SRSLY KIDS, START THIS VIDEO, BUT TURN DOWN THE SOUND ...
THEN CLICK PLAY ON THIS:
POINTLESS BUT FUCKING AWESOME ALL THE SAME
SRSLY KIDS, START THIS VIDEO, BUT TURN DOWN THE SOUND ...
THEN CLICK PLAY ON THIS:
POINTLESS BUT FUCKING AWESOME ALL THE SAME
Yer Poppa ain't usually all zeitgeisty in his hate, but apparently I'm not the only MF who's nixing the bracketology this year despite being a sports fan in general. Dudes have their reasons. For me, it's about my ever-waning ties to the product. In my ever-contracting mind, college basketball has become a thing for:
• college kids
• dudes who still wish they were in college
• dudes who really really like basketball
• dudes and chicks who went to one of the colleges that give Dick Vitale super-stiff wood
• dudes and chicks who went to colleges that got really good at basketball only recently and now have a nationally viable brand name because of it (which, technically, is a subset of "colleges that give Dick Vitale super-stiff wood")
• people who will wager $5 on anything
Anyway, I'm not any of those things right now. So ... no bracket.
(Sorry about all the orange dicks. Kinda looks like some Keith Haring shit, though, which is nice.)
A potential side effect of The Scandal:
1. Sales of Penn State apparel might be down, but there are still millions of Penn State fans out there, and most of them own T-shirts, game shirts, hoodies, et cetera.
2. A significant number of Penn State fans will be inspired to ditch some of their apparel. Some will go in the trash, but much of it will be donated to charity.
3. When Americans donate clothes to charity, much of it makes its way to Africa.
4. If all of that is true, there will soon be a significant uptick in the number of PENN STATE and HAPPY VALLEY items being shipped to Africa.
5. Assuming that many of the recipients of these clothes might be unfamiliar with American institutions of higher learning — and the Sandusky scandal is probably not in the news in their countries — then the brand "Penn State" will have increased visibility (benignly) in the eyes of Africans.
6. If increased visibility = higher status, then it is highly possible that Penn State will see an increase in interest from African citizens in the coming years.
"We're going to animate you, Dwyane, for our new Team Xtreme video!"
"That's cool. Just make sure I kinda look like Blair Underwood, aight?"
If you run or do yoga, you obviously know about the endorphins.
Yes, they are basically the same thing as smoking crack.
Last time I checked, crack addiction was uncool.
So, if you're preparing to post a Facebook status update about running or yoga, ask yourself the following fundamental question:
IF I JUST SMOKED SOME CRACK, WOULD I BE BRAGGING ABOUT IT?
No, you probably wouldn't.
But if you did just smoke a giant crack rock, and you did decide to brag about it on Facebook, you are awesome. Ain't nothin' gonna keep you down!
ADDENDUM: People also could start posting whenever they get laid: "I just had sex for 3.7 minutes! So awesome!"
There's nothing more brutally soulless than a Blake Griffin dunk: The man-child elevates. He extends a meat-hook. The ball blows through the hoop. I want to die. Seriously, think of all the brutally soulless shit in the world. Blake Griffin dunks are worse than whatever you're thinking of. And I don't even hate the Clippers. But when Blake Griffin dunks, God gets the urge take a dump.
1. NFL players would be hired and trained to re-enact crazy plays.
2. The re-enactors would be really good at re-enacting football plays.
3. The play would be performed fresh, with a high amount of precision, over and over again for each individual referee.
4. The other refs in the competition would be sequestered until it is their turn to watch the play.
5. The referee would watch the play and make the call (on most plays, there would be a penalty).
6. The referee must not only make the proper call, but he also must have a lot of style in announcing the penalty.
7. Like, Ed Hochuli might not always be the judges' cup of tea.
8. The judges would score the refs on technical penalty-calling ability as well as style. Two-thirds of the point total would be technical; one-third would be style.
Y'know that episode of "Spongebob" where the dude yells "CHOCOLATE!" except it comes out more like "CHOCKLATT!" and then Spongebob and Patrick go to one house where it's a really old lady and her REALLY RILLY REALLY old mom, and the mom looks like this?
Jamie Moyer is going to pitch until he looks like her.
