Friday, December 26, 2008

Merry Belated Christmas

Can you wish someone a Merry Belated Christmas? I really don't think so. And yet, here we are, days after Christmas, and I'm wishing you a merry one. So you put it together.

I promise I have plenty of blogs to come. Real entries with real comedy attempts at comedy. I've just been busy these last few weeks. I'd like to tell you that it was because of my girlfriend, and shopping, and holiday parties, but it was mainly drinking and gambling. The good news is I'm up 3k. The bad news is I have Adult Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.

If you know my track record, then you probably don't believe my promise. But you know what? Believe whatever you want. I'm not beholden to you. You want to believe that we are celebrating the 2008th birthday of a carpenter but you won't believe me that I have another blog entry before New Year's? Well you know what?? You're probably right. There it is. I won't be posting again. You can still get fucked.

In the meantime, I know you come here for your bi-monthly dose of week-old news. So here it is. These individuals are celebrating a very Merry Christmas this year...without the use of poker and JD.

Tell em Busta:





Thursday, December 04, 2008

Adam Jones and The Game of Life

Adam Jones' Brain: Connect four.

Adam Jones' Hands: Wait.....hold on............

Brain: You see, it's diagonal. I started in the corner and-

Hands: Hold on then the red one went here and......awww FUCK!

Brain: Sorry.

Adam smacks the game off the table.

Hands: Yo I hate dis game! Why we gotta sit inside all day playin pussy games? I wanna play dat old game we usedta play. Memba' dat? Shit, what was it.

Brain: I don't know. It was so long ago.

Hands: Fuck, Brain, don't play me. You know dat game. Wit the runnin and the brown thing and the tacklin bitches..... Oh, touchdowns! I remember touchdown. What game has dat?

Brain: Sorry. Doesn't ring a bell.

Adam Jones' Legs: That's football, son.

Brain: Legs!

Hands: YYYEEEEEAAAAAA. Football, nigga! Yo I luuuudddd dat game. Why you holdin out on us BRAIN?! I know yo' thinkin ass knew what I's talkin bout.

Brain: What's the point? We're done with football. Commissioner Goodell suspended us, so we have to stay away from anything related to the NFL. There's no sense living in the past. This is our life now: staying home, staying sober, and staying out of trouble.

Hands: Yo but look. We could tell Commissioner Gordon dat we aint been drinkin or smokin or nothin. And you know how we fuck em up? It be true!

Brain: Well maybe you should have thought about doing that before we got suspended and then we would still be playing the game you "lud." But it's too late and we are done with the NFL. We have plenty of board games we can play.

Legs: But why does it always have to be board games?

Brain: BECAUSE. Board games. Are. Fun. Now what is it going to be, guys? Candy Land or Shoots and Ladders?

Hands: Candy Land.

Legs: No, Hands.

Hands: But I wanna hit up Gumdrop Mountain and get me some peanut brittle!

Legs: No I mean I'm done watchin Brain beat you in every kids' game we got in dis house. I'm restless as shit. I'm takin us outside.

Brain: No, Legs. NO. Do not leave this house. DO NOT WALK US OUTSIDE.

Legs: Fuck it.

Adam gets up and walks to the front door.

Brain: Legs! Don't forget I do control you!

Legs: Oh word? Control me then.

Brain: Well, I'm sayin...I'm not sayin I would, I'm just sayin that if-

Legs: See if you can stop me from running through this window. Let's see what happens.

Hands: Yeah! And see if you can stop me from juggling these knives. Let's see what happens!

Brain: Guys! Stop. Please. Why does it always come to this?? This is what gets us in trouble! Why do we feel the need to fight until we hurt ourselves?

Legs: Aight, Brain. We good. But I'm still walkin outside.

Brain: Okay, fine. But just for a little fresh air.

Adam opens his front door and steps on the newspaper.

Legs: I stepped on somethin. Hands, pick it up.

Hands: I got it. Yo what the fuck is dis? Dis be the shittiest magazine I ever SEEN. Haha it's all grey and shit. Shit's all fallin apart look. Aint even glued together right.

Brain: You know what, Hands? You're right! That sure is one crappy magazine! Let's just throw it out and play some more Topple.

Legs: Shut up, Brain. Hands, it's not a magazine. It's a newspaper.

Hands: Oh.

Legs: Yo look at the front page.

Hands: Yo dat's dat nigga Plax! Read dis to me, Brain.

Brain: Wouldn't you rather go inside?

Legs: I'll read it. Aw, shit. Plax was totin in the club and when he reached for the whistle he let off on his own leg.

Hands: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh mah god. OH MAH GAWD! Dis nigga shot hisself in the LEG. He shot hisself. HISSELF. Wit his own gun! Brain. BRAIN! DIS NIGGA SHOT HISSELF IN THE LEG.

Brain: Yeah. Saw that. I just hope him leg is okay..

Legs: Hands, you pull any shit like that wit me and we gon be da first nigga to chop his hands off wit his own feet.

Hands: Nahhh don't you worry bout dat, playbwoy. You know Hands good wit da heata'. Mah gunplay tight. You saw me in da club. Memba dat? Dat stripper was like "Ooh lemme get dat cash," and Hands be like, "Sho' bitch. Don't forget deez shells." And I'm like blakka, blakka, blakka. I dead all dem bitches. Didn't hit mahself once.

Brain: Hey, Hands. Maybe you can call the commissioner so he can enjoy that story as well.

Hands: I would but he don't give me the number to dat Bat Phone.

Brain: Can we go back inside now? We have a lot of chores to do today and football isn't a part of our lives anymore.

Legs: Does it say which thigh he hit? God, I don't know if I had to choose...

Adam flips through the pages of the sports section.

Hands: Nah I don't see where-....YO DAT'S PACMAN!!!

Legs: What?!?


Brain: Ahhhhhhhh shit.

Legs: This says we reinstated in the league, Brain. What the fuck, man. Why you aint tell us?!

Brain: BECAUSE THIS IS WHAT ALWAYS HAPPENS. We always get into trouble, we sit out for a while, then we go back to playing. Well I don't care if you guys tricked Goodell into reinstating you because I DON'T WANT TO PLAY ANYMORE. I can't stand babysitting you..A-HOLES all day, just so that we can play a neanderthal game for a few weeks and then fuck it all up again next time one of you decides to befoul a limousine or rob a bank or whatever the frick you guys are gonna do next! What about what I want to do?! What about my dreams?!? I want to see a musical. I want to go on a camping trip. I want to write a romance novel. But do we ever get to do what I want to do?? NOOOOOOOO. And we never will, so long as we stay in this freakin cycle. So I'm done. I'm done with all it! I'm done with all of you!! And I'm done with football!!!

Legs: ....I'm walkin us to the Hummer. We gon drive to practice. Hands you got the wheel.

Hands: Yee-uh. Yo I got madd drivin skills. I'm gon drive and shoot at the same time like GTA4. Blakka, blakka, blakka.

Brain: God I hate you guys. I'm gonna call Plaxico. Maybe he could have some use for me.

Saturday, November 22, 2008

The Kinda Annual Mostly Uninformed Movie Review!

At one time in the past, I wrote a movie review entry. In keeping with my typical lack of motivation, creativity, and funny ideas, I never wrote a second installment. You'd think that it would be pretty easy to write a simple follow-up entry, but then you wouldn't know me very well.

As in the original, I do these reviews using information from commercials I may have seen, things I may or may not have heard, or general feelings about the actors and/or title of the movie. My opinion is often insulting, philistine, and racist. But no moreso than any of these movies. Enjoy!


This movie ventures to address one of the burning questions facing the future of our country.

Will Dakota Fanning make it through her teens unscathed and transition from cute kid to hot girl?

Will she glide gracefully into her 20's like Natalie Portman? Will she start strong and then burn out like the Olsen twins? Will she completely shit the bed in a blaze of pimples and greasy hair like McCauley Caulkin? Watch the Secret Life of Bees to see Phase 1 of the Dakota Fanning evolution!


Bond girl. Bond girl. Bond girl. Please finish reading the entry before you end up spending hours looking at her pictures. Trust me. I'm on hour three of a ten sentence blog entry.


