't making 2.5 mil. Even the coldest of hearts has to feel a little bad for everyone other than Greg Robinson, who's been so bad at his job, you'd hafta wonder if he could get a gig pushing carts at Wal-Mart after this debacle.

And Brandon has been forced to turn "fan" into "detached AD." Like the first time you see yourself in the newspaper and suddenly the girl you're dating isn't good enough and the guys you grew up with are being replaced by people with more social cachet. Brandon finds himself at the most cantankerous juxtaposition. Witholding information from the people who basically were...him three years ago. True, fans don't always have a right to know...even ones that donate money to make your job tick...but the Fort Knox-ish tint to this reminds of the Michigan days of old.

Brandon has caught himself right in the middle of message board "what would I do" and now holds the keys to the castle the way every fan dreams. I don't know Brandon, and I know no one who has any even semblance of time spent with him to give an opinion on who he is and how he is as a person. He could be Tim Tebow. He could be Lucifer. He could be Mick Jagger. I'm sure he has good intentions, and for the time being, I'll trust him. Until you catch a girl in bed with another fellow, there's no reason to call her a harlot. But the truth is, for every fan out there who wonders "what would I do", look at Brandon. He was one of you two years ago, albeit with more money. What would you do? Start convincing people that low quality pizza is Death Row-last-meal good, and maybe one day you'll find out.

Beating a Dead Horse

Tue, 16 Nov 2010 02:00:00 GMT

Hoosier (straight from www.indiana.edu): The best evidence, however, suggests that "Hoosier" was a term of contempt and opprobrium common in the upland South and used to denote an ignorant rustic, a bumpkin, a countryman, a roughneck, a hick or an awkward, uncouth or unskilled fellow.

There is hatred, and then there is this. It’s the difference between picking up a prostitute with your buddies, having your rounds and leaving her unconscious in the trunk of a Yugo as you collectively push it off a bridge…and mass genocide. The difference between Burger King and Ruth’s Chris. “This” is that week. The one I dread the other 51 of the year. It is the total nadir of my existence as a human being every time it comes around.

Patriots versus the Colts. Good versus evil. Educated versus ignorant. Toothy vs toothless. I could go on, but the little paperclip on the Microsoft Word program just held up a sign that said “hurry it the hell up already, you bastard.” I can’t deny the Paperclip.

I hate this week. I sleep about 3 hours a night. I wake up in cold sweats. I have nightmares. Diarreah. Hives. I glare at people in the super market and curse at innocent citizens. I hate the Colts. I hate their mongloid, waterhead QB with his forehead so large you could land aircraft on it in a weather emergency. I hate that sycophant GM/President/Rule Changer they have. The one who looks like he can only get an erection when he hears himself talking on tape.

You, in the back, with your hand up…

“Yes. Can you give us another one of your endless “stupid Colts fan stories.”

I sure can. The scene is last year. Week 16. Jets-Colts. My brother is a Jets fan, so we had 50 yard line seats. This being only a year after having to sit behind some neadrathal inbred who spent 5 minutes telling his wife about how Barry Sanders still played for the Lions and “she should be lucky getting to see him, because he’ll be in the Hall of Fame one day.” As is well known, when the Jets score, their fans get up and yell “J-E-T-S, Jets, Jets, Jets!”

So after the Colts score to take a lead they wouldn’t keep, this clan of degenerates gets up to mock the chant. They get to “C-O-L…and then there’s this eerie pause…T-S, Colts, Colts, Colts!” It literally was as if they forgot how to spell the damned team name. I’d expect nothing less. If anal herpes was a football fan, it’d wear a Colts jersey.

