Check out my HEMI

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

Monday, July 30, 2007

Craigslist Workshop

It's a really tough thing, writing a craigslist ad. A girl is probably not going to respond to an ad that reads "I have a hard-on. If you're hot, I'd like to stick it in you". No, you have to be a little craftier than that. What makes a girl respond to an ad? There is no perfect formula, but some common features women demand of male respondents to their own ads include

- a picture of your face (no cock-shots)
- age
- height
- what you like to do for fun
- highest level of education
- no one line responses
- be sexy, not creepy
- show your sense of humor

It's tough to mix all of this together, especially while you're typing with one hand.

Let's have a look at a couple ads to see how they did.

Not bad. The man remembered to include a face pic. Thirty minutes from now, he should be dropping a ruffie in a girl's drink getting to know someone just as special.

Face pick? Check. Disclosure of hobbies? Uniform? Check-2-check. Serious expression to show that he means business? Check. Mate.

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Friday, July 27, 2007

I sure wish I could figure out why everything smells like cocaine this morning.

What did I have for dinner last night? What did they have for dinner last night? Whatever it was, we all must have had the same thing. Should I make a comment about it at the sinks if I finish at the same time as one of the other guys in the other stalls? That might be weird. But no, no, it's just so noticeable. One of them will probably make a comment about it to me. I mean, how often does the first floor bathroom at work smell like this? Sometimes I try to hold my breath the whole time I'm in here so that I don't have to take in any of the foul air. Not today though. Not today because for one, my heart is beating a lot faster than usual for some reason -- after just one-half cup of coffee -- so I didn't want to add any more stress to the ticker, you know. But the main reason why I didn't bother is because it doesn't even smell like poop in here. All it smells like is cocaine.

What the heck did I do last night? When did I go to bed? I must have had a lot to drink, that's for sure, because I don't remember a thing. It's not often, thank goodness, that I wake up fully dressed in yesterday's clothes, shoes and all. There must be some explanation for why I had two ATM withdrawal receipts, one for $100 and the other for $140, in my pants pocket this morning. Did I loan a friend of mine some money? Maybe that's what happened, but that still wouldn't begin to explain why when I woke up this morning my whole apartment smelled like cocaine.

Having grown up in a town near an ethanol plant, I've experienced some strong scents in the air. If the wind is blowing right, that's all you could smell, ethanol. It's not that unpleasant, though. "Daddy, why does it smell like bread outside?", I would ask. "That's the ethanol. It does kind of smell like bread, doesn't it", he would answer. It didn't smell exactly like freshly baked bread, but it wasn't far off. You couldn't do anything about the ethanol smell dominating the Michiana air. Everyone smelled it, and everyone had to just accept it because being bothered by it wasn't going to make it go away. Other towns have smells of their own. Here in Washington DC, especially in the southeast section, the smell of the Anacostia river, rife with raw sewage, will permeate the air from time to time. It's a far less tolerable smell than the ethanol was, but you just have to deal with it. This morning though, walking to the Metro, there was a different smell in the air. Maybe it was just the Midtown area, but it smelled like cocaine something powerful out there.

Man, I sure feel funny this morning. Not funny, "ha ha", and not funny "queer" either. I feel funny like I got hit by a truck but walked away afterwards. My head is pounding. My lungs, my lungs feel awful. I guess that might have something to do with the half-empty pack of Newports on my dresser when I woke up. Damn. It has been years since I've had a cigarette. What could have happened last night to make me want to buy a pack of menthols?

Stop twitching, arm!

This sure is a weird hangover. What the heck did I drink to make me feel like this? It sure couldn't have been beer or whiskey, I know those hangovers too well. Tequila? Maybe. Tequila gets me in trouble. Heck, it could have been some fancy liqueur. Maybe someone had a bottle of Absinthe. I hear Absinthe will eff you up real good. Was it a ruffie? Maybe someone was trying to slip a ruffie in a girl's drink and they accidentally put it into mine. That's probably what happened, because from what I understand, a ruffie will make you forget everything.

Stop twitching, eyelid!