Samuel L. Jackson: I like exclamation points!

Bernice Mac: Shit! Me too!

Jackson: Let's exclaim everything for an entire movie!

Mac: I'm in! You think they'll make a movie like that?!

Jackson: Why the fuck not?! They made Soul Plane, muthafucka!

Mac: That movie was an insult to the black community!

Jackson: I know! But why did they love it then?!

Mac: We're gluttons for punishment!

Jackson: That's an unfair generalization of African-Americans!

Mac: Then why all the black-on-black crime?!

Jackson: Shit this is too much fuckin thinking! Let's get back to makin that fuckin movie!

Mac: Amen, muthafucka! Let's get Eugene Levy in it to comically offset our old school blackness!

Jackson: Now you're talking! The best revenge is having the white man pay us to make shitty movies!

Mac: Hell yeah! This is so much fuckin fun, it makes me wish I wasn't dead!

Isaac Hayes: Me too!


According to IMDB, Kevin Smith once shot a pictorial of his wife, Jennifer Schwalbach Smith, for Playboy. According to an extensive search of the internet, she has a landing strip that you could land a 747 on. We're on hour six of writing this blog entry.


Are you a teen male who is confused about your sexuality but doesn't want to come out of the closet without knowing how your friends will react? Then High School Musical 3 is the movie for you! Ask your friend if they want to see HSM3 with you. If they say yes, then put on a pot of coffee, you've got a long overdue conversation ahead of you!


I originally thought this sequel was going to be in the spirit of Escape from New York, where a bunch of animals are trying to band together and escape to safety. I was a bit off. It seems that it's more of a vehicle for the Back-to-Africa Liberian movement.

Hey, where are you guys going? You just won the election!


Who says a bad title can dry up any interest in a movie? Oh. The American public. This movie has been out for a month and it has yet to recoup half of its budget. Fingers crossed for a big comeback!

And Angelina is hot and all, but she can't really act. So if she's not getting naked in this, and I haven't found any evidence to the contrary, then you may need a better title to draw an audience. Hour eight of this blog.


From the website:

Jamal Malik, a penniless eighteen year-old orphan from the slums of Mumbai, is one question away from winning a staggering 20 million rupees on India’s ”Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?” But when the show breaks for the night, suddenly, he is arrested on suspicion of cheating. After all, how could an uneducated street kid zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

So this is an independent movie? About an Indian child? On an outdated game show? Well, say no more! It's like the producers read my mind. I've always wanted to see a movie about the slums of Mumbai! I hope they visit the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya!


A leaked script of Saw VI has already hit the internet. In the next installment, serial killer Jigsaw sets up an elaborate trap where he holds an unprecedented 300 people captive and forces them to watch Saw I through V.


I don't know what this movie is about, but there are no naked girls in it. Like none at all. Not even any hot girls with clothes on. Just a terrible, terrible movie. A complete waste of my tenth and final hour of this entry.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go see Slumdog Millionaire and find out what happens to young Jamal Malik. God I hope he wins those 20 million rupees. He'll finally be able to afford his father's operation!

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Mercury: The Roman God of Hubris

As you all know, the Tennessee Titans are undefeated ten games into this NFL season. 10-0 is a very impressive mark at this point in the season. In fact, it's perfect. But nothing in the NFL is truly impressive until Mercury Morris weighs in on it.

You see, Mercury Morris played for the 1972 Miami Dolphins, the only NFL team to ever complete an undefeated season and win the championship. But of course, you already knew that, because this douche never shuts up about it. Morris and all his survivors teammates from the '72 Dolphins are so proud of their accomplishment that they have a party every year when the last undefeated team in the NFL takes its first loss.

Beyond that, each year Mercury also takes it upon himself to become the resident NFL expert. He analyzes the last remaining undefeated team to see how they compare to the '72 Dolphins. And wouldn't you know it, they are never quite as good as his beloved 'phins. So now that the Titans are 10-0, it is time to start hearing from Mercury Morris again.

But you see, things have always been this way for Mercury. And the world.


Mercury Morris looks up at the ceiling.

Mercury Morris: Yeahhh. I see what you did there.

Michelangelo: You do? Which part are you referring to?

Mercury: Well. Ya know. All of it.

Michelangelo: All of it?

Mercury: Sure, sure. It's great, man. Seriously. It was a great try.

Michelangelo: Grazie, grazie. I really thought--wait. I'm sorry. Did you say "great try?"

Mercury: Of course. You really gave it a great shot. I mean I see what you went for. Bible. God. Jesus. Paint. I get it. It was truly a valiant effort.

Michelangelo: Effort?? But, sir. I have been painting this for four years. It's taken an enormous toll on my body. I've given my life to this project!

Mercury: And I surely respect you for it.

Mercury puts his arm around Michelangelo and walks with him.

Mercury: Hey. You gave it your all. No one can take that away from you. Some of us are just bound for perfection, while others splatter paint on the ceiling of a chapel and call it art. But you still gave it your best. Now you go ahead and keep that in your pocket for a rainy day.

Michelangelo: What on Earth are you saying?!? Splattered paint?? Who are you to judge what is perfection?!

Mercury: Well, I didn't want to bring it up but... A few years back, me and a couple buddies got together and painted the ceiling of our church. Just a bunch of old school dudes, watchin each others' backs, and paintin' ceilings. Well it took us eight long weeks, but when it was all said and done, the townspeople decided that our church had the nicest painted ceiling of any church in town. It was a proud day for me and the boys. In fact, we still get together every so often to look at other church ceilings, and celebrate that ours is still better.

Michelangelo: Let me get this straight. You only painted for eight weeks?

Mercury: It doesn't matter how long it took. What matters was that it was perfect.

Michelangelo: And your competition was other churches within your own town??

Mercury: Yeah but that was a tough town, man. Not like the weak watered-down towns you guys got now.

Michelangelo: And you yourselves are now the judges on what could possibly live up to your own creation???

Mercury: Of course, Mike. Who better to judge perfection than the perfect ones themselves? I'm not saying you could never be perfect. You just aren't now. And. Even if you were to ever be perfect, you still wouldn't really be perfect because we did it first. So you would still be second place to our perfection.

Michelangelo: You are not perfect. No man is perfect. God is perfect.

Mercury: Now hold on. I gotta stop you right there. Let's be clear about a few things. I am not perfect. You are not perfect. God is not perfect. The only thing that has ever been perfect in this world was me and my buddies during that one Spring when we painted the ceiling of our church. Now don't get discouraged because you're not quite there yet. Think of it this way: you made it to the party, but you still gotta pin the tail on the donkey!

Two members of the clergy drag Mercury out of the chapel.


After the conclusion of a brief pro-German announcement over the loudspeaker, Mercury tosses his gloves and puts his hands on his hips.

Mercury: Man, what's all this I keep hearing about this Germany being the best Germany ever. Man this Germany aint shit. Back in my day, we had us a real German Empire. Yall don't know about Kaiser Wilhelm II. He puts all yall to shame. Dude had a spike on his helmet. You believe that? Who's that guy you got now. Adolph Nippler? Zing!

German Guy: Adolph Hitler. And I wouldn't let him hear you say that. He would have you and your entire family murdered.

Mercury: ...A spike on his helmet. A motherfucking SPIKE. Shit, you younguns just wouldn't know about how we did things. Our war was serious.

German: This war is much bigger.

Mercury: Oh, really? How can it be better than The Great War? They called it that 'cause it was the greatest! They're callin this World War II 'cause that's just what it is--second place.

German: You are offending my typical German sensibilities of reason and order.

Mercury: What you know about this, my man. In my day? Our war totaled over ten million casualties. Ten million.

German: I predict that by the end of all this, we'll have fifty million dead.

Mercury: Ha! Ho, ho, ho! Mr. Prediction Man. Fifty million! How's that Charlie Chaplin-lookin motherfucker gonna manage that, huh? No country can kill that many in a war. Shit he'd have to start straight exterminatin people if he plans to hit that number.

The German man begins writing.

German: Go on...

