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.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Adam Jones' Innard Monologue

Adam Pacman Jones' organs have a conversation.

Adam Jones' Brain: That was amazing. What a game! I can't believe we went a year without playing football!

Adam Jones' Legs: Hell yeah, man. I'm tired as shit but it was worth it. So much fun gettin back out there.

Adam Jones' Hands: Word, son. I'm gonna have a hun'id innaceptions.

Brain: Okay, okay I'm excited too. But we still have work to do, boys. Their only touchdown was a result of your pass interference penalty, Hands.

Hands: Say what?! Yo that was Legs' fault. All Legs, boy.

Legs: Fuck that, I was in position. You got lazy, Hands.

Brain: No matter, no matter. The most important thing is that the team won. But we still have a lot of work to do. Let's get back in the gym and prepare for the Philadelphia Eagles!

Legs: Nah, man. I'm too tired.

Brain: But what about next week?

Legs: I got nothin in the tank. I need a break. I can barely move.

Hands: Cmon, Brain. We got til Monday. Free day, yo!

Brain: I suppose you're right about that.

Legs: Let's just cool out.

Brain: Okay then. So what do you want to do tonight?

Legs: I dunno dude.

Hands: Whatever's clever.

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

Brain: I'm sorry? Did you say something, Dick?

Dick: I said.....wanna go to the strip club.

Brain: What the fuck?! Are you kidding me, Dick? Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!

Hands: Whoa, whoa, easy playboy.

Dick: Why would you talk to me like that?

Brain: Wha...wha...what are you saying. I don't know what you're saying. I didn't hear that.

Dick: Listen-

Brain: No!

Dick: Just hear me out!

Legs: Brain, listen to him, man. We all in this together.

Brain: Ugh. You're right, Legs. Fine. Go ahead, Dick. I apologize for my language.

Dick: Look, all I'm sayin is. We back in the league, right? We 1-0, right? We been good, right? Why can't we just relax in the club?

Brain: I listened. The answer is no.

Dick: It won't be like the old days. I've changed. We've all changed. Have we even gotten in trouble in the past 12 months?

Brain: Yes! Hands punched a stripper in the eye in January!

Hands: ...Why you gotta bring up old shit...

Dick: But! We didn't get arrested.

Brain: Because I paid her off!

Dick: Look we can go back and forth all night. I think we all know that our rightful place is in that strip club. We need that strip club. We make the strip club. We are the strip club.

Brain: What the fuck does that mean?

Legs: I'm in.

Brain: WHAT?! You said you couldn't even move.

Legs: Fuck it.

Brain: Umm, "Fuck it?"

Hands: You heard him, you fuckin nerd. (sings) We goin striiiiip cluuuub. We goin striiiip cluuub.

Brain: Gentlemen, please. Let's just discuss this like civilized-

Dick: What's up, Balls. You in?

Adam Jones' Balls: Ehh, I don't know. I'm partial to Hooters, personally.

Hands: Shiiit we went to Hooters for your ass last time.

Dick: Why would you take Hooters over a strip club?

Balls: I like to have a bit of mystery.

Dick: That is retarded.

Balls: Ya know what? You're a DICK.

Dick: Wow, that's really fresh. Never heard that one. Original.

Legs: Fuck this noise. I'm walkin.

Brain: Legs, stop. Look we don't have to-

Hands: Can I slap a bitch?

Brain: No!

Dick: Yes.

Brain: NO! What the fuck, Dick?!

Dick: We're goin, Brain. You know it and I know it. You may as well come with.

Brain: I will NOT.

Dick: Suit yourself. But you know what happens when you don't come. Things get....unfortunate...

Brain: Fine. Look we'll just go for an hour. JUST AN HOUR. Then we come home.

Hands: (sings) I'ma grab some tittays in da strip cluuuub.

Brain: No, Hands. No grabbing. No drinking. No shooting. Everyone got that?

Dick: Of course, of course. There's just one problem. Jerry Jones ordered all the strip clubs in Dallas to bar Pacman Jones from entering.

Brain: That's why I changed it to Adam last month.

Legs: Wow.

Dick: I am impressed.

Hands: Yo Brain, you's a genius!

Brain: You know it. So should we call Tank?

Adam Jones' Stomach: Nah, fuck that. That fat bitch eat all my wings.

Brain: Good call. Alright let's go. Hands, get the weed.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Calling Out Names

After a three year hiatus, I am returning to blogspot. It seems that in my absence, there have been a lot of pretenders to the throne vying for my spot. I'm sorry that you all had to put up with such worthless posers in my wake, but no longer. I am the Marlo Stanfield of the internet, and I plan on doing some housekeeping around here. I will eliminate all my competition and reclaim my rightful position as the brownest and blackest blogger on the internet. In addition, I will also have a lot of other references to black culture.

Oh, like this one!

Let's get started and go through the perpetrators:

chez pim

I don't know who this Chez Pim is, but I don't like the look of her. Look at that face. You can just tell she's up to something. And when you click on her link, you find out what it is. She's selling shitballs under the title Brown is the New Black.


Speaking of shitballs, I have a special message for the baby-loving populace out there: small does not equal cute. Apparently, all of Flickr disagrees.


The reason women shouldn't be allowed to vote.

Ann, I know you read my blog and were inspired to do something edgy and provocative, but please, you're just embarrassing yourself. There's a difference between provocative and provocative for the sake of being provocative. Have I made myself clear while saying provocative enough times? Good. Provocative.


More like Brown is the New BORING. *flick-starts spinning bow tie*


You are the reason I hate Myspace. One of the many, many reasons I hate MySpace.


I get it. Attention everyone: IMMIGRANTS ARE BROWN.

Business Week



What. IN THE FUCK. Is this?

Perry Farrell is on board. Nothing weird about that.

What. IN THE FUCK. Is Twitter?

The Champagne Diamonds Blog

Wait, hold on. Go back. Did Bill Gates just copy me? God damnit. Why did I use my "NERD!" line already? That would have killed him!

Next time, Bill. I'll do you like you did Netscape. You're all on notice. This is my internet now.

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