OK, OK, I better flush and get back to work. I sure don't feel like working though. This sure isn't an environment conducive to productivity. You know how some people get vertigo from the smell of perfume? Some offices don't allow perfume to be worn for that reason. I better go talk to my boss about maybe working from home for the rest of the day or something. She'll understand. I mean, how am I supposed to get anything done here when the whole office reeks of cocaine?


Tuesday, July 24, 2007

It turns out that a cube can't contain flatulence.

Due to a series of building upgrades, I now find myself in my fifth different work location of the past five months. The current work area is a fucking cube farm and this pisses me off to no end. I'm sure many of you may be used to these conditions, but when you are used to having an office, albeit a very small one, with a door, it's tough to get used to a cube.

The shelving and the work surface is more than adequate, but I am having a hard time getting used to the fact that I could be here, writing a piece of shit post or comment on some other blog, or actually doing real work, and some asshole could be standing at the opening to my cube, making observations about me. How are you going to say that I'm not doing what I'm supposed to? Don't just sneak up behind me making sweeping statements about me being a 'jerk-off' or 'time-waster' -- you have no frame of reference here, mister or misses Bossman. You don't walk into the sex scene in Snow White and the Seven Dwarves and assume that the whole movie is a porno, do you? I'm just a young man living.

If I have to spend the next two months working in this shitty diorama of an office, set up so that anyone can sneak up behind me and scare the living shit out of me, so it's time for some rules.

1. All supervisors must wear chains attached to their ankles lined with jingle-bells.
This would give adequate warning for everyone to be on alert for answering questions related to recent accomplishments, current and upcoming projects, and outside-work endeavors that supervisors identify with them and bring up in hopes of being perceived as 'friendly', even though 'creepy' is more often than not the best way to describe them.

2. Do not, under any circumstances, swivel your head around when walking through a set of cube stalls.

We all love those Budweiser ads around Christmas with the Clydesdales leading a sleigh somewhere. It's comforting. It makes you think of good holiday spirit. It makes you think of when you used to say to your family and visiting relatives that you were going to go upstairs and read for a while, but were really going up to masturbate to pictures of Erika Eleniak in the Playboy under your mattress. Those Clydesdales have blinders on, and you should too, coworker. Nobody wants you peering into their diorama, even for a second. If you want to get my attention, either email me or call me telling me you want to discuss something, or announce your presence before you can actually see me. Like when you're around the corner or some shit.

The ideal supervisory hire would be a Clydesdale, as it would have no issue with following both rules.

I shall do my best to keep posting as often as I would like, but until I move back to my regular office it's going to be a bit tricky. I may have to resort to writing after I get home, but this could get in the way of my drinking, sports watching, and fuck making. What would be ideal would be for others here to step up and help promote post freshness. Especially those of us who don't have full-time jobs this Summer.

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Thursday, July 19, 2007

Deadspin sets benchmark in key industry performance metric

Fairly early on in the alcohol and coffee fueled journey that is this site I wrote about how my feelings were hurt slightly that I was denied commenting privileges on Now, having purged myself of those pesky "feelings" some time ago, I don't have anything but good things to say about Will Leitch and his mafioso wearing their emotions on their tight black short-sleeves. In fact, just the other day Mr. Leitch took the time to respond to an email I sent him regarding his interview by Scott Van Pelt on ESPN radio. What a nice fellow! A credit to the Midwest.

Deadspin commenting, like the snakeheads in the Potomac, is now a powerful beast that cannot be tamed or controlled. The comments on certain posts now go well into the one thousands. Between my job, writing for this site, and reading and commenting on other great sites, I just don't have time to follow along with the Deadspin comments right now, which is just as well because the carpal tunneled out hands feeding the beast are doing a great job.

While the quality of the postings is consistently at a high level -- they must have some six-sigma blackbelts working over there because their writing appears to be ISO 9001 certified -- some clearly stand out as exceptionally brilliant. I encourage you to read the ESPN secret memo posting and then the Deadspin version, which is at the stand-out level.