Mercury: Look, brotha. Maybe I can help you better understand. Let me put it to you like this:
So you think that Hitler is really keen
Well I can tell you now he aint so mean
The Great World War, that was the best
Doesn't even matter that we lost that mess
Today yall Germans are just pretenders
I heard Hitler himself was quite the bender
Kaiser would surely kick his butt
Cause he aint nothin but a quarter-jew mutt

Two SS members swiftly drag Mercury out of the building.


CEO Steve Case finishes a presentation about the upcoming release of AOL 1.5 for Windows 3.1. As the clapping of Board members wanes, Mercury Morris continues slow-clapping with his feet on the conference table.

Mercury: Ha ha ha. So the internet, huh? That's it? Ooh-wee. Yall are pretty easily impressed for some executives. Now I know why they call it "tech-no-logical."

Mercury winks.

Steve Case: I'm sorry?

Mercury: Man, this internet aint shit. Cmon now. World Wide Web? Umm, maybe yall forgot about a little invention called the telephone? Those things reach all over the world. The phone did it way before the internet. And it did it better.

Steve Case: With all due respect, I'm not sure I know what you're saying.

Mercury slaps his thighs and stands up.

Mercury: Well I'll tell ya what I'm sayin, son. I'm sayin the phone is the best there was, the best there is, and the best there ever will be! If you want to talk to your wife, you don't wanna to get caught in no web! If you want to talk to your dad, you don't wanna get dragged in no net! You wanna make a call, you use the phone, because it's the best of all.

Mercury folds his arms.

Steve: Right, but the internet can provide so much more than a telephone conversation can. You can use it to email, sure. But you can also use it to shop online. You can use it to expand your business. You can look up virtually any fact and have it right in front of you in seconds.

Mercury: Man, you want facts? A phone can give you facts! Watch this.

Mercury picks up the phone.

Mercury: Beep-beep-boop-bop-bop-boop-beep. Hello? Yes, hi. Can you tell me who the first president of the United States was? Abraham Lincoln? Ah thank you!

Steve: Well, actually that's not correct. The first president was George Washington. Also, you didn't dial the phone. You just picked up the phone and started saying boops and beeps with your mouth.

Mercury: (into phone) I gotta go.

Mercury hangs up the phone.

Mercury: Look, we can argue over who the first president was all day, but there's no way to find out for sure. The only thing that's important is that everyone here understands that the phone is better than the internet.

Steve: But we didn't invent the internet. We're not saying we invented the internet.

Mercury: Now there ya go. That's it. Champions stay humble. Humble like the perfect Miami Dolphins of 1972.

Steve: (frustrated) Furthermore, why are you saying the phone is better than the internet. That's like saying an apple is better than a pencil. I don't think they even compare.

Mercury: Exactly. The net cannot compare to the perfect phone.

Steve: ...All we're saying is that this will be a great tool we can use to make our company the best in our field.

Mercury: Ah, ah, ah! You're not the best yet. No, sir. Let's just say this: you're in the right ballpark, but you still gotta find your seats!

Two security guards drag Mercury out of the building.

November 2008. New York, NY.

Mercury: This recession aint shit...

Thursday, November 06, 2008

An Open Letter to Black People

Hi! How are you? Waaazzzuuupppp? It's been a long time, so I just wanted to reach out and touch base with you. First of all, let me be the first to say, "Congratulations!" Well perhaps not the first, but I can't even tell you how happy I am for you. I hope it's everything you dreamed it would be. You're in for a wild ride!

In an effort to facilitate the transition into the presidency, I thought I would write this letter to go over some issues that may be relevant now that you are in power. Hopefully this will clear the air and help us better understand each other under the new "arrangement."

First I'd just like to ask: is it okay to say "black people?" Do I really have to say "African-American?" It's not like you're really still African. So you're cool with "black people," right? It just saves time.

Let's move on with a compliment. You have the funniest comedians in the world. It's not even a contest. Please continue making me laugh. I just have one word of advice. The funniest comedians are black people, but not all black people are the funniest comedians. It just might help all of us in line at the DMV who are being held captive by five Steve Harveys fighting for the spotlight.

Before we go any further, I just want to be clear about something. Slavery is illegal now. I hope you know that. Don't try any funny business.

If you forgive us for creating DWB, we'll forgive you for creating FUBU. That's a good offer. You guys made that the coolest thing to wear in high school and I was expressly forbidden from wearing it. I was forced to wear Old Navy for four years of high school. That's not right. As far as DWB, well, I'm sure FUBU contributed just as much to racial profiling.

While we're on acronyms, let's talk about CPT. I can't speak for all white people, but I'd just like to let you know my position. I'm cool with it. Keep doing what you do. It's no fun rushing around trying to be on time for things. If I could pull off CPT, I would.

But speaking of which, how come you guys run so fast but you walk so slow? Please advise.

White people don't have rhythm. We just don't. You know it and I know it. But please stop making fun of us!

In regards to out or losers out?

In regards to OJ....truce?

In regards to the N word...sorry?

Fried chicken is delicious. I think we can all agree upon that.

I will apologize for this if you apologize for this. These videos serve to culturally- ah, fuck it. I love both of them!

I watch the Wire. I just want to put that out there. So just in case you have something big planned...I can be a better friend to yall alive.

And on to the final apology. I'm really, really, REALLY sorry about this:

To me, that is more offensive than slavery, and I sincerely apologize.

On the other hand, if you guys would have voted last time, that never would have happened. So I think we can share the blame on that one. What do you say. Even Steven?

Well that's all for now. I hope this letter will open a dialogue and help us better serve each other. That's serve each other. Not one race serving the race who is in power because that would be wrong.

Take care and good luck. But most importantly, have fun with it! Enjoy your time. It goes all too fast. Trust me!



Thursday, October 30, 2008

The Catholic Church Makes Amends

Father Paul Minnihan stands at a podium before a crowd of people outside of his cathedral.

Father Paul: Today, the people of the world face an uncertain future. The global economy is in recession, our political leaders are divisive, and the moral decay of our families and neighborhoods seems rampant. Now, more than ever, people need The Church to help guide them through these tumultuous times.

But people are not always ready to accept The Church in their lives. They aren't always open to the idea. They aren't always willing.

I understand that We haven't always been perfect in The Church. We have given plenty of people plenty of reasons not to place their trust in Us. And I understand that it may be difficult for those people to embrace The Church back into their lives. But We believe in saving every soul. We believe that you are all Our children.

So, today, it is The Church that asks for forgiveness for Our past transgressions. We are here to present a gift to the victims of those unspeakable acts that took place on the grounds of Our churches. We hope it eases the pain and suffering of all of you, and welcomes you back into the arms of The Church.

A curtain drops to unveil The Church's gift.

The crowd applauds mildly.

There we are. I hope we can all move beyond all the sordid allegations of the past, those both true and fabricated, and walk together, hand in hand, into The Church. Thank you.

Father Paul attempts to step out from behind the podium. A man raises his hand and stands up in the crowd.

Man in the crowd: Uh, I'm sorry. What is that?

Father Paul: Hmm? Oh yes, my child. Did you have a question?

Man: Yeah. Umm. What is that?

Father Paul: Well, you see it's a rock. And it's our gift to you.

Man: Your gift. Is a rock.

Father Paul: Yes.

Father Paul gathers the papers at the podium.

Man: Yeah, sorry, hold on there. Still not quite getting it. Your myself and all your other victims here and across the a fucking rock?

Father Paul squints disapprovingly.

Father Paul: What is your name, my child?

Man: Okay. Not your child. But my name is Tim Boyd.

Father Paul: Well you did not let me continue, my sweet Timmy Boy. We got something else for you all. Take a look behind the rock in the garden. We got you something extra special.

Tim Boyd: Uh-huh. Right. Sooo...this and the rock?

Father Paul: Yes. Happy now? I mean, that should give you some peace, my son.

Tim Boyd: This says, "Planned by survivors." I don't remember planning any of this. Did any victims really plan this?

Father Paul: Well maybe not technically, but We had your thoughts and feelings in mind, when We planned it.

Another man stands up.

Victim #2: Does that actually say "we remember?" Isn't that kind of weird?

