Ridiculously, I was up at 1 AM this morning, refreshing MLSNet to hope, with all my heart, that the fucking Burn, of all teams, could manage a tie with the lime-green fucktards. It didn't happen, which was a shame, because my team choked on Fred's dick and couldn't get in on its own steam. That bit was mostly appropriate, because Ricardo Salazar choked on it when he awarded DCU a penalty kick after an egregious drive by the discommodated Brazilian, a PK that resulted in DCU appearing to have a chance. "Fred Dived For Your Sins," I texted this guy, a line I will modestly claim as my best of the season. The hilarity became more pointed in the last five minutes, after Julius James, hopping around the pitch one-legged, had managed to head a bounce into the KC net, and DCU were defending madly to hold on for a win that would have, as it happens, put them into the playoffs free and clear. An inswinging free kick bounced off Fred's elbow as he guarded the near post, and Salazar righteously awarded KC a free kick.
"From my opinion, it wasn't a PK," Fred said. "My arm was close at the shoulder, and I turned in a little bit with the right shoulder, and it got me. I think because I made a move, he gave me the penalty."
Bullshit, Fred. You fucking handled the ball, on the goal line. I didn't even know you were red-carded for it until I looked at the box score. You earned it, big-time. Now, go away (more on that later).
As to the entire season, this is a more comprehensive chronicle of the suck than I could possibly manage. Sadly, the author is afflicted with a pervasive and consistent melancholy, a twisted and stickling devotion to principle that direly warps his understanding of the geometry and physics of a game's plot, a tragically deficient grasp of tactics, a blatant, maddening, and likely deliberate disregard for the finer points of smack and Ba'al, and only a middling sense of man management. Of course, he's a bright boy, and he's improving dramatically, given the more consistent access to my tutelage that this season delivered.
My line's the same. Many of the club's personnel are adequate, but we lack creativity, we lack confidence, we lack flair, we lack speed, and most importantly, we lack a coach who knows his ass from his elbow (which is the proximate cause of three of the four lacks I cite). The following players can disperse, and I will not shed a tear:
Josh Wicks, Milos Kocic, Avery John, David Habarugira, Greg Janicki, Julius James, John DiRaimondo, Danny Szetela, Ely Allen, Fred, Tiyi Shipalane, Christian Gomez, Emiliano Heskey (my second-best line of the year), and Ange "Mr." N'Silu. I'm giving Lawson Vaughn, Andrew Jacobsen, Boyzzz Khumalo, Clyde Simms, Brandon Barklage, Benny Olsen, and Jaime Moreno mercy fucks, for various reasons (some because I like them, some because I'd like to see how they fare under competent coaching, and Benny and Jaime because they're Benny and Jaime). But I am summarily dismissing half of a 28-man roster. Wow. I'm brutal.
Note my grudging acceptance of another year of Santino Quaranta. He remains unforgiven, though I have lifted his discommodation and nodded in admiration for his determination.
Beyond all those above, one man must go, and that is of course Tom Soehn. He is utterly fucking inept. There is nothing nice to say about the man. He ran the team into the ground. He can't coach a game, he can't manage a roster. He can't comprehend what's happening in front of him. There is a valid argument that the front office procured some miserable personnel to fill out the roster (and bDr makes a fine argument about the impact of the former ownership), but Mittens the Chimp could manage a game, and a season, better than this jackass. In fact, the previously (and lovingly) maligned bDr has a better understanding of tactics and man management than Soehn does, and that's just plain fucking sad. Soehn lost the team sometime between Memorial Day and Independence Day, and we've been whimpering about the fallout ever since. The man has to go bye-byes, and it's not sad; he'll have a job baglapping Saint Piotr Polski (newly of Philadelphia) moments after he is fired (I'm hoping for Monday morning). Fuck off, good riddance, live in nightmarish memory, you stubborn fuckwit.
The seasonsuck was not limited to the team itself. The guy who used to be the primary voice of this place disappeared. The place will remain on the blogroll, but it's pretty much deceased. The new authorship is no more dedicated to its craft than, say, I am, and that site doesn't work without that sort of dedication. It's a shame. We like the other guy, and he's fun to be around, but he appears to have been overcome by life. It happens. Happy trails, D.
