Check out my HEMI

The sound is better than any piece of ass you'll ever have.

Wednesday, February 28, 2007

From 'Alert DC'

The 6100 block of Georgia Ave. NW going north and south bound is closed due
to a oil spill in the basement of a day care center.Sent by DC EMA to e-mail,
pagers, cell phonesPowered by the Roam Secure Alert
Network----------------------------------- To authenticate this alert go to
To change your alerting preferences (cell phone, communities, schools, etc.) or
to delete your account, go to Tell a friend about
Alert DC by forwarding this e-mail to them. Register for this service at

We'll see if people care as much about cleaning the oil off of babies as cleaning the oil off of baby seals. My guess is they won't. Why? The government hates black people. Fucking government.

Labels: ,

Running Out of Reasons

Yesterday I sent in my registration form to run in the Boston Marathon this April. The Boston Marathon is the biggest running event in the world and to compete in it, you need to qualify for it by finishing a qualifying marathon under a certain time, depending on your age and sex. For me, this meant finishing in less than three hours, eleven minutes. 3:10:59 gets you in. This translates to seven minutes, fifteen seconds per mile for the 26.2 miles. I qualified by running the Baltimore Marathon in 3:09:42 last fall.

I went to Baltimore with the "you mean you really want to give up hitting this?" ex-girlfriend. When I finished the race I was in great pain, the kind of pain that makes you want to ball up on the ground and start bawling, cursing yourself for ever deciding to pay an entry fee to induce such a horrible feeling. I just wanted to get into a cab, get back to my hotel room, take a shitload of Tylenol, and take a shower if I could still stand up. I had discussed with the girl when I would likely finish and where we would meet. She was nowhere to be found. God, that pissed me off. There I was, staggering around in agonizing pain looking for a wretched creature that I didn't ever want to see again, but had to because she was somewhere with my wallet and key to the hotel room. When I finally found her, I grabbed my warm-ups out of my back pack and motioned for us to go find a cab. She seemed confused by the whole situation. She didn't get there in time to see me run right by the hotel we were staying early in the race, didn't get to the finish line in time to see me cross, and didn't seem to have any concept of whether I had done well or not. I don't think I hit that thereafter.

When I got back to DC, and the pain began to subside, I started watching college football and drinking heavily. I think I had twelve or more beers during that afternoon and evening. Cold beer tastes better the more physically exhausted you are--not exhausted like you are tired and want to go to bed, but exhausted like I just worked out really hard or ran really far or chopped up like fifty corpses. Remember in Roadhouse when Wade is almost beaten to death, but somehow staggers back to the bar? Well, Wade made it that far because he needed a fucking beer. And he got one. I gurantee that it was the best tasting beer the Wade character ever had, even if it was a 'Genny Light'.

I went to happy hour yesterday with some friends of mine, one of whom was my friend Michelle, who had recently decided to give up beer for lent. If Michelle finds herself exhausted after cutting down a bunch of trees or 'serving' some fools in a dance battle at a DC club like H2O or Love sometime between now and Easter, I guess she'll have to order a glass of crisp chilled chardonnay or an ice cold Fresca. I'm not sure I would give up beer for lent, but I can't say I fully understand the motivation for Catholics giving enjoyable things for lent like beer. Perhaps she is giving up beer to make beer taste better after Easter than it did on Fat Tuesday.

I can understand that. Running, after all, is not fun. It's tolerable at best when you are running at a comfortable pace on a nice day, but you are never as comfortable running as not running, which is why most humans choose to not run recreationally. People run because of the way it makes them feel afterwards. Sitting around and drinking is always more enjoyable after a run. Plus, it helps keep you in shape, and being in good shape is desirable because if you find yourself without pants on in the presence of someone and you really want to hit that, that person will find your appearance more pleasing than if you were all frumpy gunty.

Running races motivates regular running through fear of the shame of not finishing or finishing in a time that you feel no boost in pride for. After qualifying for the Boston, I felt this shame after running the Marine Corps Marathon two weeks later in three hours, twenty-six minutes. It was the first time I had a finishing time slower than I had in the race prior to it. While that time was still faster than most marathon runners will ever run, I was disappointed. What the fuck was the point of paying almost $100 to torture myself for three and a half hours if I wasn't going to be all that proud of myself?

The problem was that after the Baltimore race I didn't have a realistic goal in mind, since I had already qualified for Boston, my sort of end goal in running. I attempted to break three hours, but hit the wall after being on pace for about sixteen miles. I guess I'll try to break three hours again if I can get in shape for it. After that, I think I'm going to quit running marathons. I started running, as I think I wrote in my first ever post, to give me something to focus on other than the fact that I was unemployed and living in my ex-girlfriend's basement. I've taken this shit way too far.

Labels: , , ,

Monday, February 26, 2007


A curious figure in NBA history died last week. Dennis Johnson passed away without significant public mourning or fanfare.

The fact that such a player could affect such ambivalence, considering his presence in so many basketball games of historical record, is beyond debate between even the most knowledgeable of mortals.

It is fitting then, that only in death, should we hear two opinionated voices vie for Johnson's soul.

Larry Bird (as Cerberus): I never played with anyone from French Lick with your complexion, but I always loved your competitive moxie. You know something, DJ? You should market that as a drink – Competitive Moxie – when those heavenly gates open. Corner it before that jerk Jordan gets to it first.

Isiah Thomas (as St. Peter): Sorry DJ, but rules is rules. Uniform complexion required. No exceptions.

Bird: Did he really say that? Was he smirking? Go back up there and teach him how to throw an inbounds pass. He'll be eternally grateful.

Zeke: Really now? Inbounds pass? Ha Ha. Just tell him that he who smirks last, smirks best. I still won't shake his hand.

Bird: I never gave him the chance to shake my hand in Indiana. He got his papers via fascimile. DJ, don't worry about this too much. We all know that he'll run those Gates into the ground just like he did the CBA, just like the raptors, just like...ugh, no need to run through the litany. Stay strong, Deej.

Zeke: One question DJ. Would you want to play for the Pacers right now? At least I can control my players. And how can you respect someone with that mousthache?

Bird: Man, would you want to talk so much with that whisperish, aw-schucks delivery? With that kind of overblown confidence, it's clear that he's saying all this standing 5 feet behind Scott Hastings and Rick Mahorn.

Zeke: At least my people are capable of rational thought. Good luck down there with Artest and Stephen Jackson.

Bird: So out of touch. You've clearly been out of the league for a while now, with some imposter running the Knicks. Great choice. He's doing a bang-up job.

Obviously, Isiah still has trouble seeing in the long-term. For instance, against the Bulls, how does leaving the court with his jesters look now? How about freezing out Jordan in the All Star game? The Dream Team would'a been nice for him.

Zeke: Sorry, DJ. I couldn't understand you. Bill Simmons is making too much goddam noise sucking your dick. I bet you and Larry could slap the finger cuffs on him. Whatever Larry wants to say, at least my fan base is not made up of the most racist mongoloids in the world. Boston is a lovely town.

Bird: I have no idea who Bill Simmons is. Oh wait. Is he that Charlestown creep that used to proposition me during the '86-'87 season? That guy was relentless, if unsuccessful. Nice try, Ezekiel. I suggest getting yourself tested before making such comments. There's only one of us on tape kissing a guy with the hiv.

Zeke: I'm comfortable in my sexuality. Sorry. Queer. I'm telling Hardaway.

Bird: Deej, I know this tedious to have to go back and forth, but you'll get in up there.

I know Laimbeer has been pushing his girls hard to perfect the screen-and-roll, Zeke. Why not pay him a visit and show him how you used to do it. You know -- screen 'em with chloroform and then roll 'em over.

Zeke: Listen Larry. I was never voted 'Ugliest Man Alive'. You know the ladies can't resist my boyish good looks. Ask your wife. I had her barking like a dog.

Bird: So desperate, Zeeks. For all your ball-making skills, lack of discretion continues to get the best of you. I know DJ can wait this all out, and then, when you or your impostor trade for Baron Davis, the Gates will part.

Till then,

Larry "Legend"

P.S. If you were white, you would'a been just another scrub clawing for playing time.

Larry, that doesn't make any sense. If I were white I'd be considered the greatest player of all time. A more accurate statement would be: if you were black, you would be just another Dennis Johnson.

Labels: , , , ,

Thursday, February 22, 2007

After Reading This, You May Associate Claussen Pickles With A Two to Four Pot Per Day Coffee Drinker You Have Never Met.