Father Paul: The Church wanted to-

Tim Boyd: Holy shit it does. I didn't even read it at first because I figured, ya know, what the hell are a few sentences going to say to wash away a lifetime of sexual abuse, but my god. They actually admit they remember.

Father Paul: Well yes We remember, of course. We like to think of those times order to dissuade Ourselves from ever doing that again.

Victim #2: I dunno. Still kinda seems like the type of thing you should be forgetting. I mean we remember, ya know? My god, we remember. Hard to forget all those late nights...cold...and alone...ohh god. But, uh, I think it's not really something you guys should be reminiscing about.

Father Paul: Look, We're saying We remember it so that you know that We sympathize with you and We know what you're going through.

Victim #3: Oh DO YOU?

Father Paul: Cheese and crackers! We're trying to extend an olive branch here. I think if you'll give it a chance you may really like it. It's not just the rock and the plaque; it's an entire garden. We even have two benches: one facing The Church and one facing away from The Church if you feel like you still can't just let it go.

Tim Boyd: Wow. There's more. So let me get this straight. Your plan in all this is to get us to come back to The Church where we were sexually molested?

Father Paul: No. Well, there was never a plan, as such, it's just-

Tim Boyd: And presumably bring our families with us?

Father Paul: No, no. Well, yes! I mean, if you have children of course We'd always love to extend-

Tim turns to the crowd.

Tim Boyd: Hey, guys. Anyone here ever go to church again after they were sexually abused? I mean willingly go to church, not like when you were forced to go because you couldn't share the horrible secret that you were molested by your priest.

Victim #2: Nooo.

Victim #3: No way!

Victim #4: Are you serious?

Victim #5: Douche chills!

Victim #6: YES.

Tim Boyd: What? You do?

Victim #6: Well, yes. But I'm a pedophile now, sooo. It's just business.

Tim Boyd: Fair enough.

Father Paul: Guys, guys. You don't have to come back to The Church, okay? I don't know what I was saying with that. I think I overshot it a bit. But, look, We gave you the rock, the plaque, the garden. That's gotta be worth something, right? So whattaya say. Can we call it even?

Tim Boyd: Oh yeah. Of course. Even Steven.

Father Paul: Thank the Lord.

Tim Boyd: Sure, sure. So long as that rock can unrape me.

Father Paul: What?

Tim Boyd: Well that rock- that rock you gave us. That can unrape me, right? That can undo the years of sexual abuse I endured, no? I just figure that's what you gave it to us, right? To erase all the physical and mental torture? The rock that has the power to right the wrongs of a thousand priests molesting a thousand children? Even Steven?

Father Paul: Son, I know you're hurting but-

Victim #7: I was raped with a broom. Can it undo that too?

Victim #8: I'm looking for full coverage over here. Kinda don't wanna get into all of the details but...

Father Paul: I really don't think this is the time for a discussion like that. Perhaps tonight we can meet in my rectory and have a more private-

Tim Boyd: Oh my god, are you still angling for that? You guys never learn. I'm like 40 now, pal. Consider me off the market.

Victim #9: I'm sorry I'm still a bit unclear on what that turd is doing in the middle of the garden.

Tim Boyd: What turd?

Father Paul: That's not a turd! Ahem. That's a rock.

Tim Boyd: Big upgrade.

Victim #9: Well, if you were going to give us a rock, then why is it all cracked.

Father Paul shuffles papers on the podium and then peers down through his reading glasses.

Father Paul: The shattered stone represents the shattered lives of the victims.

Victim #9: Seriously?

Father Paul: What. I thought it was nice!

Victim #9: I would have rather had the turd.

Father Paul: How is a turd better than a rock?!

Victim #9: At least a turd takes effort.

Victim #10: Excuse me, I haven't made an observation yet.

Father Paul: Jesus fucking Christ, I've had enough of you people! We try to do something nice and all you do is bitch, bitch, bitch! Goddamnit what do We have to do to get you to stop crying?! We're sorry, okay?!? SORRYYYY!! NOW GO SIT ON YOUR GODDAMN TURD ROCK AND FUCKING FORGIVE US!!!

The crowd sits back in stunned silence. Father Paul clears his throat, adjusts his collar, and walks off stage toward Father O'Hagan.

Father Paul: Ohhh this is bad.

Father O'Hagan: You're goddamn right it is.

Father Paul: Thisisbad. Thisisbad.

Father O'Hagan: We have to go into damage control. The rock didn't work. How else can we buy back their love? What does everyone love?

Father Paul: Ipods? Beer? Cash?

Father O'Hagan: I've got it!

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

What I Learned On My Vegas Vacation

1. My girlfriend has a gambling problem.

After I graduated college, I was out of work for about two years. During this time, I played poker to make a living. I started off as a mediocre player, but I studied the game as much as I could...when I wasn't drinking heavily. Eventually, I made myself into a pretty good online player and an even better live player. I became quite profitable...or profitable enough to sustain my heavy drinking.

I had friends who were living the same life, both locally and across the country. I had other friends who were betting sports for extra income. I had even other friends who were taking sports bets for extra income. We all talked poker, sports, prop bets, and more all day...while drinking heavily.

I know about gambling.

My girlfriend has a serious-ass gambling problem.

I'm not just saying this because she went off for a big number in Vegas. I'm not just saying this because her vices are house games like blackjack. I'm not just saying this because she decides which NFL teams she is going to bet on before she sees the lines. I'm saying this because I know about these things. If you don't believe me, I will give you one indisputable example to prove it.

My girlfriend, or Xmas Girl, as you know her, once placed a bet on how much Beverly Hills Chihuahua would gross opening weekend. AND SHE LOST.

If that isn't a gambling problem, then I don't know what is. I'm waiting for her to bet on the Washington Generals.

2. My future mother-in-law is blogworthy.

Part of this trip to Vegas was planned so that I could meet Xmas Girl's mom. I had heard quite a few stories about this lovely lady, and I was told to brace myself for anything and everything. So with that in mind, XG and I laid odds on what would happen on the first night that we went to her house for dinner. If your girlfriend is going to have a crippling gambling problem, you may as well have fun with it, right?

A. 3/2 -- She burns dinner.
B. 6/1 -- She gives me a kiss hello...on the mouth.
C. 8/1 -- She falls asleep at the dinner table from too much wine.
D. 22/1 -- She cooks a salad bowl in the oven.
E. 1/5 -- She shows a picture of Xmas Girl wearing leather pants.

Amazingly, more than one of these came through. Can you guess which ones? Go ahead guess. Are you done? Ah, fuck it. You didn't guess did you. The answers are A, D, and E. I lost a lot of money on B.

"D" cashed in early when she turned the oven on and after 15 minutes of playing "What's That Smell?" she realized that she had left the salad bowl in there. Why was there a salad bowl in the oven in the first place? I didn't even have time to ask.

"A" followed shortly thereafter when she put the garlic bread in the oven, set it to broil, and left it in there for "about 20 minutes." I'm a guy who can only cook hot dogs and ramen, and even I know that is retarded. She took the black logs out of the oven and tossed them over the balcony.

"E" came up several times, of course. I'm pretty convinced that every picture of XG from 16 - 23 is in leather pants. And they are everywhere. All over her mom's house, all over her friends' houses. It's like they are proud of it. But believe me, I don't even want to know the reasons why. I only have one question. Is it many different pairs or one pair worn over and over again? For some reason, I have a real problem with the former.

I'm still waiting for "B."

3. Never take a shit in a handicapped bathroom.

Is it "handicapped" bathroom or "handicap" bathroom? Either way, I hate them all.

We were walking from the Hard Rock to Mandalay Bay because we felt disgusted by the fact that we played blackjack for twelve hours the day before. I don't know, it made sense to us at the time. On our way there, I find myself overcome with an urgent shitting emergency. I calmly suggest we stop in for a drink at MGM. I sit her down at the bar, order two drinks, and speedwalk to the bathroom.

Inside there's only three stalls, and the two normal ones were taken. I thought I might be able to find another bathroom in the casino, but my stomach made a horrifying noise that informed me otherwise. I darted into the oversized handicapped stall and locked it behind me, making it just in time.

