Look, I’ve been gone nearly a year. I come back, and you sumbitches are still coming here by the hundreds. So let’s recap what’s happened.
Trevor Immelman won the Masters after they sucked all the roar-inducing charge possibilities out of the course. Tiger Woods beat Rocco Mediate with a broken leg. It’s predicted that if Rocco’s belt continues to rise, his pants will be over his head by the time he makes the senior tour. Somebody won the PGA, don’t make me look it up.
The Phillies won the World Series, which started sometime around December.
The Titans surprised everyone by picking some dude nobody had ever heard of named Chris Johnson in the first round. turns out the kid is pretty fast. The Titans also surprised everyone by having the best record in football. And they beat the Steelers and made them cry because their towels got dirty. Oh, but the Steelers did win the last game of the season. So there’s that with the rings and all.
Shaq got real busy on Twitter. So did Lance Armstrong.
Erin Andrews continued her reign as the top traffic driver for this site.
There has been a lot of blog talk ever since that sports journalist went off on a blogger from Deadspin on a Costas special. I didn’t see it. But I heard an excerpt on the radio. The guy went batshit crazy. And I think I know why. I’ll get to that in a minute.
I have worked in sports journalism, as an editor, writer, and photo editor. I was very good at it and the company wanted me to stay. Unfortunately, I didn’t get into that line of work until my 30s, and I was unable to pursue a career because by that point I had grown fond of having money for certain creature comforts, like food.
The local sports talk radio stations have been talking about this blogging topic a lot lately, and tonight, I called in to give my two cents as a sports blogger. They are pretty reasonable about it, I let them know what I do here (or used to do here) and what I did before in sports journalism. We had a nice conversation where I tried to give the point of view of the blogger, why I’m doing it and how hard it is to keep it going. I didn’t mention the name of my blog but did make it clear that it is satire. They thanked me for calling and hung up. I turned off the car and went inside the school to pick up my kid. A friend called who heard me and said, “Did you hear what (local sports columnist) said after you hung up? He said, ‘I wish I could have asked him when the last time he was in a pro locker room.'”
Holy fucking smug, passive-aggressive bitchslap, dude. After I’ve hung up, you take a chance to let everyone know that I’m not a professional, and you are. Give me a fucking break. Of course you’ve been in a locker room a lot more than me. You write for the paper. No one comes to this blog to get breaking news about Vince Young. It’s not what we do here. YOU WIN! YOU HAVE A REAL SPORTS WRITING JOB!! CONGRATULATIONS!
Problem is, it reeks of arrogance, which is what is fueling this “war” between bloggers and mainstream guys. Whether they admit it or not, the mainstream good-old-boys club is, to some extent, being threatened. Thanks to blogs, they’re discovering that there are people out there who know grammar and structure and how to turn a phrase who choose to write about sports. And some of those writers are really good. And some of those writers get readers. And if they get big enough, they make money and go get yelled at on HBO. Turns out writing about sports isn’t rocket surgery. Of course we don’t have editors or fact checkers. That’s why some of the old school guys are going batshit crazy. People are writing and getting read and there’s no way for them to stop it, so they play the you’re-not-trained and the you’re-not legitimate cards from up in their ivory press box. I’ve never read a sports blog that I consider hard news. It’s pure entertainment.
I have a degree in music from one of the best music schools in the world. Musicians learn from the beginning that your training doesn’t mean shit, it’s how you play. I can walk into a bar any night of the week in this town and find self-taught musicians with improper technique who can play circles around my music-degreed ass. Until recently, sportswriters have never had to face this kind of situation. For this guy to ask me when the last time I was in a pro locker room would be like me asking Stevie Ray Vaughn when the last time was that he read music in a symphony. I’m sure the dead guitar player would look at me like the prick that I was and say, “Never. Dude, I’m just playing some fucking blues.” And walk away.
So to you sports journalists who feel like you need to point out that you’re more qualified than me to do this, come down off your insecure high horse. I’m just writing a fucking blog.
I went to bed very early last night, after watching Memphis take care of UCLA. I went to be knowing that i had won my bracket pool. Once Memphis won, there was no way I could lose.