I just got back from the drinking fountain. Where I work there is no water cooler for workers to gather around and talk about important things like American Idol or Who wants To Be The Next Beloved American Homosexual? or how they hate their spouses or how precipitation is undesirable unless it is summer and you have plant life you want not to be dead. There used to be a water club, where you could pay $25 every three months to have the right to drink from a water cooler, but due to restructuring of my office that is no longer an option. I quit the water club several months ago, calling it a colossal waste of money.

<start digression>I am trying to use the word 'colossal' more often--It sort of sounds like Claussen, a name of a pickle company that for whatever reason, just suggests to me that its pickles will be nice and firm and delicious, unlike Vlassic, which sounds kind of like 'flaccid', an undesirable property for pickles to have. I have not purchased pickles in some time because my mom gave me some pickles she canned herself some months back. I haven't opened the jar yet, as I generally do not consume pickles very often at home unless I am barbecuing.<end digression>

I bought one of those miniature horses Pur filtered water pitchers that fits easily in the door of the office mini fridge for about $15. I still haven't purchased a replacement filter for that unit or the one in my refrigerator at home. Maybe I'll die because of it, but I suspect that the recommended switch time is far shorter than is needed. Maybe if you live in Mexico you should follow the switch times.

While I was at the drinking fountain I noticed a faint smell of ointment in the air, which I found to be extremely unpleasant and unfortunately not unfamiliar. I remembered that as I was walking to the fountain to fill my pitcher, I passed a coworker of mine who was walking back with a Mr. Coffee carafe full of water indicating that he was about to fire up another pot. This guy drinks an unbelievable amount of coffee every day. While I have 2-4 cups from the shared coffee maker every morning, this guy drinks 2-4 pots.

Being a pretty regular guy, I find myself making a beeline for the mens room a few times a morning on average, partly due to the 2-4 cups of coffee. The mens room closest to me has two crappers and two urinals. Each of the pairs of different types of human waste receptacles consists of one made for a tallish person and one for a shortish person. I am 6'2" so I always go for the back crapper, which happens to be the more spacious of the two--I think of it as 'the owner's box'. Quite often when I get to this crapper there is someone sitting down doing some work next door. By a wide margin, the 2-4 pot/day and another big coffee drinker are most frequently in that 'office'. I can tell who it is by their shoes.

I feel like I know these people really well, although we rarely speak to each other or even make eye contact at the sink on those occasions when we finish the job at the same time. If one of them retires , I think I'd go to the party and put a poster size close-up photo of their left shoe on a stand at the front of the room. Maybe I'll give a speech, telling how I first noticed the left New Balance when I sat down and realized that the gentleman in the next stall was snoring. Now that would really bring the house down! Imagine an office photo book that just shows from the left or right bottom of the pant leg and down...that would be the shiznitt, in my estimation.

So anyway, the 2-4 pot/day guy I have noticed has that same disturbing faint ointmenty smell coming from his stall every time. Like the case of the Spinal Tap drummer to die choking on vomit, this mystery is probably "best left unsolved". I wonder if this guy's house and car smell like ointment. Maybe his wife keeps him up until 4AM every night, violating the shit out of him, forcing him to load up on ointment every morning and drinking shitloads of coffee to stay awake.

Note: My initial plan was to write about how NFL players should start doing end zone celebrations glorifying their own personal transgressions, such as simulating driving drunk or have a teammate simulate sticking a needle into their ass and following it up by simulated weight lifting. Somehow this happened. If you have a celebration idea you would like to share, please submit it in the comments section.

Labels: , , ,

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Best Scoring Celebration Ever?

photo courtesy of Super Soccer

You soccer fans out there probably have heard about the hilarious/despicable story of Liverpool forward Craig Bellamy allegedly attacking teammate John Arne Riise with a golf club in Riise's hotel room after Riise declined to participate in a karaoke competition while out at a bar in Portugal. This incident took place during what was supposed to be a team bonding trip before Liverpool's huge match with Barcelona in the first leg of the first knockout round of the Champions League tournament. Bellamy has quite a history of altercations, which I will get into later.

The big fucking news of the day is that BOTH Bellamy and Riise scored in the match between the previous two Champions League winners (felt too weird typing champions right there). Liverpool defeated Barcelona 2-1.

The BIGGER news: Bellamy celebrated his goal by taking an imaginary golf swing!

I have heard of some badass celebrations, including a player getting down on his knees and pretending to snort the goal line, but this might be even better. It turns out that in England you could have bet that Bellamy would score and do this celebration and gotten 100-1. This, ladies and gentleman, makes me proud to be a human.

2006: Cleared of charges of assaulting two women at a nightclub.
Sent threatening text messages to Newcastle Captain Alan Shearer
2004: Threw chair at his team (Newcastle) assistant manager
2003: Charged for three racism offenses from a night out in Cardiff, Wales. He was fined. Charges of racially aggregated abuse were dropped

Labels: ,

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Payback Is a Bitch

Well, the Chief asked, and I think that the night of August 22, 2002 is a fine springboard for my contributions to this site. Your patience is appreciated as I sit and and attempt to fellate myself for the next 1000 words.

It wasn't Mother's Day, as was suggested, but it was just as good – my mom's birthday. We had decided to go see the Red Sox play the Texas Rangers that night as a family as a way to enjoy each other's company and celebrate all that is my mother. All was well-intentioned, respectful and respectable.

For 5-and-a-half innings anyway.

For all to fully appreciate my state-of-mind at this game, it is essential to know that I was raised in the Chicago suburbs in the 1980s. I had taken to sports at a very early age, and baseball had it's rightful spot at or near the top of my sporting interests. As a Northsider and one of dubious decision-making abilities, I embraced the Cubs as my team. Naturally, Ryne Sandberg was my de facto hero, and many an afternoon were spent in my back yard, whiffle ball bat and ball in hand, emulating Ryno's swing and run. He was my guy.

He started a precipitous decline in 1993, and it was a well-known fact that he was struggling with a failing marriage at the time. Things really came to a head after a brutal 1994 season were he hit .238 with 5 home runs in limited action (57 games). He would retire (for a year anyway) at the end of that season as the personal turmoil he was experiencing really started rearing its head on the field. It was a sad end to a Hall of Fame career where he consistently displayed class and hard work.

Shortly after his retirement, there began very strong rumor that his wife had been unfaithful to him during their marriage. There was some of this intimating years prior, but it was relatively hushed; Ryno's unfortunate exit from the game renewed such speculation . Many of you probably know that ex-teammates had been some of the offenders. There was one player in particular who was always front-and-center in this innuendo – turncoat, scumbag, dick pill-pusher, and cheater –Rafael Palmeiro.

Fast forward to August 22, 2002. It was a dreary, drizzly night, words that could easily be used to describe Raffy's Texas Rangers that year. They finished 31 games out of first place, while Boston had their typical 93-win team. The score of this game reflected the wide disparity of the two teams, and by the middle of the 5th, the Sox were dominating the Rangers to the tune of an 8-run lead.

Now, I've always been above-average in heckling ability and voracity, but what was about to transpire eclipsed anything I have ventured forth, prior or since. My family and I were seated behind the visiting dugout about 12 rows back down the first base line. Near perfection. As the top of the 5th came to a close, Raffy had been stranded at third, and began the long walk across the diamond to his dugout. The opportunity was too tempting. As a friend reminded me just the other day, I'm a man of impulse.

I got out of my seat and made my way up to the wall that separates the field from the seats. As Raffy passed the first base coaching box, and with the stadium nearly silent, I unloaded.

“Hey, Raffy! I've got a bottle of Viagra and Ryne Sandberg's wife! Let's go party!”

That punter stopped mid-stride and scanned the stands for the culprit, and as his eyes got to me, I was standing up at the wall, nodding my head with an ear-to-ear grin on my face.

Obviously I struck a nerve.

“What did you say?” he quizzed incredulously.

I repeated the sentence verbatim, and his pace quickened to confront me.

“How dare you?” he demanded.

“How dare you?” I quipped back. “You are a despicable human being. You ruined his career.”

We're face to face now.

“Why don't you come over here and say that?” that jerk asked me.

“Because I'm not allowed on the field Raffy. I'm not coming over there. Good luck the rest of the game, you scumbag.”