Please give me back my stapler: ESPN's secret interoffice complaint memorandum

Meta DUAN: Our secret company memo is leaked

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Wednesday, July 18, 2007

When will 'then' be 'now'?

"What the hell am I lookin' at? When does this happen in the movie?"
"You're looking at 'now' sir, everything that happens 'now' is 'happening' now."
"What happened to 'then'?"
"We passed it."
"Just now. We're at 'now' now."
"Go back to 'then'."
"I can't."
"We missed it."
"Just now."
"When will 'then' be 'now'?"

I think this is it, but since I don't have access to the youtubes, I can't be certain.

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Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Cory Redding never has to work another day in his life.

"Fans, you may think I got a bad break getting drafted by the Lions. Yet today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth."

It's really confusing being a Lions fan during the off-season. One day, their quarterback is talking about how, due to a favorable schedule, they will win more than ten games this season. Then days like yesterday come along that make you think that the Lions might actually still be a bad football team. Cory Redding is a good player. He put up good numbers last year as a defensive tackle on a defense that certainly, well, offered a defensive player an opportunity to make many, many tackles. Yesterday the Lions made Cory Redding the highest paid defensive tackle in the NFL--wait, no, the world. 7 years. $49 million, $16 million guaranteed. That's a hefty amount of money for, as the Battleship pointed out, someone that has never sniffed the Pro Bowl. It's a lot for a guy that had a total of four sacks in the previous three years. Is this the kind of contract a good team, an 11+ win team, offers a player after just one very good year?

A few contracts from the late 90's came to mind after hearing about the Redding signing:

- Damian Easley's five year, $30 million contract with the Tigers
- Dean Palmer's five year, $36 million contract with the Tigers
- Bobby Higgenson's four year, $35 million contract with the Tigers

Tigers GM Randy Smith made all of these deals, giving fat contracts at the height of the steroid era to at best upwardly average players following a good couple of seasons. All ended in disaster. In 2002 the Tigers were paying 55% of their payroll to these players and Jose Lima, who was making $7.25 million after having a couple of good seasons in the late nineties.

With the problems that Shaun Rogers has with strippers and Tank Johnson has with guns (Hey Tank, you might want to consider changing your name. You don't see many pedophiles named "Touch" or coke heads named "Sniff" do you?), the Lions are probably relieved to have a good DT that seems to stay out of trouble.

Is it good that the Lions have Cory Redding signed? Yes. He and Shaun Rogers should make for a very strong pair of defensive tackles, assuming Rogers keeps his hands off strippers in their dressing rooms (Shaun, my man: don't go back there. They're probably going to notice a 6'4" 350 man with a holstered gun walking into their coke den, and it's not going to end well. Just find the manager, hand over a few Benjamins, have a seat in the Champagne room, and remember to tuck those hands under your thighs like a gentleman).

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Friday, July 13, 2007

Friday Foibles

Over the years, I have proven to be vice-prone. Somehow, I have managed to put much of it behind me, and have come out of it clean as a whistle. Like a fucking show dog, I have fucking papers to prove it. I will share some of these adventures occasionally.

A black Honda Civic came into view and I stood up from the concrete bench. Tall ashtrays stood proudly on each side of it. Better have two than one ashtray by any bench in that area, always. Post-flight cigarette smoking is a sacred activity. There should be signs on the way out of the door to the pick-up area from the baggage claim reading