I did my NCAA bracket. Just because it is mandatory if you are an American citizen. I do it in about 10 minutes. I have no idea who I picked over who, so as the tournament goes on, I’ll have to go back and check. Despite my lack of college basketball knowledge, I usually do pretty well in this thing. I pay my “units” so I might win some “bragging rights.” Because actual gambling is illegal.
Here’s the best part of college basketball, Erin Andrews.
Being the good father that I am, we don’t use the word “hate” in my house.
I am strongly disinterested in basketball. I am extremely disinterested in University of Tennessee sports programs. I have enormous disinterest in all things Memphis.
So when did Tennessee become a basketball state? When did they hire Lou Ferrigno to coach. I thought only the girls played basketball around here.
That Lou, he sure gets around.
Watch that hand, buddy.
Who’s ass is that in the lower left corner?
Slipping Pat some tounge.
Officially golf season is upon us. Yeah, I know that the PGA Tour schedule started last month. Big fucking deal. Memo to PGA: When football is on, nobody gives a shit about golf. Go ahead and CC that to hockey and basketball while you’re at it. Come to think of it, nobody really gives a shit about either one of them regardless. Except during March Madness. Because gambling is good.
But I digress.
Typically, the first golf tourney after football is the AT&T Pebble Beach. As referenced here earlier, also known back in the day as the Crosby Clambake. I must also echo the sentiment that the word “celebrity” is being stretched to the limits of the definition.
Forget Dean Martin and Bing Crosby. I’d be happy if actual living celebrities showed up for this tournament. Face it, the only time this tourney lives up to the hype is when Bill Murray shows up. Clint Eastwood owns the joint and is too busy writing checks and putting up with the general ass pain of being the host. So he doesn’t get to play anymore. Get Sam Jackson or Vince Fucking Gill at least. Instead of generic no-name country star and actor who has been dead to me since this godawful career choice. And when, exactly, did Chris Berman become a celebrity? He’s a sports anchor. That rates somewhere between advertising sales executive and child molester on the Douchebag Scale. Besides, he’s a fucking crybaby. I’m sorry that’s not true. A FAT fucking crybaby. David Feherty is a bigger celeb and he’s actually COVERING the tournament.
The local and national media quickly run out of angles to cover at Pebble. Other than gratuitous shots of whales in Monterey Bay and important investigations into Who Dressed Costner Like A Dickhead, there isn’t a lot going on.
I’ve never been on to talk about the “good old days.” It wasn’t better back then, walking up hill in the snow and all that. God knows I wish I had titanium drivers and perimeter weighted irons and one-piece balls and views of Kristy McNichol’s shaved snatch at the touch of a button back when I was growing up. But, back in my day, the hottest celebrities at the time didn’t shave their snatches and flash them for the cameras. But I digress.
We did, however, have the Clambake. The Bing Crosby Pebble Beach Pro-Am. We watched Dean Martin and Bob Hope and Jack Lemmon and Joey Bishop and Sammy Davis, Jr. play golf and hit people in the gallery and try to shake off hangovers and it was cool, oh, yeah it was cool. OK, most of the celebs were at their zenith during my parents time (at least), but still they were cool. Damn cool. And the tournament was won by people like Nicklaus and Miller and Watson.
What do we have now. Kenny G., (irrelevant smooth-jazz sax blower) Clay Walker, (irrelevant hasn’t-had-a-hit-in-20-years Country singer). Chris “Big Loud Fat Ass” Berman. Michael Bolton. Joe Kernan. Chris O’Donnell.
And then, there’s Danny Gans. The poster boy for irrelevance. As far as I can tell, he is famous for finding any live camera he can find and doing a markedly unfunny impression of Mike Meyers doing, Dr. Evil.
Danny fucking Gans. What the fuck? He still does George Burns, for God’s sake. A man who was born in the 1800s. Bing is rolling over in his grave.
God, I gotta cleanse my palette. Here’s Erin Andrews eating a sandwich.
Fuck you Pitino! You’re the fucking quitter! I won over 900 games. You left your team in the middle of the season because you SUCK!