... I beheld this dude:
His raps, I say, must be permitted to speak for themselves.But I'm thinkin' I like him better as a crooner. Raw, yo:
NOTE: It's up to you, Cesspool Nation Kids, to find the other gems. Or maybe they're all gems. Get the full load -- like 2,800 uploads! -- at his YouTube joint. Chief topics: soccer, Lakers, Twilight, Twitter, Karate Kid, love.
Other than the Olympics, I've slacked on the hockey this year, even with a birthland team (Flyers) advancing far into the playoffs. But I made it a point to watch last night's NHL finals game from the opening faceoff. So dumb, even though the final score was far different than what it was (3-0? 4-1?) when I gave up and switched over to Kobe vs. The Whole Entire World.
Here's the bitch of it all: After last night, I'm 100 percent tired of this fucking Fratellis song, a.k.a. The Beer-Drool-Inducing Blackhawks Goal Song; I already was at about 98 percent before last night, simply because of that Amstel Light commercial, which I shall not reproduce here.
Seriously, even if you're a Blackhawks lover, you have to admit that this shit is colossally annoying. Like, "Justin Bieber" or "Miley Cyrus" or "Gary Glitter" annoying:
Upon deep background reflection (y'know, the kind where you tell the Subroutine Goblin* in your brain to sort something out, and like six months or a year later, he comes out covered in filth and slime, and he says breathlessly, "sir, I've got it!"), I've figured out why I hate commercials that use CGI to make athletes look even more amazing than they really are: It cheapens the real thing. If you have to make LeBron James or Ronaldinho look awesome -- if what they do on the field/court isn't interesting in its own right -- then you're tryin' too hard to sell shoes & sugarwater, bitches.**
* Any use of the Subroutine Goblin guarantees that somebody else is going to think of an answer first. You know the drill: I'd go lookin' for examples, but I'm too lazy.
** Making normal people look awesome via CGI, however, is acceptable.
He inspires a special kind of neurosis in Nats beat writers. To wit: this piece about Jim Riggleman's role in Kerry Wood's career. It's intended as a sober reflection on how phenoms can crap-out, and it's also an examination of how Riggleman handled another dude who was supposed to Save The Universe From Collapse. Both angles are familiar on the baseball beat: Themes repeat themselves in every generation of players, and a manager's previous behaviors can mean a lot in the sport. Fair enough. But get a load o' these grafs:
Let's stop here: This is not another bash job on Riggleman for supposedly ruining Wood's career by overusing him as a rookie. This is not an attempt to scare Nationals fans by linking Strasburg to Wood, via Riggleman. Two different pitchers, two different situations, two different eras.
If anything, you may come away from this story feeling Riggleman played little or no role in Wood's injury-plagued career -- which includes three arm surgeries and 12 stays on the disabled list. You may come away understanding that sometimes, the difference between a perfectly healthy arm and a destroyed one is as random as a coin toss, as thin as the triangular band of fibrous tissue that connects the humerus to the ulna -- the infamous ulnar collateral ligament.
TRANSLATION: OH GOD, PLEASE DON'T LET SATAN OR EVIL GHOSTS OR ANYBODY ELSE TOUCH STEPHEN STRASBURG. DON'T EVEN LOOK AT HIM WITH ONE EYE. HE'S NOT KERRY WOOD, WE KNOW THAT, DUH, BUT EVEN IF HE WAS MANAGED BY JESUS OR GHANDI AND MADE OF MEGA-CARBON AND AWESOME-METAL AND OTHER IMPENETRABLE-YET-FLEXIBLE SUPERMATERIALS, WE'D BE TOTALLY FUCKING SCARED OF ACCIDENTALLY DESTROYING HIM WITH EVEN OUR THOUGHTS, BECAUSE THIS TEAM IS GONNA BE SO BORING OTHERWISE.
Some of these moms are kinda hot:
OR, PERHAPS: Maybe I'm looking for some sort of an emotional-sexual refuge, after watching Sidney Crosby score that goal.
OH CANADA: You think you're one of a special breed/You think that you're his pet Pekinese ...
The Wall Street Journal looked at it and said, "well, uh, guess we gotta go with the perceived-incest thing."