They’re literally the worst fan base in sports. I have this game I play when I go to church, where everyone wears Colts gear on Sundays. When the Dolts lose the week before, you can notice about a 60% decrease in apparel-wearing by their drool cup and headgear needing fans. When they win, it’s back in vogue to put on that puke blue. A few years ago, I was half mocked by some mental defective when I wore a Pats hat out. He mentioned being a lifelong Indy Colts fan. I asked him to name one player before their Ann Bancroft QB got to town. His response (as he held a pink Colts jersey for his broad in his hand)…”no fair. They were in Baltimore before he got there.” I told him “you’re the reason people kill random individuals and toss them in ditches.”

Let me count the other reasons to hate them. The Colts are about as clutch as an automatic transmission. Fitting analysis for a state that treats their garages like extra rooms. I’ve never seen so many idiots sit in their garages for hours at a time only to park their cars outside when there’s 4 feet of snow…because hell, I wouldn’t want to dirty up the carpet in my frigging garage, right? Then you’ve got the cheating. I know what you’re thinking…hilarious, a Pats fan calling out cheating. Pittsburgh picked up on the piping in sound. But that’s no matter. I’m talking more about Bill “Maxi Pad” Polian. He of the “they’re hurting my receivers! I think we should change that rule. To a first down. Now, if only I knew someone on the competition committee. Oh yeah! I’m the head of it! Rule change, baby!” Polian is the epitome of the new pussified NFL. If it were up to him, sweating on his ponies would be a personal foul.

He and the entire organization build this 800 million dollar stadium with a retractable roof, only to close it if it’s a hair below 70. No wonder Indiana and Purdue can’t put asses in the seats on Saturdays. People in Indiana think it should be illegal to play football in anything under 60, and games should be called due to inclimate weather if it rains. And when it’s called, no matter what the score, Colts win…and just tack 3 TD passes on for Cro-magnum Manning. Maybe when they go to 18 games, he can catch Tom Brady’s record. Or maybe, just maybe next offseason TB12 will let him put on his 3 Super Bowl rings all at once. And look at his wife in her underwear. Since his own is oft rumoured to be harletting (fake word alert) around with whatever pork sword she can find. TB12 yells at Steeler fans as he spikes the ball in their end zone. Manning yells at his dad to “fix it” when someone says something mean about him on the radio. Can you imagine Tom’s pops calling radio stations to defend his son? Brady’s a nails and lunch pail kind of guy. Manning’s a “gee maw, you look hot in that skirt” kinda guy.

My other teams have rivals. But I at least respect them. Even Ohio State, to a tiny degree. There is no respect here. I hate their team, their town, their fans, and their eyesore of a stadium. Their jerseys look like Rhianna’s right eye after running into Chris Brown at the deli. As a fan, I want this game more than any other (I reserve the right to change that in the event of a playoff tilt). You can count on several things in this contest. Not the least of which is half the Dolts’ offense, chucking it down field and then waving their hands like Tyler Clementi on the way down til the flag gets thrown. If the refs don’t, Polian buzzes them to let them know they won’t have a job unless they air out the yellow laundry. You can count on Pierre Garcon making some deranged, impossible one handed catch in double coverage…and then some CBS commentator lauding how great of a throw it was from Corky. And you can count on someone, somewhere, bitching if it’s below 40 outside upon kickoff at Patriot Place. The story and the main characters never change.

I probably won’t sleep tonight. Or tomorrow. Around Saturday, I’ll likely shake like an alcoholic missing his first drinking binge since he was 14 because he’s stuck in the tank. Hide the women, children, and wives. In fact, my own asked me several times not to watch the game. She says “I become a different person, and not a good one.” I told her that I’d have missed one of my own personal college games before I’d sit a Pats-Colts tilt out. There’s life. There’s death. And then there’s this. Take your sister back to your shanty, shut the shades, and have her wear that Dallas Clark jersey that turns you on so much. TB12, Bill, and the three time Super Bowl champs are on the docket this weekend. And if they don’t win, well, I think I’m taking out a life insurance policy for my family tomorrow. Take your Nancy boy, mouth acne at age 34 QB. I’ll take TB12, Coach Hoodie, and another Super Bowl ring. Look up again at the top for the definition of Hoosier. Ignorance might be bliss, and it probably wears blue and white on Sundays.