It’s Petrino, asshole! And you’re the one who SUCKS! You left in the middle of the season, telling everybody you’re TIIIIIRED! WAAAHHHHHHH!! Does your pussy hurt too, QUITTER?!?!?!
You quit because you’re a LOSER, Paulino! A LOOOOOOOSER! WAAAAAAHHHH! “My quarterback’s in prison!! Somebody please save me! Anybody!! Even you inbred cousin-fucking hillbillies in ARKANSAS!!!”
WAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! “I want my little boy to coach!! I can’t make it through ten more games, I’m too tired!!!!!!” Now you’re saying that you might coach again, QUITTER! WAAAAHHHHHHH!
Hey Fellas! Speaking of inbred cousin-fuckers . . . I’m setting up a, uh . . . a scholarship fund for this, uh . . . special needs fella back at West Virginia. He’s, uh . . . blind, deef and he has no lymp system, or lumbar or sumpin’ like that. Could you guys could pitch in and help him out? He only need about four mil. Uh, make the check out to me . . .
FUCK YOU, QUITTER!!!!!
Yeah, FUCK YOU, RONRICO! You’re a QUITTER!!!
Hey, hey hey, cool it down, fellas. Where’s your honor? Where’s your loyalty. Where’s your decency?
Tiger Woods, who overcame a four-shot deficit in Dubai and won with a birdie, birdie finish, took his winnings and his nine billion dollar appearance fee to the Dubai Airport and bought the world’s only super-sonic hovercraft. He is currently racing to the Phoenix area, where he will play all 72 holes of the FBR Open this afternoon, finishing ace, birdie, eagle, and winning the tournament by 17 strokes.
“I can’t let J.B. Holmes, or, God forbid, Mickelson win this storied tournament,” says Woods. “Plus, I owe it to the fans to make four holes-in-one on the sixteenth, as there haven’t been any since I started playing in Dubai.”
Woods has confirmed that he will be taking over as Giants quarterback at halftime of the Superbowl, allowing Eli Manning to spoon on the sidelines with Kenny Chesney. He may also spend some time shutting down Randy Moss on defense. Time constraints prevent Woods from arriving early enough to win the coin toss by seven and start in place of Manning.
What a great time to be in Arizona. Of course, there is a professional tackle football game being played there tomorrow. And all weekend is the golf tournament they play there, whatever the fuck they call it these days.
This tournament is a Super Bowl weekend tradition, with the rowdiest hole in golf, the par-3 16th. It’s the only hole in professional tournament golf where you will get booed for a bad shot.
And, from what I understand, Arizona is always crawling with folks like this:
Note that these young ladies are both flashing the hand signal commonly known as “the Shocker.” This hand signal is a request for someone, presumably me, to perform simultaneous vaginal and anal digital intercourse upon them.
“Pardon me, cherished co-workers, could I ask that you remain motionless during the time that I am attempting to read my teleprompter whilst the camera is on. Thank you very much indeed.
“He should have come out right away. Instead, he waited until it was politically correct [to comment],” Brown said. “
Let me ask you something there, Jimmy. Is it possible that the man, who is now in his 30s and worth about $600,000,000, might be able to speak for himself?
He’s married to this Swedish Nanny Model Twin:
He lives here:
This is his runabout:
He was on Merv Griffin when he was three. He’s half Thai. He went to Stanford. Maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t feel oppressed.
I know you may have thought I left you in a little bit of a lurch when I retired so suddenly after last season, but to be quite honest with you I didn’t think the Giants were going anywhere. And I thought Eli wasn’t gonna be able to lead us anywhere near the promised land. And you’re a prick.
But can’t we just let bygones be bygones? You let Strahan take the whole preseason off while he strung you along about whether he wanted to come back or not. Then he showed up and had a helluva season for the G Men. And I’ve been keeping myself in a lot better shape than that gap-toothed sumbitch.