What better way is there to enjoy the first moments of fresh air since walking into the terminal you departed from, the site of your last cigarette, than to pull out a fresh one, take a pre-lit drag to start the air flow and enjoy the pleasant bouquet of the unlit, chemically-enhanced tobacco just passed the filter. This process takes less than a second, delivers no nicotine, no satisfying airborne particles to brush your itchy lungs down with, but it lets you know that it's time. It's time to turn that little rough metal wheel touching the tiny piece of flint positioned so that the friction from the pieces moving against one another breaks down fine flecks of flint, propelling the pieces out toward the gas source at a temperature at or above the minimum level necessary to ignite the tiny controlled stream of liquified petroleum gas, escaping from its holding container by your pressed thumb pushing down on a spring-loaded lever which opens its release valve. The dried, shreaded, tastefully seasoned tobacco rolled up tightly in fine white paper warmly accepts the flame. While the tobacco and paper do not burn like the LPG does, it burns. And when burning, the airflow started before the flame from le bic was applied now rushes that rich, smooth smoke you wanted through the other end of the cigarette, through your lips, mouth, past the larynx, through the trachea, and finally coming to rest in your lungs where it belongs for a second or so before being expelled. The chemicals from the smoke are delivered to a host which has experienced stress, excitement, relief, and a lack of nicotine for a considerable amount of time, probably several times the normal cigarette-to-cigarette interval. Each of these states triggers the 'do smoke' light to go on. All of them together? It's go time. You'll never see a smoker walking as fast as they do between the jetway and passenger pick-up area.


I walked to the curb and saw that that the driver of the little black car was her, black hair pulled back into a tight pony tail. There was no expression on her face. She steered aggressively to the curb in front of me. The Civic had been purchased recently after the transmission gave out in her beloved midnight blue 3-series BMW. This transition seemed to have half-killed the girl.

The usual depressive mood that hits you like it had been delivered through the oxygen mask on the plane when you are approaching Detroit Metro Airport looking down on the white sheets of freeze covering the flat Midwestern landscape when returning from someplace warmer, more fun, just better in most every way was absent in me this time. I had realized during the trip that I had it pretty good down there, especially with her, and I wanted to start appreciating it all.

That sentiment was not mutual. The twenty-five minute ride started out cold and despite my attempts to start some pleasant conversation, it just got worse. Then it came out, in a very matter-of-fact tone.

"So your credit card bill was sitting there on the counter, and I decided to pay it."
"And I did, except for the $140 for the massage."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
"I understand you doing it, I mean with the way things have been between us for a while, but I still consider this cheating."

I apologized with everything I had, pleading for her to forgive me and giving me another chance. While we didn't break up that day, things never got fully well between us.

Bon Weekend!

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Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Who's Now?

Chris Berman:
Loud, obese mammal that regurgitates same tired act year-after-year, annoying the majority of those viewing him while endearing himself to subnormals. Surprisingly, he does quite well for himself, living with no fear of losing his high status at the cable sports company.

Fisherman's Wharf Sea Lion: Loud, obese mammal that flops around barking for its viewers to throw it food, annoying the majority of those in the area while endearing itself to hopelessly landlocked sodbusters from middle America. And subnormals. Surprisingly, it does quite well for itself, laying around all day with more than enough to eat thanks to the steady stream of meals being chucked at it.

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Monday, July 09, 2007

We Amish do everything half again as hard as you do.

Grover Cleveland: a sesquisexual.

Sesqui is a way underused prefix. One and a half, 3/2, one point five to one, they all suck compared to their great grandaddy sesqui. If sesqui wasn't in a goddamn wheel chair, he'd round up all of the crappy wordy expressions that cocksuckers the world over have found easier to pull out in place of him, bend them over a one room schoolhouse desk, and spank them with a ruler. And you know what? Unless your name starts with 'battle' and ends with 'hip', I'm at least sesquintoxicated as you. What are the odds that the Tigers win the American League? I'd take them at sesqui.

Whoa, hold on, something important seems to be happening:
"That one is waaay outa here. Back back back, gone!"


Ooh, another intriguing solo act of athletic greatness just transpired.
"Waaay back, and Matt put that one on a holiday!"

Mais oui, Madamoiseur Berman. Nous sommes sesqiuerect, maintenant, apres le baseball a ete frappe!

Mi Jesus! And I thought there was nothing on tonight. I better stop refreshing the casual encounters page and lock in on this important event. Damn, that didn't look much like a pimple below that player's mouth. Please, stop kissing your child! You're going to pass on the fruit of your casual encounter to him!

"He needs to get on a little bit of a role."

Hey, did you catch the Pepsi 400 this past Saturday? Wow, Erin Andrews is fucking hot. God, it would be awesome to be locked into an LTL with her. "For the last fucking time, take out the damn garbage, you lazy asshole!" "Just a minute Erin sweetheart! You look very nice today!"