About two minutes later, I hear a loud whirring sound approaching that stopped in front of my stall. I quickly realize that it's a capper coming right for me. He tugs on the door to no avail. I pray that he doesn't choose to wait me out, since considering what I did to my body the night before, he would be looking at about another twenty-five minutes.

Instead, he starts yanking it harder. And then HARDER. It is clear that his arm is not disabled, as he pulls mightily on the handle, rattling the door and my mancage. I'm not sure if he was angry or also mentally retarded, but he was not giving up on this locked door easily.

Finally, after ten seconds of terror, what sounded like yet another handicapped man informed him that there is indeed another bathroom down the hall. He whirred away, and I could only hope that it wasn't some retarded ruse designed by the two men to coax me out of the stall for a beating outside the bathroom. I took the full twenty-five minutes just to be safe.

But just a heads up to the MGM while we're on the subject. If you're going to have a hotel with 20,000 rooms, you may want to have a bathroom with more than two normal stalls. That's pretty fucking retarded.

4. I know of one person who reads this blog.

He is my friend Danny. And I know he reads this blog because he texted me while I was in Vegas that Pacman got into a dust-up with a team bodyguard. This was obviously a ploy to bait me into writing a Pacman's body retread. And of course, it worked. That type of dedication is appreciated. I expect to see more of that from the rest of you.

5. Stand-up comedy is not as hard as it looks.

Obviously, it is. But Xmas Girl's mother's husband works at the Riviera, and he got us tickets to a comedy show there. We figured it would be nice to have a break from all the gambling and drink in a new location.

Well apparently the guy that was headlining was just about 50 years older than the Riviera itself. We had the misfortune of being in the front row as a two hundred year old man read out of a joke book.

It was so uncomfortable that after ten minutes, we waited for him to turn his back and darted out of the room. Then we had to weave in and out of the casino crowd like a couple of ninjas so as not to see the man who got us the tickets and have him be offended.

Best decision I ever made to leave that show.

6. I look like everyone else in the world besides myself.

Some of the older readers will be aware of this phenomenom, but let me catch some of the new people up. Acquaintances and strangers alike seem to have no problem, nay, enjoy walking up to me and blurting out "You know who you look like?" Whether I answer their question or not, they always follow with the name of some C-list celebrity that I do not look like. See for yourself.

This time around it was a drunk guy at a blackjack table saw XG and I walk up and exclaimed, "You look like the kid from High School Musical! You look just like Zac Efron!!"


I have no words.

Make your own jokes.

7. The Hard Rock Casino has dealers, strippers, and stripper-dealers.

In the middle of the casino floor, there is a pit of about 8 blackjack tables that has an island in the middle. This island is an elevated platform with 3 stripper poles on it. As luck would have it, these stripper poles have actual strippers on them Thursday through Sunday night. They wear the least amount of clothing that is legally possible and dance provocatively for rows of men who stop to gawk.

If that wasn't enough, the dealers themselves in this pit are wearing tube tops, napkin shirts, and anything else designed to have their tits pouring out. They flirt and joke, and though widely considered some of the worst technical dealers in the casino, they rake in tips as men line up to give their money away.

The Hard Rock might have figured out a couple things about running a casino.

8. If you're a dealer and you're not going to show your tits, you may as well be racist.

During the day, they put the strippers back in the vault and trot out all their "anti-discrimination act" employees. Now, it's not that I have a problem with fat people. Well, that's a lie. I despise fat people. But, in theory, I could tolerate them.

So if you're hoping to be a tolerable fatty, the least you could do is be nice. That's the least that I'm asking. Seriously, it's not like I'm asking you to eat a salad or take the stairs. Just be nice. Doesn't all that weight make you jolly at all?

Apparently, someone on the Hard Rock day shift never got the memo. As I sat down at her empty blackjack table, she asked for my ID. I kindly obliged and as she looked at my license, she said, "New Jersey? You can't be from New Jersey! Where's your mullet?!"

Now I'm fine with anyone ripping on New Jersey. There are many Jersey jokes to be had, some of them true, most of them lame, but you can have at it if that's how you choose to socialize. But mullets? In Jersey? That's not close to true. That's not even a stereotype. What in the FUCK is your fat ass talking about?

She was also cheering on the Phillies, so I assumed this meant she was from PA, which would explain the Jersey hatred. But no, she explained that she was from New Mexico. Oh! Nary a mullet in New Mexico! I guarantee you that there are ten times as many mullets in New Mexico as there are in New Jersey. You hear me? I'm only saying this in my head, but I know you can hear me you fat fuck.

Chubbsy Ubbsy goes on to say, "Ya know sometimes I tell my dad I have a black boyfriend just to mess with him. He's from the South so it really gets him mad! Hahahaha. Hit or stay."

WHAT. What do you think my reaction to that is going to be? You get a lot of high fives after that story? Is that the anecdote that clinched it on your interview? I'm not a sensitive or politically correct person by a longshot, but seriously, fuck that racist cracker.

9. The Hard Rock Hotel and Casino hosts one giant poser convention.

The downside to #7 is that it brings in droves of doucheclowns and toolboxes. Apparently out West they are trying to start another ill-conceived fashion trend born from their prisons. Half the guys at the Hard Rock were wearing shorts to the knee, floppy tennis shoes, and socks pulled up to mid-calf. They all look like Mexicans in prison...which were impossible to find a picture of, so you'll have to take my word for it.

The other half of the crowd all had bedazzled trucker hats that would make Charles Nelson Reilly blush.

That's right. That's the only rule I have about blogging: shoehorn in a CNR reference whenever possible.

10. You should not take the redeye back from Las Vegas.

Last February I went to Vegas with a few friends. When we booked the trip, we surmised that it was a good idea to take the redeye back to Jersey. "That way we have all day Sunday to keep partying!" For some reason, we didn't seem to put together that we were already going to be in Vegas for six days, and that we would be in no condition to party "all day Sunday."

Well, we soon realized what a grave error in judgment we had made once Sunday came. We packed our bags like zombies and with nowhere else to go, we piled our bodies into a lounge in Planet Hollywood. The four of us sat facing one another, our mullets deflated, tacitly acknowledging that we would not see each other for a month after this trip. After about 8 hours of this, we stood up and went to airport. I haven't talked to them since.

So what did I learn on my Vegas vacation? Nothing, of course. Like the asshole that I am, I did the same thing this time around and booked an 11:45 PM flight home on Sunday night. Obviously, I never learn shit, so who am I to tell Xmas Girl how to gamble. Let's bet the over on the opening weekend of High School Musical 3. I have a feeling I'm gonna be a big hit!

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

A.J. vs. P.A.C.

Adam Jones' Brain: What did I say..

Adam Jones' Hands: Yo. Aight first off-

Brain: What did I say..

Hands: Yo, I'm sayin'-

Brain: WHAT. DID I. SAY..

Hands: Shiiiit. Aight. You said don't do anything wit'out axin you first.

Brain: Thank you. But did you listen to me? Nooooo. Do you ever listen to me? NOOOOO.

Hands: But yo I'm sayin' it wasn't even my fault!

Brain: Of course it wasn't! It's never your fault! It wasn't your fault when you didn't want to pay the valet so you said, "I'll just hit her." It wasn't your fault when we got pulled over for 75 in a school zone. It wasn't your fault when you wanted to "make it rain" in that strip club in Vegas that coincidentally got shot up after we left. And it certainly wasn't your fault that we got in a drunken fight when we are under a zero tolerance policy from the commissioner of the NFL!

Hands: Exactly. Thank you.


Hands: How is the speeding ticket my fault?

Adam Jones' Legs: Don't drag me into this, boy.

Hands: Aight, aight, you wanna blame Hands. Fine. But yo. For real? Shit is going on in the streets, man. Yo niggas is in the grind. Where you be at, man? Niggas be buckin. Why you never buckin? Where you be at, man??

Brain: First of all, I'm a brain, and you are hands. We are a part of the same body. I am always, inherently, in the same place that you are. That's where I "be at." Second of all, if bucking means "shooting a gun," then being that I am a brain, it would be physically impossible for me to shoot a gun. Third of all, those guns are what got us into trouble in the first place. How could you glorify gun violence when that's what essentially cost us our career? Someone almost died behind that!