Farve From Reality

Wed, 20 Oct 2010 01:28:00 GMT

Take me back to your childhood for a moment. To the 1,314 times we were asked “what do you wanna be when you grow up” or “who do you wanna be like.” Most all of us neglected to say “my parents,” and of this I’m sure. Most of us watched them trudge home at any hour from a thankless job complaining of bad knees and extreme exhaustion before 8 pm. No. We all wanted to be football players, entertainers, cowboys, or rock stars.

And who did we look up to? Quarterbacks, singers, actors, and movie characters. We all wanted the television time, forecast of “raining women”, and the money, and we didn’t even know what the hell all of that was. So we worshipped those who had it, whether we could comprehend it or not. And what we wound up with were deceived dreams, broken hearts, and lies from people we’ll never come within 5 miles of meeting. I write this of course after Athlete #2 in the triumvirate of “The Untouchable Sports Stars” has taken a fall.

I don’t know in what context Brett Favre sent his penis to a hot woman with a job in the Jets organization. Hell, I don’t even know if it was his penis, or if he was being like the guy who lived in my dorm across the hall sending pictures of someone else’s penis to girls so they’d actually come over to meet him. What I do know is that like Tiger Woods, Favre has destroyed another boyhood hero to an endless score of kids’ “I wanna be like HIM.”

The sad state of affairs of the American Iconic Athlete is evident this last year more than any. There were 3 untouchable athletes in our society. Woods, Favre, and Jeter. Aside from that, everyone else is too polarizing to too many in some way to ever crack this Mount Rushmore. Favre had somehow convinced people for 20 years now that he gets up at 5 am, changes his transmission fluid, grows half a beard, mows the lawn, walks the dogs, plows the field, and then goes to the locale tavern to have a few High Life’s with the rest of the town because he can’t afford anything better.

It’s a timeless image, like Tiger’s “devoted family man turned bloodless winner every Sunday.” The truth is, again, we were goofed by an image we wanted to believe because growing up, we don’t want to think of our idols as they truly are. Strumpets, abusers, addicts, and delusional, self absorbed, myopic ingrates punch drunk on their own success.

Favre deceived us all, and probably worse than Woods. True, it’s our fault in a way for buying what a salesman we’ll never meet was selling, but he did it so damned well. The heartbreaking admission of pain killer addiction and infidelity to his wife. The shaved head show of allegiance to that same gal when she was in the throes of fate’s most cruel creature, cancer. Favre humanized himself in a way most athletes refuse to. He crucified himself for all to see, somehow hoping (knowing?) that he’d be viewed as a martyr and an Honest Bob. He sold even harder than Tiger his devotion to his family, aching by the year of leaving them for another “horrible, miserable” season of making more money in a month than I’ll see in my life. Truth is, it looks like Favre had the itch to do a whole lot more than play football. And I hope he itches because of it.

This could be an example to us all, but it probably won’t. Nor will it be to our kids, who will grow up admonishing herculean identities they know nothing about. For every Favre or Woods, there will be another. We’ll all fall into the same trap of “I like him because he’s a nice guy” never willing to buy the fact that he’s doing anal with escorts or texting phallic pictures of himself to co-workers. Favre is so big around these parts, when I typed his name into Microsoft Word it didn’t even ask me to change it, meaning his name is an accepted part of the English language. Is “harlot?”

As we lay to rest another iconic image of someone we wanted to exist, Jeter had best beware. Social media, stupidity, and cell phones have destroyed the secret lives of the worshipped athlete. Jeter is the lone wolf. And you could ask me now what I want to do with the rest of my life, and certainly playing golf for a living and “being like Tiger Woods” would be near the top of my list, since I treat golf today like it’s a rare orgy with Miley, Selena, and Demi Lovato all at once. But the truth is, as I age, I realize like we all probably did how badly we answered that original question from when we were growing up. As I wake up tomorrow to the cold reality of a thankless, mediocre and meaningless professional existence, ask me if I’d dream of being like my parents now (my mother a teacher) and I’ll tell you the story of a man who messed up. What do you wanna be when you grow up? Like her. Not Brett Favre.