"Look at this one, this one is solid gold. To the deepest part of the park and, GONE!"

Seriously, the Pepsi 400 was awesome. Kyle Busch lost to Jamie McMurray by a sesquinch, but the excitement went far beyond the finish. The hot weather in Daytona made for terrible traction, so the cars were sliding all over the place, and because of the restrictor plates, all of the slippidy-slidey cars were running together like a swarm of drunken bees. Drunken bees flying around at 180 mph. With bright, shiny paint jobs with numbers and advertisements. Plus, it takes place on a Saturday night, so if you're able to stand up for yourself, you can watch it with your boys or by yourself, drinking can after can of light American beer while doing so. For these reasons and for the fact that I went to it last year, the Pepsi 400, formerly known as the Firecracker 400, is the most fun race for me to watch.

"That's what you call a real man right there. This is a man."

Vladamir Guerrero, to be honest, is a badass. Jose Reyes, on the other hand, while a great young player, is wearing his hat like a complete tool and needs his neck fastened tightly to a turned-on paint mixer.

I returned to the only state I've ever lived last week to hang with friends and family. I stayed in Ann Arbor a short walk from Michigan Stadium at the home of Arnie 'the beekeeper' Solomon. A lot of unbelievable things transpired, not the least of which was Arnie striking up conversations with real live girls at more than one bar,

"Hey Kenny, is that a Flak jacket you have on, because those balls will scorch over that fence."

but the most unbelievable thing for me, a Washingtonian now for three years, was to

"Ohhhhh, and Albert 'Winnie the' Puhols takes it waaaaay back, and, GONE!"

see that there was a bar in Ann Arbor that served Pabst Blue Ribbon (PBR) for $0.50, fifty cents, or sesqi dollars sans one, Sunday through Thursday, and not just during happy hour. It's nice being able to get to and from work without a car, but that is some quality of life. Also, free popcorn and free pool.

On Friday night I watched the Tigers crush the Red Sox at Comerica Park, a game featuring two memorable plays:
1) Tigers center fielder Curtis Granderson throwing out a Red Sox guy with an absolute frozen rope of Rexjelly.
2) Marcus Thames, after the Red Sox intentionally walked Sean Casey, of all players to get to him, hit a grand slam. Now, that's indaface!

Since it has been three years, I emailed my ex-girlfriend that dumped me when I was too broke to move out of her house when I was in Ann Arbor too. It went something like this:
"Hey, is that Sage Francis/Buddy Wakefield show on Friday that you were going to? If it is, I'd kind of like to go to that. I'm in town for the next few days staying with [Arnie]. Feel like hanging out?."

return email:
"I'm pretty sure that show is on the 10th."

That's the kind warm affection I remember!

There you go, my sesquicentennial post on this site. Some fun I've had.

"Ohhhhh! That's enough! So we're tiiied!"
"One more, guys!"
"You don't talk about a no-hitter in the ninth."

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Tuesday, July 03, 2007

The Ten Commandments of NFL Betting

With a little more than a month until the Hall of Fame game, it's time to start your preseason NFL betting workouts. I suggest going through the schedule, looking at roster changes, and saving up some money to be an impact player right out of the gate. To help you achieve great success in the sexy collection of non-independent events known as the NFL season, I give you commandments nine and ten, along with the others.

1. Thou shalt not bet on one shitty team to beat another shitty team.

Even though the shitty team may be playing a team that may be perceived as being shittier than the shitty steam, the team you are betting on is still shitty, which is a shitty thing to do.

2. Thou shalt not bet on a Sunday or Monday night game that would not be of betting interest had it been played at 1 PM on Sunday.

This is a clear violation of Arnie's 'best practices', but my success in these games is piss poor. An example of this kind of game from last year would have been a Dallas/Atlanta game in early November. At that point both teams looked decent but either side could have won and I probably hadn't seen either team enough to feel confident. Rule #2 will tell me to just watch the game and save my money for snuff films and precious ammo.