That concluded our contact, at least on my part. I made my way back to the seat amid 500 or so chuckling and/or horrified fans, feeling very happy with myself. It apparently continued under Raffy's skin, however, and as I sat down I noticed that he was talking with a cop that must be stationed in the dugout. He started making use of his radio and soon I realized that he was directing a security guard behind me. After a few minutes, he pinpointed me, and the guard told me I had to go.

I started pleading my case as he led me to the gates, telling him that I intentionally avoided swearing, as I respected the family environment. I also made my case by telling him that heckling is as old as the game itself. I finally got him to crack a bit, and he offered his condolences, but it was out of his hands. The owners were trying to create a “friendlier Fenway.”

I made my way across the street to the Boston Beerworks to have a beer, bask in my glory, and chuckle at every shot they showed of Raffy, clearly brooding. When it comes right down to it, he may have had me removed from the park, but I win. I got the number one villain of my childhood to lose his temper and respond to me – some asshole heckler. Athletes train themselves to ignore such taunts every day, but I got to him.

I enjoyed a couple of ales at that nice, warm bar, and he sat stewing on a crappy team on a crappy night in a blowout, knowing all along that I had gotten then better of him.

My mother forgave me, even though she definitely would have preferred that I had not pursued the exchange, and on her birthday of all days. She's an exceedingly warm and understanding woman. She knows me. I couldn't help myself.

This tale is decidedly masturbatory, but I've found it appeals to the voyeur in us all. I trust you can understand why sharing it makes me want to shout out, in the spirit of Harry Caray, "I win! I win!"

Labels: , , ,

Monday, February 19, 2007

What Had Happened
2/16 - 2/19

I am the type of guy that got both Friday and Monday off, so I'm recapping this nice long weekend, except for Monday since I didn't do anything very interesting other than watch the movie Bring it On late morning.

A few weeks ago I received a mailing from The Sports Club LA of DC for a free week at their gym. I'm fortunate enough to have a gym at work that only costs me $10.50/2 weeks, but they don't have shit like a lap pool, basketball courts (yes, I meant for that to be plural), steam room and sauna, and towels. Towels are the fucking key. There is something comforting about knowing that there are hundreds, if not thousands, of clean folded towels for you to wipe your nasty sweaty head on. There are enough towels that they really don't need toilets--you could just crap and pee into them. If you have been a regular reader for months, you may remember that while in LA for the Rose Bowl I visited the location in Irvine as a guest to an individual who can legitimately afford it. I had extremely fond memories, mostly of the active women, so I was definitely going to do the free trial.

I went in on Friday and met with the membership dude, who showed me around the place, showed me the initiation fee and monthly dues, then released me into the trial membership. Three hours later I left the place, determined to somehow afford it. How much is it? $143/month, plus $350 initiation fee. Totally worth it. I was really happy that I wore my contacts so that I could see while working out, unlike how I just take my glasses off when working out at the gym at work, where sharp vision would give me a sharper view of the spandex covered gunts in the gym and naked bodies of retirement-aged men in the locker room who are way too comfortable with their johnsons hanging out on display.

The women at SCLA were phenomenal. One of them had possibly the best ass I have ever seen. I noticed (as did about five other dudes, and not in a subtle way) her as she was doing an exercise where her front foot was on a stabalizing bubble-stand thing, her front knee was bent about 90 degrees, and her back leg rested on one of those big stabilizing balls. in her hands were some dumbells. She was in this position doing dips, bringing her front knee from straight to 90 degrees. Her ass seemed to be getting quite a workout. I imagined how nice it would be to put one of those really long circus balloons between her cheeks so that she could squeeze the air from the middle to the two ends.

I went back to the SCLA on Saturday and worked out for another three hours. Just like on Friday, it was great. I watched part of the Bush race on an exercise bike (all of the cardio machines have lcd tv's with lots of channels built in). There is something special about watching cars going around in a circle while on an exercise bike or a treadmill.

Saturday night I went with friends of mine to another all-you-can-drink/eat event at the National Zoo. Animals that were determined to be comfortable around young drunk professionals were brought out by zoo employees to everyone's delight.

left: armadillo that is able to curl up into a ball right: little hedgehog from Madagascar.

This was a Brazilian Carnival themed event with open beer/wine bars and food stations, and featured a Brazilian rum-based mixed drink, Brazilian themed products for sale and to bid on, and really hot female Brazilian dancers dressed in fancy thongs, decorative bras and headpieces full of feathers. There was ample sideboob on all performers, and their bottoms were such that I also imagined how nice it would be to put one of those really long circus balloons between their cheeks so that they could squeeze the air from the middle to the two ends. After the main performance, I stopped the most elaborately dressed dancer and asked if my girlfriend and I could have our picture taken with her. I don't think she really wanted this to happen, but we flanked her and I passed my crappy digital camera to a rotund older gentleman and asked him to take the picture for me. It was going to be a great picture...but dickhead put his finger in front of the lens, resulting in this:

For some reason, I appear to have a black eye.


My friend Jared's gf was out of town last weekend, leaving him with access to her vehicle. Jared proposed that this vehicle be used to transport himself, The Battleship, and I from DC to the nearest Buffalo Wild Wings to watch the Great American Race, the Daytoner fov hunnert. Two locations were about the same distance away, with one in Fredricksburg, VA and the other somewhere in Maryland. The location in VA looked easier to get to, so Jared called to see if the race would be prominently featured. The guy laughed at him, and when we arrived after the sixty mile drive, we realized that it was an appropriate reaction to the question. There was a large projection screen in every direction, all showing the race. Smaller televisions to the sides of these screens showed channels that were entirely devoted to individual drivers. So you could look over from the main race to see exactly where certain drivers, such as Tony Stewart, were on the track, without interruption for commercials.

The Battleship clearly had the highest tolerance for hot sauce, dominating six "hot" and three "mango habenero" wings in a few minutes. It probably took me fifteen minutes to handle the three mango habeneros, but at least I got the job done. The wing totals for the the three of us were 33 for me, 30 for Jared, and 15 for the Battleship. The Battleship made up for this number by downing several double jack and cokes in the second half of the race.

We were probably the only ones in the bar without NASCAR gear on, which I have to say is the tackiest of all sports apparell. I enjoy NASCAR races, but I could never walk around as an advertisement for the sponsor of a driver. In a previous post I wrote that NASCAR fans include rednecks. After going to this bar, I think it is probably fair to say that most NASCAR fans are what northerners such as myself consider to be rednecks. They seemed to be a fine breed, however. I didn't notice any confederate flag shirts on anyone. There were also a few African American race fans there for the race as well, or possibly just getting there early for the All-Star game starting later in the evening, an event that Michael Wilbon has called "Black Thanksgiving".

The race itself was very entertaining, especially at the end. I won't go into the details as there are other sources out there for that. I will pass along a comment that I made during the Gillette commercial where the guy does the fly-by with toy jets (before some event I can't remember--was it his kid's first shave?) that Jared and the Battleship enjoyed.
I'd like to do a fly-by like that right before I ejaculate.

Labels: , , , ,

Free Agent Signing: Corduroy Dream

I am pleased to announce that Corduroy Dream has accepted an invitation to become an author. If we're all lucky maybe he'll tell us all the story of how he was booted from Fenway on Mother's Day and other greats.

Labels: ,

Friday, February 16, 2007

NASCAR Diaries
Part 3

You may remember, if you do not sniff Testors glue recreationally (sorry for the cheap shot, Arnie),

that a few days ago I explained how I grew to hate NASCAR. My personal story of coming around is much like that of The Battleship. I now give you common objections to NASCAR and respond.

1. They are just cars going around in a circle.

The Battleship addressed this earlier very well. Ever hear your mom or ex-girlfriend complain that football is just a bunch of neandrathals running around hitting each other? Suzy, I know you love football, and I'm sorry to single out females as the people to most often say this, so for you and all of the other sexy young women out there in dorms around the country walking around in hot undergarments clinging to your tight nineteen year old bodies getting ready to go out and torture the young men in the bars with your hotness before coming over to my house, the same thing applies to the hipster guy down the hall in your floor who works part time at the used record store in town who tries to act cool around you and looks like he's about to ask you out but thank god chickens out at the last minute and slinks away in shame to his room to masterbate. That guy makes fun of football because he doesn't understand it and doesn't want to. Let this be a lesson in open mindedness to everyone. Before you make fun of modern art, take the time to understand what motivated the artist to create the piece. Once you understand art or football or opera, you can make the decision to like it or not like it, which is perfectly fine, but after understanding the intricacies of each, you will probably no longer look at them with an attitude of condescention.