Thanks to bDr for making our first season of season tix available. Couldn't have a better companion for standing up for United. And only one person can ask me to post without getting a completely useless and smartass post in response.
UPDATE:
His Caninitude, dogma-N, the one and only bDr, states thusly:
And, might I point out the inconsistency of saying the players are good enough to win with a decent coach while simultaneously dispatching the majority of them to the USL2 gulag?
Oh boy.
You might. But you'd be wrong. There's a way to manage suckitude so that it's less sucky (even 0.06% less sucky). Soehn hasn't got a clue what that is. The players on this team, competently managed, could have made the playoffs pretty easily, given the dismal, bleak mediocrity that was this year's MLS regular season, and given a coach not predisposed to backpassing with a team gruesomely unable to hold onto the ball even when unchallenged.
I tell you with love that you seem to be forgetting stuff, which I will delicately and graciously attribute to your advanced age and preoccupation with having to think about George Will's petite chubby (neither of which you can help, and Hi! Sasha):
First, we're DC Fucking United, and just making the playoffs ain't fucking good enough.
Second, you've been saying the same fucking thing since fucking July (it is possible that I unfairly do not credit you with being on board with Mort d'Soehn earlier, but that's about the earliest I recall you piling on--please forgive if I'm cheating you out of a month or two), and the onliest difference between our positions is that there are at least two players (likely four) I weakly defend above who you would gleefully consign to the Greater Wyoming Wednesday Night Pub League, and two players I do not mention above (precisely because I didn't want to get into this one with you again) who you would douse in dinosaur pressings and set on fire before sending them to the fucking Railhawks (perhaps after attempting to douse the fire with your urine).
Since we're there, I guess don't need to be bashful; for the money, Marc Burch and Devon McTavish are perfectly serviceable backups to our backups, and for the money, you're not going to fucking do better. Furthermore, Burch is a Terp, and further furthermore, Burchie and Blanco at the Plex, which better be the fucking QED to end all QEDs, bitchez. Burchie could cost us four playoff seasons and I'd still be totally gay for him, and it's not like he cost us this one. For his part, McTavish has developed into a good guy in the community (despite having gone to a creme du tard university), and can be (relatively) safely stuffed into a number of spots around the field when the going gets tough.
Do I hate the noodle-like appendage attached to the end of Marc Burch's right leg, and the witless and graceless gyrations he goes through to avoid touching a ball with it? Yes, I do. Do I hate that two fifty-year-old bloogers are very nearly as fast as McTavish? Yes, I do. Neverthemore, for the itsy-bitsy money those two get, they can take up a pair of roster spots.
As to the unquoted portion of your comment: 40 years ago, I'm not really sure how this happened, but in (I think) two years at HippieCrunch Elementary, I had three teachers--I think I got moved from Mrs. Nieder's class to Miss Stratmeier's class in fifth grade (or vice-versa), but I don't remember why. You had been there a while, following your stint as a Wheatonian (oh yes, I just outed your vile secret, you Burchie-hatin' Wheatonian Refugee Wanker!). I'm not even sure we were together all the time in sixth grade--I think I had Mrs. Shaw, and you were in Mrs. G's class, though they started moving us around for math and English, I think, and we were both with the smartass kids. What I remember best about the sixth grade, though, is Bowman's sister cracking a 2-inch sheet of ice over my head one recess, by way of informing me that she had a crush on me. After that, it all just went to Hell.
Let's stop reminiscing now.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Yes. Germany Is A Strange Place.
I know. I don't write, I don't post, I don't rant on command, even when I should. I work 12 hours a day at three different jobs and I may or may not fob one of them off on some other schloob before I drop dead. Whatever. You think you revile me, just ask my family's opinion.
Maybe I'll come back. Hold your breath waiting. Machts nichts to me. In the meantime, drop some Purple Microdot and watch this:
Maybe I'll come back. Hold your breath waiting. Machts nichts to me. In the meantime, drop some Purple Microdot and watch this:
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Black Man Forsakes Penis, Throws Elder Statesman Under Bus
President Obama thinks Jimmy Carter is wrong.