Legs: Yo, he just stole those lines from a song.

Brain: What?

Legs: Those are lyrics.

Hands: No they aint!

Legs: It's Nas. It's called Destroy and Rebuild.

Brain: Really? What the fuck, Hands. You think this is a joke?

Hands: Nah, man. It's just...I don't know. I don't know what they want from me. It's like the more money we come across, the more problems we see.

Brain: Exactly. That's what I've been saying. All this money and fame can get us into a lot of trouble. Thank you for finally-

Legs: It's another song, Brain.

Hands: Nah, man. I made that up.

Legs: That's BIG man. Everyone know that.

Brain: Seriously? This is what you wanna do all day, Hands?

Hands: Yo. We out there every day and people be throwin' dirt on our name. They be testin' us. They be talkin' shit 'bout Pacman.

Brain: You mean "Adam."

Hands: Nah, fuck that, man! We Pacman! We always been Pacman and we always gon' be Pacman! And when people disrespect Pacman, Hands is on the front line! That big ol' bouncer tried to talk shit and I did what I's 'posed to! I popped that fat bitch in the side of his head!

Legs: Man, you only waited until people were around to separate you.

Brain: Legs, I saw you kicking him too!

Legs: Well, hey, man. You know what they say. Bitches get kick-es.

Brain: That is not an expression.

Hands: Why you so mad, Brain? You act like you surprised.

Brain: I know, I know. I shouldn't be. But it was all going so well. We started out 3-0. Everyone said we were the best team in football. Fans were screaming our name...

Legs: It aint that bad, man.

Brain: ...we led the team in tackles against Green Bay, we recovered a fumble...

Hands: It'll be aight.

Brain: was almost as if everyone forgot. It was all going just as I planned. And now, Jerry Jones is going to kill us.

Legs: Nah, man. JJ loves us.

Brain: That's just for the press! He told me that if we messed up, even once, he would give us a Texas Funeral. And we'd never see it coming.

Legs: You really think he'd do that?

Brain: We were standing at the grave of Frank Cornish when he told me.

Legs: Fuckin shit.

Hands: Nah, man. We good. How he gon' kill family? JJ won't do that. You can't kill family.

Brain: What are you talking about? What is he talking about?

Legs: "Jones."

Brain: Jesus Christ.

Legs: Look, we can't just sit here cryin' all day.

Brain: Well we got four weeks off now. Maybe even more. So what do we do now? What the fuck do we do now?

Adam Jones' Dick: ...Wanna go to the strip club?

Sunday, October 05, 2008

Threat Level: Purple

I don't want to alarm anyone, but our country is in grave danger. You may or may not be aware of it, but it stands to threaten each and every person in America. We need to band together in a bipartisan effort to fight this evil before we are all subject to the most dire of consequences.

In case you haven't seen it already, a California Raisin is on NFL Countdown.

If they've already infiltrated ESPN, how much longer before they infiltrate a main network? And then perhaps, our government? What if it becomes mayor? Governor? Or even Vice President? Stranger things have happened.

But maybe that won't be so bad. Who am I to argue with God's plan?

Thursday, October 02, 2008


Willie Randolph walks up to an unlit house reading a piece of paper. He knocks on the door.

Willie Randolph: Hello? Umm...I got a letter that said I should come here? Is- is anyone there?

Willie slowly opens the door and the lights go on.

Everyone: SURPRISE!!!

Willie: "Surprise?" But it's not my birthday.

Bill Buckner walks forward.

Bill Buckner: See, guys, I told you "surprise" was stupid. Hey, Willie. Remember me? It's Bill Buckner. And I'm still alive!

Willie: Hey, Bill. 'Course I remember. But what- what is all this?

An old man holding his goat dives out in between Bill and Willie.


Goat: Whoa, hey. Slow down, Old Man. Give him a chance, huh?

Bill: Willie, he's right. This is a Revenge Club. Everyone here has been wronged by someone or something and we have vowed that we would take our revenge. And we tortured souls rely on each other to make sure our revenge is complete. No matter what it takes. No matter how long it takes.

Goat: But we don't do curses.

Bill: Oh, that's right. We don't do curses.

Goat: Old Man was gonna make a sign, you know, for your first night. "Revenge Club: We Don't Do Curses." But, uh, he got fuckin' piss-drunk out of his mind again and, uh, well, Willie, I'd just like to say welcome.


Goat: Ahh that's right. Again with the hickory stick. We get it, Old Man.

Willie: I'm sorry, Bill. Who exactly is this Old Man and his Goat?

Bill: Well in 1945-

Old Man: IN 1945 WE GOT KICKED OUT OF WRIGLEY FIELD DURING GAME 4 OF THE WORLD SERIES. I brought ol' Goat here fer good luck. "We got yer Goat" I told Detroit. They didn't seem to appreciate the joke.

Goat: I tried telling him it was a terrible joke.

Old Man bludgeons Goat over the head with his hickory stick.

Old Man: When'and the rain came, the Cubs owner forced me and mah goat out of the stadium. They said we stunk! Since that day I've vowed that the Cubs and their stinkin' fans won't never see another championship ag'in.

Willie: ...Could that possibly be true?


Goat: Easy, Old Man, Easy.

Willie: Fine, I believe you. Jeez. So how do you guys get revenge?

Old Man: Every year if they get close, I make'n sure they don't get too close. Heh heh.

Goat: Yeah 'cause we fuckin' rig the games!

Old Man: Shut up, GOAT!

Willie: Oh my god. Did you cause them to lose in 2003?

Old Man: Heh heh. Some of my best work. Ya see, I kidnapped that Steve boy about a month before the playoffs. I had him in my basement tied up right next to the goat, listening to hypnotic mind-control tapes for 24 hours a day! Then when Game 6 came and them Cubs was gittin' too close, I unleashed my Bartman zombie into the game, and planted him real close to the field. He had those tapes playin' his headphones, makin' him listen to mah every word. And when the time was right- BAM!

Willie: Oh my god!!!

Bill: Just like Naked Gun!!


Willie: That's amazing! You made Steve Bartman interfere with that foul ball through hypnosis?!

Goat: Nah, man, we just paid Alex Gonzalez to tank that ground ball. Mark Prior too. It barely cost anything, man. I almost felt bad doin' it.

Old Man kicks Goat in the ribs.


Goat: Fackin SHIT. Ahh, god damn. Okay, okay, fine you're right. It was your zombie with the cassette tapes or whatever.

Willie: What was your revenge Bill?

Bill lowers his head and casts a devilish smile.

Bill: I'm glad you asked, Willie. As you may know, I had this tiny little error in Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. Some people seem to think I cost Boston the World Series and that I perpetuated some kind of curse. For about the next 18 years after that, I got my house egged every weekend. I'm not sure if it was related to the error, but just to be safe, I joined the Revenge Club.

Willie: Oh god, Bill, I remember. I'm so sorry you had to go through that. It's just that I was with these guys, and they were like, "Hey we have these eggs." And I was like "But I really like Bill." But they were like, "Well, are you cool or aren't you?" And they were my ride home so..

Bill: It's fine, Willie. It's fine. Because I exacted my revenge in most spectacular fashion. Muahahaha.

Willie: What did you do?

Bill: I'll tell you Willie, but you are sworn to secrecy. I saved up every penny I had, and I paid Mariano Rivera to take a dive and blow the 2004 ALCS! Then the Red Sox rolled over the Cardinals with ease and they were champions for the first time since 1918!

Willie: But, um, where is the revenge?

Bill: Don't you see?! By making the Red Sox win I convinced everyone that there is no curse! They wouldn't be mad at me anymore for blowing the '86 Series because they finally won one! Hahaha! Revenge is mine! How sweet it is!

Willie: How exactly does-

Goat: Don't even try, Willie. We've all told him. That plan doesn't make any fucking sense.

Bill: Hey! Shut up, Goat! I didn't criticize your creepy hey-let's-kidnap-a-kid-and-make-him-a-zombie-who-catches-a-routine-foul-ball-alou-will-have-no-shot-at-anyway plan!