2. NASCAR fans are just a bunch of stupid hillbillies.

Pictured: A sexy, sophisticated NASCAR fan talking to an employee inside the US Smokeless Tobacco Nextel Tower suite. Note the tv playing the World Cup game between Brasil and France.

NASCAR fans include hillbillies, just as NFL fans include drunk retarded people. If you think that most NFL fanatics are kind of like you, who knows how to read, go to a Sunday or Monday night game the next time there is one in your city (Lions fans, this won't be you for a long time). Two seasons ago I went with my buddy Rob to a Sunday night game in Landover, MD between the 'skins and the Eagles. You could find a classier group of people in an average West Virginia coal mine. People throwing shit at each other. Dads shouting obscenities at other fans right in front of their kid for no apparent reason. The lesson is to not judge an entire fanbase from the group of people attending the event. Same goes for art shows, protests, and concerts.

That same sexy, sophisticated fan standing next to a jackass wearing a $100 shirt and linen pants.
Final thoughts: Last year I went with the Battleship to the Pepsi 400 at Daytona. Watching a race in person, much like watching hockey in person, is indescribably better than watching it on television. NASCAR is one of those things that you need to experience with multiple senses.

"...the sights, the sounds, the smells...of a hard working rock band on the road."
While I wouldn't say that the sound is better than any piece of ass I've ever had, it's fucking great. Ever hear someone say after sitting close to the field at a football game "I was blown away by how big the players are, how hard they hit, and how fast the game is"? At a NASCAR event, it is truly amazing how fast and close together (especially in a restrictor plate race) the cars run. And yes, they are reall loud. And the paintjobs are really neat-o. And you can die racing or watching, which is pretty damn sweet.

Labels: ,

Boogity Boogity Boogity
Can you smell the GAS?

Note: The following piece was dictated to me by The Battleship. The Battleship's internet has not been working for the past two weeks or so. You may be thinking "Stupid Comcast! Why do they always take so long?", but the truth is that The Battleship is so lazy entertained by tv and books that he just hasn't gotten around to calling them. I yelled at him about this again today. I guess The Battleship clearly has some adequate print pornography. Enjoy this fine piece of work.

Those of you who regularly watch Sportscenter, read the sports page, visit sports related web sites, and tune into sports talk radio are about to encounter an unprecedented wave of racism. I'm not talking about black quarterbacks being described as "athletic", and white quarterbacks being described as "cerebral", or Michael Irvin interviews on the Dan Patrick show. Football is over and a new season is upon us. I'm talking about the return of the new Great American Sport (GAS), NASCAR.

Like most Americans, I grew up blithely ignorant about the National Association of Stock Car Auto Racing. To the extent that I acknowledged NASCAR's existence I dismissed it as an activity for hillbillies. It wasn't until I got a new roommate a few years ago that I had any exposure to the new GAS. At first I refused to watch NASCAR, permitting him only to flip to the race during commercials on NFL Sundays. I initially spent most of my time watching the racing action mocking everything. I'd ask him questions about what was going on to increase my knowledge so that I could refine my comments condemning the new GAS. At some point along the way, I got hooked.

I'm relaying this story as a cautionary tale for all of you who resent the new GAS like I used to. ESPN is televising some of the races this year, and because of ESPN's affiliation with NASCAR they are ramping up coverage of the new GAS. ESPN has created NASCAR NOW, a show that will air on weekdays at 6:30 PM. All this week, NASCAR NOW is preempting PTI, something no doubt peeving racer haters to no end. Like it or not, with an assist from ESPN, NASCAR is busting into mainstream sports media this year like never before. Those of you who pride yourselves on resenting the new GAS should simply do your best to ignore it over the next nine months or risk conversion.

Why NASCAR Doesn't Completely Suck

Many NASCAR detractors ask plaintively, "What is so exciting about a bunch of cars driving in circles?" Well, what is so exciting about watching people toss a ball through a hoop or watching people avance a ball across a line? In that context, none of these activities sound particularly intriguing. Fans of football and basketball understand that there is more to these sports than those simplistic descriptions imply.

The same is true of NASCAR. Over the course of a race, each driver and his pit crew make hundreds of decisions and affect the outcome of the race. When to drive the car hard and when to hold back. When to come into the pits, and once there, deciding what adjustments need to be made to the car. Drivers determining the best line to run on turns. Drivers using different strategies on restarts to either block the cars behind them or pass the cars in front.

Perhaps the most intriguing aspect of NASCAR is that it is the only sport where amassing an early lead is utterly meaningless. A car could be running the entire race out front, but if they blow a tire or an engine or just run out of gas on the last lap, they'll end up finishing near the bottom of the pack. This keeps the entire race interesting. It creates a crescendo of anticipation as the final laps approach.

Rebel in the Low Brow

Just because you are a fan of the new GAS doesn't mean that you can't still mock some of its most outlandish aspects. At the beginning of all of the races televised on FOX, Darryl Waltrip (pronounced D Dubya) shrieks "Boogity boogity boogity boys, let's go racing!" The heavy southern accents and coloquialisms are always entertaining and the way that everyone, including the announcers, shamelessly whore for the sponsors is quite amusing.

At the top of this blog is a sentence, "The sound is better than any piece of ass you'll ever have." Someone actually said that to me at the Pepsi 400 last year when I asked about how loud the engines would be and whether I needed to wear earplugs. If you can't simply enjoy that statement, I feel genuinely sorry for you.

-The Battleship

Labels: ,

Thursday, February 15, 2007

Ti-Hard will never crossover to the brown side!

From Dan Le Batard's radio program on Valentines Day:
First of all, I wouldn't want him on my team. And second of all, if he was on my team, I would, you know, really distance myself from him because, uh, I don't think that's right. And you know I don't think he should be in the locker room while we're in the locker room. I wouldn't even be a part of that. You know, I hate gay people, so I let it be known. I don't like gay people and I don't like to be around gay people. I am homophobic. I don't like it. It shouldn't be in the world or in the United States.

Thanks for speaking the truth, brother. You know what else the world or the United states needs to get rid of? Black people. It's horrible that the white basketball players all have to shower and eat with them too, you know? Their very presence in a locker room is disgusting, right?

From the official site of Tim Hardaway,
Welcome to Tim Hardaway's official web site. Although Tim is much too busy to monitor this site, he checks in whenever he can. As you may already realize, it takes a lot of time to excel at any professional sport, especially a demanding one like basketball. The training never stops, and when he's not training he's either spending time with his family, or being a role model.
Indeed! When you're as busy as Tim is hating homosexuals, it's hard to find time to monitor your site. He's so busy that he hasn't found time to update it in the last 8+ years. I guess basketball really is one of the demanding ones. It's especially demanding when you have gays like John Amaechi trying to have sex with you all the time. You should automatically make the NBA all-defensive team if you have to play against that John Amaechi. I mean, basketball is already one of the demanding ones, but when you factor in that you have to be constantly watching out so that John Amaechi doesn't pull your shorts down on the court and ejaculate in your butthole, it's just plain unfair. You could be in Portland, he could be in Orlando, and you still have to worry about him. He could be masterbating in the visitors' locker room, right where you might be in a month. He could be sitting on the same toilet seat at Epcot Center that your child one day will use.

He also gives quotes from NBA players about him. My favorite:
"You have to wrestle him for the ball!" -Chris Mullin
Try to find the link to 'stats', 'tips', and 'basketball camp'. Don't give up, it's worth it.

- created 'Hardaway's Crossover Corner' in Miami (from 'stats')
- "To become one of the most feared point guards in the best basketball leagues in the world, you end up learning alot along the way. If it were easy, you too could be one of the best players in pro ball." (from 'tips')

I would like to thank you, Tim Hardaway. Hopefully you will inspire other assholes to mouth off for thirty seconds on the radio and in turn ruin every decent business opportunity for themselves for the rest of their lives. It will be fun to watch you get ridiculed for a few more days and then flushed down the toilet.

Labels: , ,

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

NASCAR Diaries
Part 2

Legal troubles forced me into lifestyle changes in the late Summer of 1997. Starting around then and continuing for the next eighteen months I was forced to pee into a glass jar in the basement of the county courthouse once every two weeks, while my probation officer watched to make sure that I wasn't putting in a chemical additive to cleanse my pee sort of like how Gumout or STP cleans out your car's fuel injection system.