I’m sure you can see why I didn’t want to play in that cold-ass weather up in Green Bay last week. Can you blame me? I thought your fuckin’ nose was going to fall off. It’s fine to be a tough offensive lineman and not wear sleeves, but you’re an old man. It’s not cool to show up at the postgame press conference with all your extremities turning black and a gaping hole in the middle of your face like some rich idiot adventurer who got separated from his sherpas on Everest.
Smarten up, coach. You should learn to relax like me.
So can I play? If it’s ok with you, I might not make it until the second half. I have a date for some afternoon delight with Meredith Viera.
I love it when she whispers to me in that fake Nazi accent.
We know that you had a boo boo, and that you’ve never missed a game before. We don’t care that Eddie George played with a sprained MCL, because you’re not Eddie George, and he’s not you. We know that putting a brace on your knee might cause uncomfortable personable chafing. We know you’re a great guy, except for maybe that time you stormed off the bench when Crazy Philip Rivers sat down next to you while the camera was on. So it’s OK that you sat on the bench with your visor on during the championship game. Hell, Ricky Williams probably would have done the same thing.
Jessica: I can’t believe it’s like, been like 20 years, can you?
Tony: Time sure flies.
Jessica: You remember, like, when we, like, first met, and you were, like, playing football, and they like totally blamed me for you losing that game.
Tony: You know I don’t like talking about those days, Jess. You don’t hear me bringing up your “country record” or your “acting career,” do you?
Jessica: OK, you’re like totally right. I could like totally go for the buffet right now! Are ya hungry!?
Tony: I guess so. Where are Donni-Marie and Roman and Dallasina?
Jessica: Aunt Ashlee and Uncle Terrell took them to a movie.
(Stops to pick up a shell) You know, being, like, the wife of a car dealership part-owner isn’t so bad.
Tony: (Please, can just shut your fucking pie-hole for ten seconds?! Ever?!) How many times do I have to tell you, it’s “equity partner in a transportation industry venture”? Hey! Isn’t that Carrot Top over there?
Hi! My name is Jessica! lol! You may have heard of me, or know who I am, as I am sometimes in the internets that any U.S. American can see or read regarding my so-called social life and the boys I have sometimes gone on (totally innocent! lol!!) dates with like John Mayer and this boy that I dated up until yesterday. Oh, yeah, and you might have heard of me because I had my married life with my EX!!!!! husband (lol!!) made into a TV show.
Anyway, I don’t really do this ALL that often (lol!) but I wanted to see if you wanted to like, I don’t know, hook up or something. I mean, I like totally have two tickets to Cozumel for a couple of days, and I thought you might want to get away for a while. I mean, you may have heard about me and my EX!!! boyfriend, Tony, but we like totally broke up yesterday. And I couldn’t be happier, because he is like, totally a LOSER! As in he’s a LOSER and you’re a WINNER! And I think winners are, like totally, HAWT!!!! So I just thought I’d check and see, you know, like who knows, right? give it a shot.
So I’m sort of shy, but friendly when you get to know me, and I like to cook and work in the garden. I’m equally as comfortable in jeans as in an evening gown. I like to go hiking and rafting, or just curl up with a nice glass of wine by a nice fire! Can’t wait to hear from you.
Dear Jessica,
Thanks for the kind email. I asked my big brother. He says I’m not allowed to meet you. Do you like Kenny Chesney?
Thanks for nothing Favre. Good thing that the frigid weather in Green Bay is such a fucking advantage for your team. After all, you wouldn’t want to lose a playoff game in Lambeau to Eli Fucking Manning.
Because that would just be embarrassing. Especially when you are, say, a seven point favorite.
Time to retire yet? Please, don’t let the Frozen Tundra hit you on the ass on the way out.
Now we have to wait two weeks for a Super Bowl featuring the nation’s most insufferable fan bases. I look at this game the same way I look at the Israel-Palestinian conflict. I have no dog in that fight. Neither does anyone living outside the Northeast Corridor.
My only interest in this game now revolves around the possibility of Amanda Beard appearing in a Go Daddy ad during the game.
The man can’t help it that he has a rap sheet as long as his…
Besides, if you had a name like JamesOn, wouldn’t you want to write it in the snow?