Goat: Fuck me. For the hundreth time that was just the Old Man's Jim Beam talking!

Bill taps Willie on the side of his arm over his windbreaker.

Bill: Cmon, Willie. It's a good plan, right? Pretty cool, right??

Willie: Yeahhh, Bill. Cooool. You got 'em good.

Bill: Thanks, pal. So now you know what we are capable of Willie. And that's why we sent you that letter to meet us here. We want you to join our club.

Willie: But why me?

Bill: We saw what happened to you this season. The way they fired you in the middle of the season? On a road trip? Via email? That's just awful.

Willie: Yeah that was pretty rough.


Bill: Alright, Old Man. We got it.

Willie rubs the back of his own neck.

Willie: Well. I. I dunno...

A baby comes up and yanks on Willie's pant leg.

John Moynahan: Are you fuckin' in or not.

Willie: Good god! That baby can talk!

Goat: Really? The talking baby shocks you?

Willie: Who are you?

John: I'm Tom Brady's son. I joined this club 8 months ago. And I'm serious as a fucking heart attack about exacting revenge against my dad.

Willie: Against your own father? But why?

John: Because that motherfucker left Mommy for some tarted-up glassy-eyed Brazilian slut who isn't even that hot.

Everyone: Whoa, whoa, whoa!

John: Okay, look. I'm not saying she's not hot. I'm just saying, not my type.

Goat: Gorgeous Brazilian models with perfect bodies aren't your type?


John: Fine, she's really hot, alright? I know that. That's obvious. I'm just saying. Overrated, okay?

Bill: I can live with that.

John: My dad just up and left us for some piece of ass. So now, I plan on making him feel the pain that I feel every day. That's why before the Super Bowl I paid the Patriots offensive line to dog their blocking assignments. That's why I paid Peyton Manning to wear Eli's uniform for the Giants. And that's why I paid Bernard Pollard to destroy Dad's knee.

Goat: That's a lot of money to be paying out.

John: Well, that's the one nice thing about being Tom Brady's kid. So. William. I ask you again. You in?

Willie: Gee it's just that-


Willie: Alright, alright, with the hickory stick. Boys. I will join the Revenge Club. I'm in!

Bill shakes Willie's hand heartily.

Bill: That's great, Willie! Welcome. Now let's get down to business. We've got a lot of work to do if we're gonna screw those Mets and keep them out of the playoffs!

Willie: What?

Old Man: Tonight we gon' beat those Mets like a red-headed step-goat!

Willie: Are you guys serious? That wasn't you?

Bill: What wasn't?

Willie: You guys didn't pay Schoeneweis to give up that homerun? You didn't have the Marlins steal the signs for Helms? The guy has 68 career homeruns in 9 seasons!

Bill kicks at the carpet beneath him with his hands in his pockets.

Bill: Shoot. We thought the game was tonight.

Goat: I tried telling them, Willie. It's no use once they get an idea in 'em. It's like working with a bunch of animals.

Willie: Wow. So...they did it all themselves.

Bill: Damn they really fucked up!

Goat: Yeah, Bill. Someone should really egg their houses.

John: I guess the Mets really just suck.

Old Man bursts into the middle of the group.


Goat: Yes, Old Man.

Old Man scrambles out of the house.


Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Gotta Work Everyday. Gotta Not Be Cliche.

If all I had to do was write a blog, I could generate original material every day. But that's not the case. I have a shitty job that crushes my soul. I have an hour commute that sucks the life out of me. I have a dog that is not house-trained. I have a girlfriend who wants to watch the Sex and the City movie at a volume of about 96 that makes it hard for me to even follow my own thoughts much less complete this sentence coherently. I have a shitty blog with even shittier readers who insist on keeping this very blog on a check rarely-to-never basis.

That, my friends, means that I don't have any absurd dialogues for you to not appreciate today. You'll just have to settle for a quick recap of my trip to Giants stadium this Sunday. If you're still in dire need of absurd dialogue, I suggest you pick up the Sex and the City movie. I'm almost positive that the writers of this movie are intentionally trying to misinform women about men. That way the show's faulty advice and morals will continually ruin women's relationships in order to keep them coming back for more counsel, enabling them to sell more DVDs.

So about that game. I haven't been to the stadium in five years, and I don't know if I have changed or the tailgating has but HOLY SHIT WHAT A FUCKING ZOO. In college I would start tailgating at 7 AM and drink straight through the day, so the drunkenness isn't shocking to me. I, myself, was quite drunk this Sunday. But the characters at this place were out of their fucking minds. They were screaming nonsensically, randomly assaulting each other, and generally threatening anyone who did or did not step in their path. Did I mention that my girlfriend came with us?

By the way, she's still watching that god awful movie next to me. I have to tell you I think it has lowered my IQ 10 points just from having the inane chatter of those four retarded broads blaring in the background.

As we walked up the many, many steps to our seats, we had several gentlemen attempt to engage us in some form of discourse. While most chose to cat call, others seemed to prefer the wolf whistle. Some of the more clever types chose to look at my girlfriend and come up with an inventive chant. Ordinarily, this would bother me, but I took it in stride on Sunday. Am I really to be concerned that my girlfriend might leave me for a guy in a fireman helmet, shorts above the knee, and work boots like THIS? Hopefully not, but it would make for a funny blog.

Oh, so apparently this entire movie is about the fights that girls have with each other. Didn't you think it was about sex? Wasn't that somewhere in the title? No. The movie is just watching one giant bitch fit.

The game itself ended up being pretty exciting. The Giants defense came through at just the right time to sweep Carrie off her feet. As the game went into overtime, some brunette had a baby on the street with a bald guy. The game was capped off by a field goal from John Carney that won Carrie's heart with a contrived proposal and a lame post-wedding reception at some diner.

Okay, I can't even follow this movie anymore. Are they supposed to be 50 and having sex? And they're proud of the way they act? People pay to see this? Girls emulate these hogs? Thank god my girlfriend is not like that.

Now they just toasted to "the next 50 years" as the movie wraps up. Nice try, ladies. Your show is cancelled. Fuck the next 50 years, I don't have to watch your flapping plastic faces for one more second.

Christ, what was I saying? I don't know, the Giants won or something. It was a good time I think. I don't know. All I can think about is these fucking beasts ruining an entire generation of women. This is why I can't blog. I blame women. In all forms. But I promise I'll try to post more often. I got more in the can. I just need to talk to my girlfriend about setting aside some free time where I can pursue my writing with a little less distraction.

The movie finally ended. My girlfriend just stood up and said, "I can't wait to watch it a million more times!"

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

With Tim Meadows as Mark Ingram

Mark Ingram is going to prison.

If ever there was a picture that was made for The Sports Hernia.

Have you ever seen one of those old movies where a guy would escape from prison, and a guard in a tower would shine a giant spotlight on him, and he would freeze, and his eyes would fixate like a deer in headlights? Well if you have, Mr. Ingram would love for you to show him that movie, because he is surely going to be trying to escape from prison soon.

From the article:

His sentencing was delayed as he tried to revoke the plea, fired several court-appointed attorneys and made what prosecutors termed “outlandish” legal arguments, including a claim that he was immune from prosecution because he enjoyed diplomatic status as a head of state.
In his most notable game - the 20-19 victory over the Buffalo Bills in the 1991 Super Bowl - Ingram caught five passes, after one of which he fended off tackles and hopped on one leg for a crucial first down.

For Mark's sake, let's hope those skills don't fail him once he's in prison.

Eventually, Mark decided to defend himself. Luckily, I was able to obtain the court transcript:

Judge Denis Hurley: Mark, I want to thank you for finally showing up to my courtroom. I've heard you haven't been feeling too well.

Mark Ingram: That's right, Judge, sir. In fact, I'm still not feeling too well.

Judge: We'll I'm sorry to hear that.

Mark: Ya know, in the ass area... May I go to the "bathroom" please?

Mark makes air quotes with his hands.

Judge: See if you can hold it. Today we will complete this trial once and for all.