Feeling a little less Randy this morning

Thu, 07 Oct 2010 02:31:00 GMT

Feeling a little less Randy this Morning

This morning was a Taylor Swift ditty. Only the object of my abstract desire wasn’t some horny kid in pre-calc who may or may not have a pickup truck. It was for a man named Randy. Last name Moss. Before we get into this though, how slutty is Swift? In 3 compact discs she’s managed to give the impression that if she’s truly from a rural town, she’s tried to fuck the entire county. But I carry on…

People often ask stuff like “do you remember where you were” and insert some catastrophic event assuming you’d know the very moment it happened. My mother still remembers where she was when JFK was shot. I remember the very second Randy Moss was traded to the Patriots for a leper and a few used prophylactics. The chorus of “fuck yous” destroyed my text message rates, long before I knew they had free plans. Putting Randy Moss and Tom Brady together was like having Jesus and Mohammad get together and say “oh, let’s take this over."

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Randy helped take Tom to the record books, as he seemed to say “look what I can do when David fucking Givens isn’t my #1 receiver.” Then came the unbeaten regular season. Then came David Tyree, a Patriots hating god, and the collapse of the impossible. Nevermind, Brady and Moss picked up the pieces that belie a man with basically a new knee and a wide receiver who smokes dope as much as he does Buffalo cornerbacks.

Moss should be cherished, because he’s among the few left. The sports fan is a kind that admonishes the “everyman” until he actually finds it. Then he pokes holes in that man neglecting to realize that it’s him in the mirror, only with money and actual talent. I’ll never forget the candor with which Moss admitted in an ESPN interview that he lives primarily around the elderly because “they don’t make much noise” and how he smokes weed like every day is camping at Bonaroo. There’s something to be admired in a person who doesn’t sugarcoat his life. The general public says they like it, but they bitch when they get it. For the truth is, the public creates what they bitch about when they worship men who play games instead of folks who actually do something with their lives. Randy Moss gets this, and he doesn’t give a fuck what you think.

Bottom line is, Moss was traded because he was right. The same way he was shipped to New England and Oakland. The “Patriot Way” is a cliché way of saying “get in line, or get the hell out.” Moss is 33 and is still un-coverable. He’s 33 and acts as if he’s 65 and 22 all at once. Moss is 33 and staring at the business end of a brilliant career marred only by his candor. Moss doesn’t put icing on his cake. That’s for fruits. He did work in New England. They paid him once, but he wanted one more go-around. The theory is that athletes rise when money is on the line. The reality is that a man of conviction like Moss wants what he’s due.

So he’s in Minnesota, and Patriot Nation is left wondering just how much alcohol you need to drink to think starting Julian Edelman scares anyone other than the NAACP, which will not stand for white people playing running back or wide receiver. Randy Moss is an oddity in a politically correct world that claims it wants honesty. Randy Moss is a grown ass man. A man who knows Bill O’Brien can’t coach. A man that knows the true enjoyment of life comes from grabbing a sack of chronic and a 40 and sitting on your porch watching the stars drift behind the clouds amidst neighbors who go to bed after reruns of Murder She Wrote.

As Swift too famously said, “today was a fairy tale”. And in the end, truly it is. For fairy tales take us away from the harsh reality. Tinkerbell can whisk us away to another world amidst gunshots outside and the cold harsh of an unforgiving world right outside the window. But fairy tales end with us drenched in a world of “what if.” And if “what if” truly is what any fiction of such leaves us with, then today and Moss truly was a fairy tale in the end. Today is a fairy tale, and tomorrow isn’t looking much better.