It's a slippery slope, though. Now they gotta do the "perceived homosexuality" thing when covering luge doubles.
And I think I saw at least one speedskater dude with a gigantic package. They should write about that guy.
And so, more than 18 months later, it is still true that we cannot stop thinking about Quatchi. We've grown to know him quite well, and although he is generally a gentle and noble beast, we're pretty sure he steals our food sometimes. And he hasn't washed those earmuffs in awhile. Otherwise, though, dude can party, at least until the weed kicks in. If you hate him, you are an evil, soulless robot and you must be destroyed by Canadian weaponry.
(Photo by NowPublic.com user bensonkua.)
Funslides exist because you bought a shitty McMansion and stuffed it with a platoon of bored kids and hundreds of yards of shitty carpeting. There is no other explanation. Please do not try to rationalize it. Nobody else is using them:
ALSO: You probably buy those toddler sneakers with the lights, too.
At the risk of inadvertently choosing sides in the SEC's big Pepsi-v.-Coke conflagration (in the broader pigskin context, I guess Texas is RC Cola, natch), I'm gonna just lay it down plainly: Watching Nick Saban gives me a weird kind of heartburn, like the kind you get when you walk into church or school or court, and you just know that the dude at the front of the room is a total prick about certain things. (In all fairness, Tim Tebow skeeves me out in equal, but different, measures.) Saban's disposition has whiffs of '80s corporate raider, '90s TV preacherman and '00s prickly politico, and I can't hack any of it. He conjures teenage urges toward subversion of authority. Like, I wanna anonymously put a bag of burning dog doo on his doorstep. But I'm gonna be a man about it: I wish I had a good football team, so I could play Nick Saban's team, and watch him be boilin' mad.
This postseason-baseball thing is dry-humping some of the life out of me. Or maybe it's Other Stuff that is dry-humping some of the life out of me. Or maybe it's the Crack. Oh well. In the meantime, here's a picture of Pedro Martinez and Nelson de la Rosa:
TOTALLY UNRELATED BONUS: Interview with Vincent Locke, the guy who makes album covers for Cannibal Corpse and also illustrated "A History Of Violence." BLOCKQUOTE, YO:
The only hard part is not being able to let my kids see some of the artwork. There are times they can’t come in my studio. Since I work at home, they often come and go and see what I’m working on. But there are definitely times where they need to stay out, or I work out a way they won’t see it accidentally. Some stuff is not for kids, right?
END BLOCKQUOTE, YO!
(Photo from Flickr user 66Baseball)
Yer Poppa complained loudly about the fact that many of the Phils' first-round playoff games were on the boobtube at inconvenient times -- like, uh, 2:30 p.m. on a Wednesday, when even Your Friendly Office Bourbon Fiend might have a hard time saying "I gotta get LUNCH" with a plausibly straight face. Now I'm wondering if all this prime-time October baseball action is only a mirage of convenience. Because on Monday night, I fell asleep well before Jimmy Rollins hit that double, and I awoke only to the sound of TBS announcers pulling their tongues out of their tracheas. Dude, I'm an old man, and an 8:07 start time only guarantees that I gotta guzzle some PG Tips or a Mt. Doo-Doo to stay awake for all 9 innings.
DISCLAIMER: I cannot throw a 94 mph fastball. Nor can I hurl a scrotum-snapping slider. But let's be honest: This year, Brad Lidge is totally annoying -- and I'd argue that being "annoying" is much worse than simply being "bad." With those truths evident, I offer you a triptych from tonight's 5-3 win over the Nats, which was only a 5-3 win because Ryan Madson relieved the annoying Brad Lidge.
1. PHILLIES MANAGER CHARLIE MANUEL (BOTTOM RIGHT) KNOWS THAT BRAD LIDGE IS GOING TO BE ANNOYING:
2. INDEED, BRAD LIDGE DOES SOMETHING TOTALLY ANNOYING. NOTE THE BALL IN MID-FLIGHT. THE BALL IS ON ITS WAY TO THE BACKSTOP:
3. CHARLIE MANUEL PULLS BRAD LIDGE FROM THE GAME BECAUSE BRAD LIDGE IS ANNOYING AND NOW THE FUCKING BASES ARE LOADED:
(photos by JW, yo. click on the photos to enlarge them, bruh-dudes)
This NFL Huddle doll from the '80s:
Is actually a junior member of Fleet Foxes:
I am implying, of course, that Fleet Foxes are crypto-hippies, i.e., they've got something to hide. I'm probably wrong about that. I think they're just real fuckin' hippies.