Mark: Ya'hona', what we really doin here, hmm? What we doin in this courtroom today? This room of court. This place of justice and truth. Conviction and eviction. Attorneys and prosecutors-

Judge: Mr. Ingram? We know where we are.

Mark: Of course, ya'hona'. Now where was I? Oh yes. The wrongful persecution of Mr. Mark Luther Ingram, Jr. Now, have I done wrong? Of course. I have committed many, many crimes in my lifetime.

Mark Ingram slowly walks down the aisle of the courtroom.

Mark: But I ask you. Are you not just as wrong for accusing me of these crimes? Does not the good book say that man "judge not best, when he be a judge?" And we are to turn to Mr. Judge to tell us what is right and wrong? I think not. I rest my case.

Judge: Mr. Ingram, stop.

Mark: Oh I think I've made my point, Judge.

Judge: I mean stop moving.

A bailiff steps in front of Mark just as he is reaching for the courtroom's exit door. Mr. Ingram turns around smiling.

Mark: Yes, ya'hona'? Are we just about done here? Do you need me to sign something before I leave?

Judge: You're not going anywhere, Mr. Ingram. Bailiff, please show him to his seat. You have elected to represent yourself, Mr. Ingram, so I am obliged to ask you if you have anything else to say before I read your sentence.

Mark: Okay, fine. So what's the big deal with a little marijuana? Who here hasn't smoked some weed in their lives, huh? Who here has never just ever-so-slightly blazed a little of the bubonic chronic?

Mark Ingram smells his fingers, inhaling deeply.

Judge: Mr. Ingram, I'm not sure-

Mark: And who among us, has not sold a little of the sticky icky to get by? Just to pay the bills? Or, perhaps, to turn a small profit?

Judge: Mr. Ingram-

Mark: Or a large profit.

Judge Hurley bangs his gavel.

Judge: MR. INGRAM! We are not here for a drug charge.

Mark: Really? I knew you had nothin' on me! I'm free! Oh lord, oh lord, I can't believe I'm free! I'm gonna party tonight!!

Judge: Mr. Ingram, you're being charged with money laundering. It's a federal offense. Kindly proceed with any final statements before I announce your sentence.

Mark: statements, final statements. Umm......please?

Judge: Please what?

Mark: Please don't?

Judge: Mr. Ingram, I have to sentence you.

Mark: But why?

Judge: Mr. Ingram, clearly you have no remorse, explanation or excuse for your crimes. Seeing as how this is by no means your first offense, I sentence you to ninety-two months in a federal prison.

Mark: Really ya'hona'? Damn. Alright. If that's what it has to be, then that's what it has to be. I'll take the two.

Judge: Excuse me?

Mark: I'll take two months.

Judge: No, Mr. Ingram. You are to serve ninety-two months.

Mark: You said, "Nine to two months." I choose two.

Judge: I most certainly did no-

Mark: You goin back on your word, ya'hona'? Oh so you can change the rules of the game? Who's really on trial here?

Judge: MR. INGRAM. You are to serve 7 years, and 8 months.

Mark: Oh I see. I see how it is.

Judge: Good.

Mark: Now you gonna add years to my sentence just because you got your numbers miscalculated? How you gonna keep increasin shit, Judge?

Judge Hurley bangs his gavel several times.

Judge: Bailiff, get him out of my sight! Take Mr. Ingram to prison!

Mark: Wait, wait, ya'hona' please! I just have one more question.

Judge Hurley sighs.

Judge: Go ahead.

Mark: Thank you.

The bailiff unhands Mark as he straightens his suit and tie.

Mark: Ahem. So ya'hona.' Exactly when does my trial start?

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

And They Road Off Into The Sunset Together...

Carson Palmer and Carl Pavano talk on the phone while they watch Monday Night Football.

Carl: See, Carson? We could have hurt ourselves if we attempted that high five. A handshake is always your best bet.

Carson: You're right, Carl. You're always right. You're the best...

via Deadspin:

video link

Sunday, September 14, 2008

Self-Delusional Sports Rehab

Self-Delusional Sports Rehab: Where Athletes Go to Pretend They Can Become the Athletes They Once Were

Carl Pavano: Hey, Carson! How you been, man? Great to see you.

Carson Palmer enters carrying a large gym bag.

Carson Palmer: Not so good, Carl. What are you doin here?

Carl: Oh, I'm always here, man.

Carson: But didn't the Yankees call you up?

Carl: Ehh. Yes. But I prefer it here. But what's up with you, man. Why so glum?

Carson: Have you seen us this year? Week one we got our asses kicked, and I SUCKED. Week two we got our asses kicked, and I SUCKED. Someone recommended I come here for some rehab assignments. (looks around) What is this place anyway?

Carl: It's just a gym for elite athletes like us, but without the pressures of a normal gym. No crowds. No coaches looking over your shoulder. No teammates calling your desire into question.

Carson: Well, I guess that's good. This place could be just what I need. Man, I'll do anything to get back to the playoffs. I guess it's going to take a lot of hard work. (exhales) Alright, let's get started.

Carl: Whoa, whoa. What's your rush, buddy? You just got here.

Carson: But coach said-

Carl walks behind Carson and sits him on a workout bench.

Carl: Shh, shh.

Carl rubs Carson's shoulders.

Carl: Now, who knows your body better: you or your coach?

Carson: Well, me, but-

Carl: And how does your knee feel?

Carson: My knee? Why does everyone keep asking me that? It feels fine. That was like 3 years ago.

Carl: See? You're fine, pal. Let's just relax a bit so you're nice and fresh for next season.

Carson: Next season?

Carl: Or the year after. Whatever you're comfortable with. But the important thing is not to rush it. Look at me. I could have rushed it to get back to the team, but what if I got hurt again? Who's going to pay my bills then?

Carson: Don't you have 40 million dollars from your contract?

Carl: Exactly! How am I going to live off of 40 million dollars? Thankfully, I'm only 32 years old, and because I didn't rush back and hurt myself, some other team will pay me another 40 million this off-season.

Carson: I never thought of it like that.

Carl: Well you better start. Don't push that knee, Carson. I know it's been 3 years, but better safe than sorry.

Carson: Maybe you're right, Carl.

Carl leans in close to Carson's ear.

Carl: (whispers) And you know what? When you come back? You're going to have the best season EVER.

Carson leans his cheek on Carl's hand.

Carson: Thanks, Carl.

Allan Houston jogs into the room.

Allan Houston: Hey, guys!

Allan jogs in place.

Allan: Who's ready to have their best season ever?!

Carson: Me!

Carl: You guys!

Allan: I'm so pumped!

Allan shadowboxes in the mirror.

Allan: I'm trying out for the Knicks!

Carson: But, Allan, didn't you like,, three years ago?

Allan continues shadowboxing.

Allan: Yes but now I'm back, and I'm in the best shape of my life!

Carl: That's great, Al.

Allan: Take that, Barkley! In your face, Jordan! What do you think of THIS, Mourning?!

Allan sits down clutching his chest.

Carson: But, Allan, all those guys are retired now.

Carl: Not Alonzo.

Carson: Seriously? How come I don't see him in here?

Carl: He comes on weekends.

Carson: Ah.

Carl: Allan, you okay? Need a drink?

Allan: (gasps) Ohgodyesplease. Toss it.

Carl throws a gatorade; it lands five feet short of Allan.

Allan: Don't worry I got it.

Allan bends over to pick it up.

Carson: BE CAREFUL!!! MY KNEE!!!!!

Allan: Carson. I'm across the room from you.

Carson: But still...

Allan: That's okay. Keep the drink. I think I'm just gonna lay down.

Carson: You really think you can make an NBA roster, Allan?

Allan: It's just the Knicks.

Carl: Listen, we all need to take it easy so we can all make our successful comebacks. And when you're back out there in two or three years, having a huge season and signing a mega contract, you'll look back and see that all the long hours we spent resting were worth it!

They all stand up for a group high-five, but instead just shake hands.

Tom Brady walks in with his head down, reading his blackberry.

Tom Brady: Uhh, coach said I was supposed to report here to work out. (looks up) What the-

Tom looks at Carl, then Carson, then Allan.

Tom: Awwwww, FUCK.