Without THC, MDMA, methamphetamine, psilocybin, LSD, or cocaine in my system, I found myself less amused with just sitting around listening to music or wandering aimlessly outside in the middle of the night with others under the influence of those substances. I started drinking a hell of a lot more and was really taking a liking to the do homework, then get drunk, then wake up hungover lifestyle. My brain seemed to be waking up and my grades reflected it. For extracurricular activities, I turned to what I remembered liking in my early years: sports. I never stopped following the Red Wings or Michigan football, but I dove head first back into baseball, basketball, and Lions football. It was this period that I met Arnie "the beekeeper" Soloman, who lived nearby me and my gf at the time and was also in some of my classes. Arnie was also into drinking, watching sports, bbq'ing meat, and smoking cigarettes. We used to get drunk and go throw the baseball around pretty regularly. Almost every day I would go to the batting cages at putt-putt golf and games and hit the shit out of the fast pitch, like I was getting ready for high school baseball season or was a pedophile and just liked being around lots of little kids. Somehow I thought I was pretty good at hitting and fielding so I went to an open Tigers tryout. I showed up in jeans and a tee-shirt. For some reason I didn't make the team...maybe it was because I'm white. Fucking racists.

So anyway, all the shit above is supposed to hammer home the point that I shifted from being obsessed with drugs to sports and alcohol in a short period of time. I couldn't get enough of the Tigers my first Summer following them again, even though they were a below average team. Sometimes on Saturdays and Sundays I would be driving in my Honda Accord, waiting for the 1:05 Tiger game to come on the air, only to find out that it was not going to be on because of a goddamn NASCAR race. Fucking NASCAR! I would pound the shit out of my dashboard, cursing the radio station. Who the hell made the decision to broadcast a stupid hillbilly sport over the Ernie Harwell announced Tigers game? How could there be enough rednecks in my town to justify this? It wasn't just during races either. The local radio station would interrupt The Tony Kornheiser show late morning to give thirty minutes of NASCAR news. Sometimes a Tiger game wouldn't be on because of NASCAR qualifying too!

I didn't understand the popularity of this 'sport' and why it was being forced upon me so hard. I knew that it was popular among the large white trash segment of the population from my exposure to on TNN it in my early years, but how had it seeped into everyday life like this? How the hell was it masquerading as legitimate entertainment? How had, in a span of five or so years, had the average American been dumbed down enough to embrace it? My main problems with NASCAR were the following:
- they just drove around in circles for hours and hours--how was this difficult, exactly?
- it appeared to be nothing but a four hour event consisting of advertisements for everyday products going around in circles really fast.
- the announcers said 'wreck' instead of 'crash' and 'the #20 Home Depot Chevrolet' instead of 'Tony Stewart'. this made me cringe.
- I could sort of accept people watching the race in person and on tv, but listen on the radio? how was that entertaining at all? if it was, why couldn't they just put it on the country music station and stay the fuck away from ESPN radio?

In part 3 I will attempt to explain how I went from hating NASCAR and every person, place, thing, and idea associated with it to checking for Daytona 500 qualifying news at least five times yesterday and planning for rushing out after work this Thursday to catch the second Gatorade Duals race.

Labels: ,

Monday, February 12, 2007

Fuck Nascar? Why stop there?

I'll keep this short and sweet. I am by any definition, a half-assed elitist. I reside in a town that is mercifully devoid of any poor people whatsoever and I cringe at every attempt to import them by some shithead's vision of "mixed income" utopia. Half the cars in my neigborhood run on semi-reclaimed peat. God Bless them, If I could afford a new car Id probably buy one for the sole value of feeling better than everybody else. I have over 200 credits from a large state university and the only one who calls me "Dr." is the guy who works at a parking structure downtown. I read every issue of The Economist cover to cover and laugh condescendingly when I see a co-worker ( by the way I believe Im at least 60 times smarter than my nearest competition among that group) looking at When I think of the part of the country that is pretty much south of I-80 I feel so tremendously opressed I can feel my blood pressure rising. I HATE pretty much everything America represents, and I often daydream about moving to Amsterdam and renouncing my US citizenship (ladies and gentlemen, our first FBI flag!). But while Im here, where I'll be forever I imagine, Im not gonna cheat myself out of one iota of the crapulence that somebody crossed the sesquahana for. No sir, aint not one whiff of CO2, not one drop of Bud Light, not one ogle of a silicone-enhanced breast Im gonna let pass my way. If you're lookin for me I'll be diving headfirst into the playboy-mansion pool of putrescence. And you aint gonna stop me.

If you have to ask, you'll never know.

Labels: ,

**note- this post is in response to a series of NASCAR-related posts that the other contributors have decided to undertake. I was not consulted. The first pro-NASCAR entry appears below this post.


As the sole member of checkoutmyhemi with any dignity left, I feel it is my duty to stand up for our readers with IQs over 75 before this goes any further.

When did it become acceptable for well-educated northerners to be NASCAR fans? Has our country become so stupid that our intellectual elite is entertained by the same things that were previously the exclusive domain of the mentally challenged?

Fast-moving bright colors, loud noises, and big crashes are why Down's Syndrome patients love to go bowling. They also seem to be the main appeal in NASCAR.

'Look mommy! Car go fast!'

Nothing makes me madder than to find one of my friends unable to turn away from a TV with cars driving in a circle. Is it the awesome paint jobs? Is it the number on the side? What makes them so interested in an everyday event? A couple of these guys bitch about having to drive everyday to get to their cubicles. Aren't they just emulating their heroes?

Historically, NASCAR has been a southern, working-class 'sport'. The strangest thing about these half-wits is their devotion to a sport in which the sole necessities to succeed are as follows: 1)money, 2) a will to make it happen, 3)a set of false teeth. These are not the best drivers in the world. Any truly talented driver ends up in Formula One (where both left and right turns are required) and bangs Italian broads. Only the assholes who have enough money to keep buying new and better cars, and who possess a will to drive in a circle for their entire lives, end up in NASCAR. Nothing else explains the prevalence of so many familial ties in the sport. (Anyone attempting to attribute this trend to a genetic predilection toward driving should prepare for a myriad of scientific evidence to contradict such a claim)

In order to get to the highest level of NASCAR, you need to perform in some lower level of racing in a circle. These lower levels do not have the same amount of money flowing from sponsors. Therefore, the more money that the driver can devote, the higher his chances for success.

But trouble is on the horizon for the old-school NASCAR base (read: sub-mental racists). This year, Toyota will become the first foreign automaker to throw it's hat in the NASCAR ring. As has been proven in every other venue, the US automakers just don't got the same chops. How long will Billy Joe from Alabama stand for those 'rice-eaters' taking home Nextel Cup trophies? What happens when those filthy Krauts finally want a go at it? NASCAR's reign as the American form of auto racing is in jeopardy.

Those of us left that can still read at a 4th grade level can only hope that NASCAR's popularity is at it's peak right now. I can't take much more of this shit. Perhaps, that leads us to the reason that the other contributors to checkoutmyhemi have fallen victim to the 'simple' charms of NASCAR.

NASCAR is everywhere you look these days. Even I can tell you the number and car color of some of the bigger NASCAR stars. Recent studies have shown that people exhibit significantly decreased brain activity when viewing commercials for familiar products. Essentially you are dumber while watching these commercials. Perhaps my friends, frequent viewers of Sportscenter, etc., fell victim to a similar trend. Repeated viewing of Dale Earnhart's red #3 led to a period of decreased brain activity during which they finally succumbed to the flashy colors. Now they are NASCAR fans with no apology.

For those of you who have not yet succumbed, I beg you. Please turn off any NASCAR imagery the moment you see it. Prevent it from scrubbing your brain clean, thus opening the door to you becoming a NASCAR fan. Just because the rest of the world thinks we are all ignorant rednecks, doesn't mean we have to be. KEEP HOPE ALIVE!

Labels: ,

Part 1a

A proud young lady sits with her manbearpig at the Sharpie 500 in Bristol, TN

Three of the four writers here are pro-NASCAR. All of us, as recently as a few years ago, hated NASCAR more than anything. The fourth writer, Dr Blackstones, continues his hating and is offended if you are sitting with him at a bar and glance at a tv with NASCAR on. I personally hated NASCAR more than even Moe Vaughn, my least favorite baseball player ever. God I fucking hated watching that big bitch hit. He would stand right on top of the plate, covered in that pussy-ass arm pad shit, and act all hard when someone drilled him with a fastball. Hey Moe, it hit your big fat arm because you were standing in the strike zone! God I wanted someone to drill him in the head with a 100 mph fast ball. Anyway, with the Daytona 500 coming up on Sunday, some of us will be writing about how NASCAR became a part of our lives. Through this sharing, we all might just learn a little something about NASCAR and more importantly, ourselves. I will be writing two or three pieces on how I came to not hate cars that turn left over and over and over again at high speeds.