But only if the ball is really small and really soft.
And the weed is really up.The little goalpost skull-crack at the end is a nice touch. Hippies wouldn't bother with a vanquishing flourish like that.
I've been inclined to treat all communications from the Nationals ownership like any other piece of Washington spin. But dang, those motherfuckers are pissed off now. I don't see anything in this piece but truth-tellin'. It's certainly more direct than whatever Sanford or Ensign spewed -- if you wanna go so far as to compare it to contemporary clean-comings. And it retains a little dignity, too. The rest of this lava-hott factual-ness can be found after the jump:
Letter from the Nationals
To Fans of the Washington Nationals,
No one is more dissatisfied in the first half of the 2009 Washington Nationals season than we are. Like you, we had hoped that some of our younger players would have matured faster and that the addition of some of our new veterans would have significantly improved our record from a season ago. Our hope was that solid club leadership would emerge on and off the field and that some intangible combinations would begin to click resulting in many winning streaks.
For reasons beyond my control -- and for reasons completely within my control -- I haven't watched a single NBA playoff game this year. But because they've captured the public's imagination -- particularly the Eastern Conference bitch-fights -- I feel as though I'm constantly awash in ambient information about how everybody is doin'. Or maybe my serotonin levels are dangerously low. F the Celtics. Anyway, if the NBA could guarantee that Lebron and Wally played the entirety of every game while making these angry-clowny faces, I would start watching.*
* To be sure, Lebron's expressions are often of the "vaguely clowny" variety -- a fact that he himself probably would freely admit -- but when he's "angry clowny," I truly glimpse the beast within. And even that beast is kinda funny. Wally? HE IS THE COMEDY CYBORG.
I noted earlier today that just when you think ESPN has found a new love (Mark Sanchez, A-Rod, etc.), old fart Brett Favre decides to float the idea that he might be coming out of retirement. All-a-sudden, you can almost hear the squeals of delight emanating from Connecticut: GRANDPAPPY QB IS BACK! PREPARE THE METAPHORICAL HARD-ONS!
Anyway, I could give a shit about Brett Favre. As the day rolled on, though, I began to think more and more about the image of Rachel Nichols standing in front of a viking boat. Sure, it's just a cheesy, NFL-ized replica. And I rarely find myself thinking about Rachel Nichols at all. So I'm a little disappointed in myself for being so easily titillated by such a juxtaposition. But still, it's squishy-weird up in here. Let's just leave it at that. Pic:
I am a man of few aristocratic proclivities, but I have no qualms expressing a seasonal urge to consume Pimms No. 1 Cup, perhaps at the expense of culturally mandated sojourns with mint juleps, a concoction that I find most pleasant, but perhaps lacking in intrigue, even when made with a highly preferable variety of bourbon.
The tone isn't "Obama," because nobody really knows what Barack will sound like when he has to fire a bunch of people. And it isn't "W," because I don't remember Bush II sounding so resolute when he shook up his West Wing. It might be "Bush I," because the cadence is all choppy and the words are plain: "NOT GON' DO IT. NEW BULLPEN AT THIS JUNCTURE."
Sorry that it had to happen in D.C.
Some 2008 style:
ADDENDUM: At the time, I was like, "well, Harry got paid." But in hindsight, I'm like, "these muthafuckin' bitches didn't deserve to be in a commercial with him." Chumps:
NBC4's slideshow proves one thing: Go anywhere in upper Northwest, and you'll see some lame-ass stone buildings, some satellite dishes, and a security camera or two.
ANSWER: According to Jayson Stark, they've all been invited to spring training somewhere. But the real truth is that almost all of them have fucked me over in fantasy baseball at least once. Fuckers. You take food from the mouths of my babies. Except maybe Corky Miller, because with a name like "Corky," the odds are good that you're probably not on my waiver-wire priority list.