3. Thou shalt not place any wager on a game involving the Lions unless it also involves a Super Bowl contending team and the bet is against the Lions.

It is never a good idea to bet on the Lions, but since they sometimes beat teams in the shitty to upwardly average range, betting against them should be avoided as well.

4. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wager.

After placing a wager or a series of wagers, nothing is more fun that calling up your gambling buddies to tell them your picks. It doesn't matter how shitty you did the prior week or how much you're up or down for the entire season. The biggest lock-of-the-century bet is always the one you just made. Often, the confidence of the degenerate friend of yours that is on the phone with you announcing what will probably be a real Hindenburg of a bet will trick you into wanting to make the same bet yourself. "Ooh, I like that", you say to yourself. Plus, you like the idea of both you and your dawg watching the game together and both winning on it. This rarely, if ever works out. Instead, you will probably both end up miserable like Arnie and I were after getting taken to the cleaners when the Packers lost that playoff game at home to Atlanta. You don't want to put yourself through that, where you could be left as prey for the funny figured sister of your friend, who is looking for someone who's down on his luck.

the butler, over at Mile High Ramblings, wisely suggested to avoid placing five team parlays just because of the huge payout. I give a slight modification:

5. Thou shalt not parlay more than three wagers.

"How much is that gonna pay out?"
"A little over seven hundred."
"Whoa! That's awesome. And seriously, I like all five of those. That thing is money."
"I know, it's like, just give me the money now, right?"

WRONG. Once in a great while, you or one of your gambling buddies will win a big parlay which is really a curse, like winning a few hundred the first time you play roulette. By the time you win your next one you will probably be a year or two older and a whole lot poorer because of all the failed attempts to hit the big jackpot. There is nothing more annoying (and we've all been guilty of this) than listening to someone tell you how you got screwed out of your parlay by the team that totally should have fucking covered but just ran the clock out, while all four of the other teams came through like an erection. Don't be that guy or you will say something like this to your friends on the phone or at the bar:
"I fucking hate Florida State. A five-team parlay I had. The first four came through without a trace of sweat. I threw in Florida to win because they were -1300 against Clemson. I mean, it wasn't adding to much but it was a fucking lock so why not throw it in, right? And they can't even beat a shitty fucking Clemson team."
This, ladies and gentleman, was yours truly. And don't say that that kind of shit doesn't happen in the NFL. Remember the Texans beating the Colts in Indianapolis last year? This brings me to...

6. Thou shalt not believe any event with a money line will occur with certainty.

Hey, Mr. Smartypants, thinking of putting a grand down on a really good team to beat a really shitty team? You'll probably win, but you won't win that much. If you escape this week and even next week doing this, you will probably think you're a fucking genius and won't shut up to your friends about how great this strategy of betting large amounts on 'sure things' is. Until you go and lose once, wiping out all of your profits and a lot more. Sometimes even the games that are so sure things that there isn't even a money line fuck up. Remember the Texans. What does this mean? It means that you shouldn't bet your fucking mortgage payment on a football game, even when it's the Chargers hosting the Cardinals.

7. Thou shalt remember the Sabbath and keep it holy.

There is no regular season sporting event as fun to watch as a college football game between two national powers. There are shitloads of them throughout the season and this is why college football reigns supreme over all other sports--until you get to the 'postseason' when the NCAA wipes away any and all legitimacy from the season. If you don't agree with me, you need to experience one of these games in person as well as an NFL game between two rivals. Then tell me which one was a better time.

That said, college football Saturdays are not when you want to be sweating out a tough parlay. Crazy shit happens all the time in college football and this is why it is best practice to save your wagering for Sundays, when the professionals go to work. Remember some of the stupid shit you did when you were in your late teens and early twenties? Imagine if someone was betting on whether or not you would make it to class at 10AM. Don't bother thinking about who has the better run defense, the ATS record at home, or any of that shit. Just enjoy the game and save your wagering for the Sunday Sabbath, the day of Lord Tomlinson.