But, dude, JamesOn? Was the caps lock key stuck at the hospital where you were born? At least study your etymology a little bit. Jameson=”Son of James.” Not “On James.”
The Tennessee Titans have entered the Era of the Revolving Door.
Until Vince Young’s contract runs out, expect a never ending procession of Offensive Gurus (great band name) to pack a bag and head for the Third Coast*.
Say goodbye to Norm “Lendale off tackle” Chow. Say hello again, to Mike “Eddie off tackle” Heimerdinger. Les Steckel was not available for comment as of press time.
Heimerdinger’s first challenge will be teaching Vince Young how to throw the football to a teammate. Then he will teach him how to spell “cat”.
Chow is believed to be weighing his options and may be offered the offensive coordinator job at UCLA, or his old job building the railroad.
*The hallmarks of the Third Coast Offense is a play calling scheme that goes like this: First Down: Running back up the middle. Second Down: Running back up the middle. Third down: Poorly thrown and probably intercepted pass. Fourth down: Punt. The key to winning with this offense is to have a very consistent kicker and to score as many field goals as possible. It throws off the other team’s defense who generally expect their opponents to attempt to score touchdowns.
Hey, you! Row D, seat 9! Yeah, I’m talking to you, fat ass. . . put that finger up again and I’ll come up there and break it off and shove it up your fat yankee corn eatin’ ass, motherfucker! Is that your wife or your pet haaaaaawg?!?! GodDAMM she’s a fucking haaaaawg!! Suuuuuuueeey, pig! Get your fat yankee ass back in your Reliant K and go home and cry a river in your tractor back in your frozen, flat, yankee-ass soybean field. Your inbred, overrated punk-ass quarterback couldn’t win the big one at Tennessee, and he ain’t gonna win it here! Manning SUCKS!! Cutler SUCKS! That other Manning SUCKS!
I’m from ATHENS, ALAFUCKINGBAMA, motherfucker!! ALAFUCKINGBAMA, Motherfucker! Where we play REAL FOOTBALL!! ALAFUCKINGGODDAMBAMA!!!!!!
Your team SUCKS! Indianapolis sucks! The whole state of Illinois SUCKS! Fuck you, you cracker-ass inbred corncob-pipe smoking fat farmer boy! Fuck you!!!
Rivers. Dude. Cool it. Have a little class. You’re giving the fine San Diego quarterback legacy a bad name.
Twice now, Terrell Owens has cried on TV. There, there, Terrell. I fell your pain, little fella. I feel your pain.
One time, a long time ago, when I was a bartender, the boss told us to “Just get away from bartending for a couple of days.” Well, my best friend went to Destin with his really hot girlfriend, and when he got back, he gave a waitress a Gibson when she ordered a Gimlet. And everybody said his head just wasn’t in it because of his trip! And I had to stand up for my friend! I had to tell everyone to leave him alone!! And I, too, shed a tear over the injustice of it all.
While I’ll admit Yolo’s rocking the Pilates legs at age 74, I don’t think that there’s an able-bodied male in our entire readership (both of you) who wouldn’t have made exactly the same choice as that young horn dog, Tony Romo.
I personally would do whatever it took to survive the weekend. I can only imagine what the customs agents in Cabo would think about my duffel bag full of viagra, popsicle sticks and duct tape, but I wouldn’t want to waste any time with detumescence.
On a related note, there is now a possibility that the Super Bowl could bring a coaching matchup between those two laugh riot quote machines, Bill Belichick and Tom Coughlan. I’ll bet the media is really looking forward to that week of interviews.
I’m afraid that it could mean more time for insightful commentary by Shannon Sharpe. Fuck, now I’ll have to wipe all the spit off from the inside of my plasma screen.
You know what they say about dogs looking like their owners…
“There’s nothing that can happen in the playoffs that would change my thinking about him being head coach of the Dallas Cowboys,” Jerry Jones January 10th 2008.
At about the 4:20 mark, Jerry realizes, “I have made a terrible mistake.”
The Flutie Curse is not to be trifled with, Jerry. Cut your losses. Wade Phillips has as many playoff wins as I do.
Making It Rain 