I grew up in unquestionably one of the nicest neighborhoods in a small Midwestern town. Five houses were situated around our cul de sac. The house sits on one-half acre about 100 feet above water level at the top of a steep bank leading to the river. At the bottom of the concrete path leading to the river there is a private dock attached to a sea wall, holding a pontoon boat and a small John boat. About fifteen feet to the right of the dock, the sea wall leads to a large wooden door with fencing to the right side of the door going up the bank, marking the property line. On the other side of the door is a creek which varies in width and depth, but unless there had been a massive amount of water from rain or snow flooding the creek, it was so small that canoing was not possible. On each side of the creek is about twenty-five feet of flat ground at the bottom of very steep banking leading up to homes in other nice neighborhoods in town. All of this land is wooded, with a mix of tall maples and oaks at the canopy, alongside saplings, and poison ivy pretty much everywhere.

This was an awesome place for a young male to grow up. In the summer I could go fishing on the dock, hike alongside or in the creek (which is nowhere as clean as the rocky mountain streams in Coors commercials) causing horrendous outbreaks of herpes poison ivy, or take one of the boats out once I was authorized to do so. There were no other kids in my neighborhood my age until 4th grade, when a kid named Chad and his mom moved next door. Chad also went to the private school that I had just switched to from the public schools. I was glad that there was someone to play with but learned quickly at school that Chad was not all that cool. He was made fun of by almost everyone for effeminate mannerisms. The kid had a fucking perm in forth or fifth grade. A FUCKING PERM. He was ripped constantly for this for the six or so weeks that he had it, and I was one of them.

Chad was kind of a little bitch a lot of the time, but he did have some redeeming qualities. He was not quite as good at sports as I was, but was willing to do things like play me at basketball just about any time I wanted. My brother, Chad, and I were all into radio controlled cars as well from about fourth grade until junior or senior year of high school, when my interest really shifted from things like building radio controlled cars and model airplanes to pussy, cigarettes, alcohol, and marijuana. We really had fun with our RC cars though. One summer I built a dirt track in the small garden with jumps and banked turns for our rc dune buggies. Chad and I had RC-10's and my brother had a Frog. I recall at least one of us buying lexan plastic NASCAR style body to attach to the dune buggy chassis. You could buy special paint and really make the plastic body a thing of beauty if you wanted to.

With my dad working in the automotive industry, I had been to the Detroit Grand Prix several times--both when it was f1 and CART, and every summer we would go to a track in Waterford, MI to watch a Vintage racing series event. My dad had met several NASCAR drivers through work, but he never was much of a follower of the race series. I am under 30, and even when I was a little kid NASCAR was nothing like it is today. My dad probably didn't follow NASCAR because he is from Massachusetts and it really didn't have that much of a following above the Mason-Dixon line. NASCAR was quite popular in my home town, but mostly because of the incredibly high percentage of residents that were of the "white trash" persuasion.

While Chad's mom did very well for herself, she had white trash roots and she understandably didn't magically become a member of the small social upper class when she started making upper class money. While Chad, my brother, and I would be racing our RC cars in the street or the dirt, playing basketball, or doing something else like looking through his dad's Playboys with delight on a Sunday Summer afternoon, his mom would be sitting in the garage on a lawn chair next to her blue 1984 Corvette. A radio would be turned on and she would be there all by herself, smoking cigarettes, drinking Miller Lite, and listening to the NASCAR race. Races were not on Fox or NBC. They weren't even on TNT, for one because TNT didn't exist. Back in the 80's, if you wanted to watch a race, you were watching it on TNN, The Nashville Network. I think TNN is maybe now Spike tv. Maybe not. But NASCAR, appropriately, could only be found on the cable network (and there were only about 30 channels in those days, kids) catering to hillbillies that could somehow afford cable. When we would take a break and drink a Coke inside, we would often watch portions of the race on TNN. I would then imagine that my RC car was the Dale Earnhardt Goodwrench car, the red Bill Elliott Coors car, or the Rusty Wallace Kodiak car.

This mild interest in NASCAR died along with my obsession with RC Cars, as I said, in high school. There would be occasional flare-ups, however. Sometimes in high school my friends and I with vehicles would smoke a bunch of pot with the windows up, maybe after drinking some alcohol, and race around a block in a nice residential neighborhood over and over*. I may have some facts slightly off with this, but that's the kind of shit we would do (By some miracle I never got a DUI). This was known as the Daytona 500.

And so we find ourselves again at the end of the shortest off-season of any sport--a sport that holds its biggest race in the season's first event. A sport that whores every square inch of its "athletes" out to sponsor advertising. A sport where, if you're not first, you're last.

Stay tuned for how I went from not paying any attention to NASCAR to hating it with Dr Blackstone-like intensity.

*Note: if you think that moving to the suburbs will keep your kid safe, think again.

Labels: ,

Friday, February 09, 2007

Who is the top dog of them all?

I just got back from the bathroom. As I was washing my hands looking into the mirror I couldn't help but say to myself "Mi Jesus! You sure look handsome today!" It's casual Friday around these here parts, and I'm wearing a brown sweater, a nice pair of jeans, and my brown drinking shoes that I have had to wash puke off of on more than one painful morning. I'm probably a week or two overdue for a haircut, but it's looking just fine today, like it was meant to keep growing to exactly this length. Somehow the hood on my coat left my hair with a texture that is quite pleasing to my eye. The after workout muscle swell just slightly stretches the sweater against me. It's like my sweater is hugging me and saying "Thanks for just being you.". It's days like this that I most feel bad for all of the lonely unfulfilled ladies out there longing for something more, longing to be Katrina'd, that I am just one man, a man that they can't have.

Is there a difference between 'arrogant' and 'conceited'? I'm thinking that 'conceited' best describes the author of the above paragraph, but just to be safe, 'arrogant' should probably be worked in as well. Now for the noun to use in place of my own name: prick? Nah...well, I won't throw that out just yet. Asshole? There has to be something better. Douchebag? Yes, but it's a bit overused. Wait, I have it: TWIT.

You may have read the first paragraph and said to yourself "What an arrogant, conceited twit! What is he, on cocaine?" Sadly, the answer is no. I'm not sure what the hell's going on with me today, but I really want to start drinking. What I do know, however, is that the Pistons are awesome.

Last night the Pistons absolutely crushed the Lakers. It was one of those games where the final score did not indicate the beat down that took place. Webber was awesome again, going for 18 points, 11 rebounds, and 4 assists. Some of his passes were Magic Johnson-esque last night, going to Pistons for easy dunks. Los Angeles Laker player Kobe Bryant had this to say:
"He's a phenomenal passer. It's fun to watch him, unless you are actually trying to stop him."
What about Tayshaun (the Battleship's dawg)? 20, 6, and 4. Sheed (my dawg)? 18, 10, and 2. Rip? 16, 7, and 3. Chauncey only scored 6 points last night, but he did have 9 assists.

There's a long way to go this season, but that game last night really sent me into Pistons overdrive. We're starting to look like the best team in the East again, despite occasional bedshittings like the one the Battleship and I witnessed in DC last week. The bottom line is that we have looked progressively better every week with Webber. I'm not sure how much better we are going to be by the playoffs, but I firmly believe that this Pistons team is capable of being better than any of the ones with Ben Wallace.

Bon weekend!

Labels: , ,

Thursday, February 08, 2007

Aborted: Soccer Match Recap

I just deleted a few paragraphs on how the USA beat Mexico again last night 2-0, further solidifying their place as our bitch. Shitty analogy: In Fast Times at Ridgemont High, winning in soccer is Stacey Hamilton, Mexico is Mark Ratner, and the USA is Mike Damone. As I said, it's pretty shitty, but I just watched that movie recently, and I wanted to continue Doctor Blackstone's effort of offering up a little something to The great and powerful One, Bill Simmons, almighty God of pop culture references in sports writing.

I know you don't give a shit about the game. As much as I would like to write about this match, I know that I will lose you. My precious...

Instead, I give you some general statements about soccer in the USA and why trashy women are the only hope for the sport's growth.