8. Thou shalt not make foolish wagers following the outcome of a significant wager.

What does a raging alcoholic the morning after drinking at an open bar event and the exponential distribution have in common with a successful gambler? The memoryless property. After losing, say, one hundred dollars on the 1PM games, going heavy on a team that is +260 to win during one of the 4PM games looks awfully tempting. "When life fucks me, I fuck back!", you say. If by chance you had a big win or two in the early games and find yourself sitting on a nice big balance, you probably want to get right back in the game and continue what you started. Among the bets you want to put down is inevitably a throw-away bet or two. "Shit, I'm up a shitload. What's twenty-five bucks to me at this point? I'll just put a couple long shots out there and see what happens." Scenario one: by the time the sun goes down, it's clear that you're going to be down $150. Scenario two: You turned your big day into just barely enough to cover your bar tab, if that. Wait until your emotional high or low zeros out before making your next move. Bet like Kenny Rogers attacks cameramen. Without any emotion whatsoever.

9. Win or lose, thou shalt act like thou hast been there before.

You see the same scene almost every time you walk into a casino from the garage area or other entrance. A group of dudes is walking out in the opposite direction. Hours ago they all walked in together, each full of energy and confidence, ready to earn the money they will later use on strippers and get loaded on free (or un-free, if you're in Detroit) drinks along the way. Their exit, in contrast, is not as cohesive in spirit. One or two of them are talking loudly about the big double downs and splits they won, two others are talking just as loudly about the hands they totally got screwed on, and the other parties are quietly walking alongside them, brow furrowed, right hand in pocket holding Swiss Army knife, ready to shut them the fuck up forever.

The same kind of loudmouthery goes on with NFL betting. "I can't believe he didn't hit that field goal. I could have hit that fucking thing!" or "That's right, bitches; that's what I'm talking about! I totally nailed that parlay. Sometimes it's just too fucking easy! Why didn't I put more on that bet?"

Do everyone a favor and just shut the fuck up. Win or lose. If someone asks, tell them, but in a blase tone. Act like you've been there before, asshole, because we all know you have.

10. Thou shalt not giveth the points in a tight spread.

[insert team name here] -2.5 (-110)
[insert team name here] -145
It's quite the dilemma. You really like a certain team in a match up with a tight spread, like 2.5. You're damn sure that they're going to win the game, and the money line is what you really want, but that -145 is pissing you off. "If they're going to win, they're probably going to win by three, right?", you say to yourself. Your brain is working harder than than it has since that time when that girl called you up telling you to come over now, but you didn't recognize the voice or the number. In the end, you give the points and your team wins by two, and you want to blow up the team bus. This is why, in a game with a tight spread, choose the money line over giving the points, if you like the team that is favored. Why? To be aligned with the head coach, who just wants to win.

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Monday, July 02, 2007

Shocker: Lions player optimistic, not insane

Bell on where and when he found out he was traded: " I was working out in Arizona on my birthday – I got traded on my birthday – and my phone just started blowing up early in the morning like, 'Man, you got traded right now!" "You're in Detroit!" So I go turn on ESPN News and it was all they were talking about: me and George (Foster) for Dre Bly. I just knew Detroit's history – not winning – I didn't know anything about the coaches or anything. I was like, 'Man, I'm going to a sorry team!' But since I've been here the view of that has changed because I feel like we have the pieces now to make it happen; at least make a run for the playoffs. They brought in a whole lot of new players; different faces and hopefully things can get on the change."
Thank you, Tatum Bell. You saying "I feel like we have the pieces now to make it happen; at least make a run for the playoffs.", is the first season outlook statement by a Lion this year that is not completely insane. You are optimistic, but not foolish. It's time to lower that bar from great to upwardly average. When the Tigers were losing 100+ games per season, they didn't come into Spring training talking about how they were going to win the World Series. They were more concerned about making it to .500. Why can't the Lions players focus on the eight win mark? Eight, even seven, wins would be a tremendous leap forward that most Lions fans would be satisfied with and leave them excited for the next season. That is when you can talk about ten or eleven wins for the coming season without everyone looking at you like you're a complete loon.

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