In US & A, boys and girls generally play in some kind of soccer league during the elementary school years, hence 'soccer moms'. Why?
- inexpensive and easy to find a league for kid to play in
- good exercise. tires kid out so he or she won't run around as much at home
- teaches kid at early age that fat people are worthless

Around middle school, if not before, the kid must decide to play either soccer or football. In early middle school the kid, if he is really good at soccer, may stick with it for a while. By high school, however, the kid undoubtedly has become determined to stick his hoo-ha into a girl's whee-hoo as soon as possible. By any means necessary. Performing this act suddenly has become the motivation behind every single activity for the poor boy. The only other motivating factor close to this is fear of abandonment by friends.

Good grades at school?
Will help the kid some day make lots of money, and money, the boy sees on television, makes it a lock for chicks to want him to put his hoo-ha into their whee-hoos

Volunteering after school?
Chance to be around lots of girls. Improves chances of scoring when they know who you are. These poor saps are too young to know that being a nice good person doesn't at all make girls want you the way you want them to.

Hanging out at the mall?
Lots of girls in malls. Boy conjectures that girls who see him in or near stores in mall that the girls may associate with desirable men will want his awkward ass as well

Playing in a band?
There is a reason why, at around age 13, millions of boys decide that they want to play in a rock band or rap. Fender and Gibson owe ALL of their success to groupies and trashy girls with lots of hairspray featured in 80's MTV videos.

Every boy recognizes the association of football with sex at an early age. Hot wives/gf's are part of this, but it is mostly the cheerleaders. Any football team worth a damn has cheerleaders. Note: Lions, Bears, and Browns do not have cheerleaders. It doesn't matter what age group we're talking about. There is not a single heterosexual male in the United States of America that didn't at some point want to have sex with a hot cheerleader. It didn't matter if the girl was the most detestable superficial bitch to have ever been born into your shit town. If you genuinely liked her, you wanted to fuck her. If you hated her guts, you wanted to hate-fuck her guts out. Consequently, when a boy continues to choose soccer, a sport which has no cheerleaders, it becomes confusing to the football players. "Why would anyone choose to not play football, which is the perfect forum to show the cheerleaders that i am fast and strong, properties that surely they desire in a sexual partner?" they wonder. "They must either not like girls or if they do, they think they are too weak to survive in football" they think.

In other parts of Earth, boys continue to play soccer, not just because it's fun, but because they do not see another sport that, if played, would improve their chances of getting laid as quickly as possible by the minimum caliber of girl that the boy deems satisfactory, which is the #1 goal of every male. The males that see education as more important than running around with girls are really saying that the 'caliber' that they will be satisfied with is the kind that demands intelligent conversation, comfortable housing, and ample amounts of money.

So is there any hope for massive growth in US Soccer?
I don't think so, but there is a glimmer of hope. When I was hanging out with the girls in my basement this past Summer, I asked if I could change the channel to the World Cup. At first this didn't sound like a good idea to them, but they warmed up to it quickly after acknowledging the hotness of the players. If women in their 20's and 30's look at soccer players and say to themselves "I want to fuck THAT", some of these women will be celebrities that young girls look up to. If famous actresses and pop stars are known to be fucking famous soccer players, some of the young girls will decide that part of becoming a great actress or pop star is to be fucking a soccer player. Only when the high school quarterback is down on the totem pole to the captain of the soccer team in terms of likelihood of dating the best looking girl in school will soccer really explode.

So even though David Beckham is no longer one of the best soccer players in the world, except on set pieces, his joining the LA Galaxy represents the best chance for growth of US Soccer ever. Last Summer I went to an exhibition between DC United and Real Madrid in Seattle. The lower level of the stadium was swarming with teenage girls who would scream every time Beckham got the ball. Word must have gotten to the US teenage girls from those in Europe or something that he's a real dreamboat. If this kind of thing continues when he plays in MLS next year, shit could really start happening. Boys may suddenly become experts in soccer to impress the girls who like Beckham. They may see taking a girl to a game as a good date idea, at least better than going to see a stupid romantic comedy at the movie theater.

Maybe not though.

Labels: ,

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Super Bowl Diary

As a tribute to the great and powerful Bill Simmons, I decided to do a running diary during the Super Bowl.

A few things:

1- This is the last running diary you will ever see from me. It is a real pain in the ass to try and write down everything you are thinking during an event. Simmons must be a real jackass to hang out with. The other option is a tape recorder, but that requires reliving the experience. If that experience is Peyton Manning winning the Super Bowl, I never want to think about it again.
2- I watched the game at Arnie ‘the Beekeeper’ Solomon’s place, which has recently had a facilities upgrade to HD.
3- Our friends Brad and Chris were also in attendance. 4 Lions fans in the same room. For the Super Bowl. Your sympathy is appreciated.
4- My gambling funds were wagered as follows:
Bears money line +210;
Parlay- Bears money line +210 and under 47;
Bernard Berrian scores first TD @ 10-1;
Additionally, my particular gambling site offers a free $10 bet every week, for the super bowl they offer 2 $10 and 1 $25 free bets:
$10- Coin toss- Tails
$10- Bears receive opening kickoff
$25- Peyton -2.5 pass attempts vs. the Sex Cannon
5- I have transcribed the following as it was written during the game. Medical-related duties (and penis-related duties) have prevented me from posting it sooner.

On to the diary:

5:56- While watching a bunch of Frenchies flip around on trapezes may have an appeal to some Super Bowl viewers, I am not one of them. Our pregame consisted of a viewing of ‘The God’s Must Be Crazy’. An underrated movie if you haven’t seen it. Both Solomon's and my parents had it on Betamax. I miss Beta.

6:09- Cracked my first beer as CBS is running a Colts’ montage. Direct Payton quote ‘This really is the last game of the season.’ Thanks buddy. Great insight. Don’t forget Peyton, you can still put up stats in the Pro Bowl. I know they don’t count, but they’re stats, Peyton. Stats!

- The Colts come out to ‘We Won’t Get Fooled Again’ by the Who. The 250 hillbillies who could afford a flight to Miami and a ticket love it.

6:11- The Bears come out to an unnamable hip-hop song. I see. Chicago has blacks, thus hip hop. Indy- no blacks= classic rock.

6:12- Yikes! Jim Nantz and Phil Simms. I never thought I would say this but give me Joe Buck and Aikman any day. It’s a sad state of affairs.

6:17- Billy Joel!! I hate America.

6:20- Coin toss!! Finally some action. Wait a minute, where’s Tom Brady? God I miss him.

6:24- Well it was heads, but the Bears get the ball. I’m up $10.

6:27- Kickoff. Oh shit, he’s gone. TD-Devin Hester. Goddam it. The whole reason I clicked on the ‘first TD’ gambling link was to put it on Hester @ 15-1. I talked myself into Berrian instead. I shouldn’t be allowed to gamble.

6:31- Bears D introduces themselves. I feel better about my inability to pronounce Adewale Ogunleye. Apparently he can’t either.

6:33- Peyton has thrown 2 passes that should have been picked. The line has 2 false starts. Classic big-game Peyton.

6:34- Peyton floats up a duck on 3rd down that is picked. Pey-ton! Pey-ton!

6:35- First call from Neil, a huge Bears fan. He is already intoxicated, which is a good sign for things to come. He calls Peyton a ‘salt-licker’, his term-du–jour for the mentally handicapped.

6:38- On 3rd and 4 Grossman chucks up a prayer that takes 5 seconds to come down and bounces off the safety’s head. I hope that’s not a sign of things to come. We have a real offensive battle brewing here folks.

6:39- My first chuckle at a commercial comes with the beard-combover. As a man who enjoys unusual facial hair (In the past, I have sported the ‘mustache connected to sideburns’ and the ‘inverse goatee’- shaving out the goatee while leaving everything else, including neck beard) I must say I approve.

6:41- The Colts’ cheerleaders look like they’ve had some rough lives.

6:43- Nantz has taken Peyton’s cock out of his mouth long enough to try and make an excuse for him. He injured his thumb. Wait, it was a bent-back fingernail? That Peyton is a true champion. Sticking it out with an injured thumb-nail? Makes me think of Isiah vs. the Lakers on one leg, or Jordan’s flu game. A real champion.

6:46- Peyton hits a wide open Reggie Wayne for a TD, but a botched snap on the XP leaves the Bears in the lead. It also delights those (including Arnie) who had the Bears +7.

6:49- 2nd call from Neil. He notes that Phil Simms can’t even stammer out a complete sentence. I tried to write down what Simms said, but suffered a mild stroke in the process.

6:50- Bears fumble kickoff. They are in big trouble. Colts have worked out their offensive jitters, Bears haven’t.

6:51-Botched handoff by the Colts gives it right back. Phew! The game may have just been saved. A valiant effort by Peyton to point at the ball as it bounced in front of him. You can’t risk injury on a play like that. I don’t care if it’s the super bowl.

6:55- Opened beer #3. Bears TD- Grossman to former-Spartan, Mushin Muhammed. Actually a decent read and throw by Grossman. Maybe he has shaken the jitters as well.

6:57- Simms said at the open 'the rain wouldn’t be a factor', so far 2 fumbles and a dropped snap on a PAT. Glad to have you aboard, Phil.

6:58- My #1 pet peeve while watching football: commercial-kickoff-commercial

7:05- Another fumble by the Bears. At least Grossman tried to recover it. See that Peyton?

7:08- Nantz and Simms want the Colts to go for it on 4th and 4. In the first quarter.

7:10- Simms stammers out another incoherent ‘sentence’. This leads to a discussion of how bad Matt Millen was as an announcer. How can someone who can’t even call the game well be a good GM? Go Lions!

7:14- The thought of Matt Millen requires more bad pot. Did I forget to mention we are smoking bad pot? That’s strange.

7:16- Coke’s ‘Grand Theft’ Auto’ commercial looks pretty sweet in HD. If it weren’t for that god-awful song…

7:20- Stealing a play from Lloyd Carr’s playbook, the Colts run the stretch play to the short side. Always good for -3 to 1 yd. Speaking of Lloyd, I heard Michigan lost a couple of mid-level recruits because of rumors this is Lloyd’s last year. Dare to dream.

7:27- Peyton starts yelling at everyone around him after the Colts settle for a FG. What a leader.

7:28- Now Peyton is yelling of the Offensive Coordinator. Don’t you call all the plays at the line, Peyton?

7:32- The Beekeeper starts saying things like ‘Bears money line looks good’. I feel I must warn you. Solomon is a jinx. If you take nothing else away from this post, know this: Do not follow his gambling advice under any circumstances. I beg you. In fact, a good tactic is to look at his picks and do the opposite. He is like Coffee-Cake in ‘A Bronx Tale’. I don’t want his money touching my money. Put him in the goddam bathroom.

7:35- Dominic Rhodes scores to make it 16-14. Feels like the Bears D has been on the field the whole game. Oh, they have. Grossman needs some offensive right now or the Bears are in big trouble.

7:36- A GM commercial that shows an out-of-work robot. Even the robots can’t get work. Man, the economy sucks in Michigan. If I was a laid-off GM autoworker, I would have just broken the TV. ‘Fuck you, that’s the robot that took MY job!’

7:42- Bears run on 3rd and 4. Great play call when your D needs rest. Might be the play of the game right there. If Peyton drives them for a TD here, the Bears are DONE.

7:47- 2 min warning. Bears D is gassed. More bad pot. Beer #5.

7:49- CBS producers, sensing the Colts about to take control, convince #81 to drop the ball after a catch. Bears recover. Maybe they have some life yet.

7:50- Never mind. Grossman gives it right back, letting the snap go right through his hands.

7:53- Nice tackle by Urlacher makes Colts settle for FGA. The Colts bungle the clock and end up calling a TO to ice Vinateri.

7:55- CBS producers (through Lovie Smith) call TO to ice Vinateri again.

7:56- He missed it! What is worse, getting iced by your own team, or the other team?

7:58- Halftime. 30 total pts looks bad for the under but not awful. The Bears are still in it. And my choice of Peyton having more attempts than Grossman (-2.5) looks pretty goddam good. (Peton-26 att., Grossman- 8)

7:59- I enjoy Prince, but ‘Cliffhanger’ with Sly Stallone will be my halftime show.

8:26- 2nd half starts with the Colts getting the ball. The Bears can’t allow a TD.

8:34- The Colts are past midfield. Neil calls and wants to supply Tank Johnson with an AK. I support him.

8:36- You can’t do that, can you? The Colts have just challenged whether the Bears have too many men on the field. Well, apparently you can, AND THE COLTS ARE WRONG!! How can you challenge this and be wrong? Unbelievable. Tony Dungy should have spent less time thinking of stupid tricks like this and more time with his son.

8:40- FG by Vinateri makes it 19-14. In an earlier post I picked Bears 21-19. Hmmmm.

8:47- Grossman goes from 2nd & 1 to 4th & 23 with 2 consecutive 11 yd losses without being touched. It’s Griese time!! Meanwhile the Bears D has to go back out there.

8:52- Simms- ‘I don’t have the official numbers in front of me, but I would say this…’

8:56- Colts have to punt and our platter of Mediterranean delights has arrived. Sorry folks, time to eat.

9:07- Another terrible challenge by Dungy. Instead of 3rd and 10, now they have 3rd and 4. With no challenges left. They get the first down on a pass that gains more than 10 yards. Great job. Black or White (and I’m not convinced one way or the other) Tony Dungy is an idiot.

9:14- Beer #7. Neil again. Bitching about Bears needing to call TO to get the right package in after the end-of-quarter and a false start. He’s right, but the Bears D is on life support.

9:17- Peyton hangs Harrison out to dry and bitches when he doesn’t come up with the circus catch. What class! Text from Neil: ‘Almost Krumried’

9:20- Why not Griese?

9:21- The worst pass in super bowl history by Grossman. TD-Colts. It’s 29-17. The Bears are done. Peyton is going to win his super bowl. I’m sick to my stomach. FUCK! Beer #8. More bad pot.

9:28- Down 12, 11 min left. The Bears run student body left. UGH.

9:30- Grossman throws up the 5th worst pass in super bowl history. INT. Speculation begins on when Grossman will don his Lions uniform for the first time. We can see Millen thinking: ‘He’s a Super Bowl QB. He’s been there.’

9:44- I can’t wait for my first gruesome injury in super-slo-mo.

9:47- MVP speculation begins. I say Rhodes. At least 100 yds and a TD. Please, anyone but Peyton.

9:58- Game over. Peyton wins the super bowl. Let’s never speak of this again.


Monday, February 05, 2007

You may have lost the game, but buddy, you made life a lot easier for me.

Hi there folks!, I know its been a few years, and they've not been the best for the ol' Bartosaurus over here, but lemme tellya, losing never felt so good.
I'll bet you're thinking, isn’t he strange…., loose canon. Well maybe you're right, I am kind of strange, after all, most people who proclaim to be baseball fans understand that if your guys have a chance to make an out, and you the fan have a chance to get a souvenir, you say the hell with the game, my suit, my client's suit, my girlfriend's white t-shirt, with allah as my witness, Im getting that goddamed ($5) baseball! I however was in the strange situation of doing so at a very inopportune time, and before you knew it, Bartomous Prime was getting some pretty nasty phone calls! But, Ive had years of therapy and the support of the Illinois State Police, and Ive gotten to a good place now. It took a lot of work, but the Bart-dog is back on the prowl!

So you may say, 'Hey Steve, what's with the monkey shines already, I mean, Chicago is not the capitol of happiness today, Whaddaya? Whaddaya?' Well a tremendous weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Because, for a while, I was blamed for being the guy that stopped this city from getting a championship that they actually cared about (Technical note: A championship by the Bulls, Blackhawks or White Sox doesn’t count). But today, there aint no superbowl in our shuffle, aint no levity on the "L" Aint no monsters of this midway. No sir ree bob there is somebody else in a goat stance to-day! And it is my chief dawg in charge of keeping it wrong, Rex Grossman. In my case, I was like a super-nova, I burst on the scene and into America's living rooms (and Chi-town's livers) in a short but brilliant career. I create: Freestyle. Cal Ripken, Tony Gwinn, Dave Steib, Robin Yount, all great players, but when it comes to the playoffs, none left a more indelible mark than than Senor Testes B. Bartolicious. I was blamed for the Cubs losing. Tough break, yeah, but nobody and I mean NOBODY can put this one on anybody other than the Sex Cannon himself! I am officially out of the crucible, and that schmuck is in. Serves him right, he's probably been laid more times (but only a few) more than me, I guess karma's a bitch there Choke-man!!! (I made that up myself, I bouced it off of Richardson in purchasing and man, he damn near busted a gut!).

So just want everybody to know, that every cloud, even in Chicago, has a silver lining.

Yours truly,

Steve Bartman


Older Posts