President Obama isn't that fucking stupid.
He is, however, that big of a fucking milquetoast pussy, and it's really a shame that, in telling such a giant whopping lie, he's so blithely giving back the moral high ground to assholes like Joe Wilson and Mike "No One Threw Oreos At You, But I Will The Next Time I See You" Steele.
President Obama isn't that fucking stupid.
He is, however, that big of a fucking milquetoast pussy, and it's really a shame that, in telling such a giant whopping lie, he's so blithely giving back the moral high ground to assholes like Joe Wilson and Mike "No One Threw Oreos At You, But I Will The Next Time I See You" Steele.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Why I No Longer Aspire To Politeness At All
Certain long-time readers--to whom I will remain unfailingly polite, even when making suggestions for their fornicative activities--have occasionally lamented my penchant for assertive language. They base this lament on a sense that we should all be civil, whatever that means, and that if I were more civil, more people might visit my blog.
The fallacies are obvious, at least to me. I don't actually care whether anyone reads this blog. I'm just venting. That some of my friends choose to read is flattering and wunnerful. If they don't choose to read, they don't. If strangers visit, and once in a while they do, they're welcome. They're welcome to comment, too, no matter how fucktarded their POV (that doesn't happen often, and it hasn't happened in recent memory, just in case you might thing this comment is pointed at you). In fact, more fucktarded comments come from close friends than from strangers. But I digress. The point is that I don't care whether anyone's reading.
The other fallacy may be less obvious. Civility, like everything, is relative (yeah, I'm a relativistic nihilist, get over it). Incivility does not consist simply of using certain words deemed taboo. What's more uncivil, a random unknown mostly anonymous blogger screaming "Fuck," or a sitting United States Representative interrupting the President's speech to lie about the President lying? I submit that I'm not the uncivil one here.
I grow weary of right-wingers lying. I grow weary of their faux outrage. I will no longer suffer it kindly, not that I ever have. Roy Edroso's Village Voice summary of the absolutely batshit insane defenses of Joe Wilson's unconscionable behavior is as good a place as any to explore the issue.
On the other hand, discourse isn't civil. It's the price of America, which I still think is a pretty good thing. Of course it can be better, but frankly, Love It or Leave It has always been the most ridiculous and unAmerican of sentiments.
The thought that America is a pretty good thing probably makes me a bad lib. I know I'm a materialist. I think I'm an okay materialist; I like stuff, and I like other people to have stuff, too, especially food, shelter, clothing, equal treatment under the law, and preferential treatment under the law for those who have not enjoyed the same equal treatment under the law enjoyed by those of us who happen to be white, male, and not poor. I like sufficient asphalt to keep the rest of the assholes on the road out of my fucking way. I like trees, in their place. I like nature, in its place. I like clean water and safe food and the opportunity to obtain health care. I also happen to like stuff. Get over it.
We don't have to breathe fire over these people who stand in the way of so many of those very good things. We beat their asses in the last election. Of course we should leverage that, and of course our elected representatives should stand up to their terrorist liemongering. And they shouldn't bother with being civil about it, because the other side isn't. That's the real problem here; when they get to scream racist, hateful lies, then define the terms of the discussion in such a way that disagreement with racist, hateful lies is uncivil, we've fucked up pretty royally.
So, y'know, fuck you.
Update: Republicans claim efforts to punish Joe Wilson's deliberate and egregious violation of House rules are a partisan distraction from their patriotic bipartisan duty to make up new lies about health care reform proposals, Obama's legitimacy, and the nature of communism. They also whine about Pete Stark saying that some batshit Astroturfed town brawl protester wasn't worth the urine to piss on. Right-wingers are like that annoying kid standing an inch away from you, chanting, "I'm not touching you, I'm not touching you, I'm not touching you." Knee him in the balls, step on his nose while he's down, and move on, secure in the knowledge that you've dealt with him on the only level he understands, ignoring his outraged whinyass tittybaby cries that you wronged him.
Update II: This is one of the best days of my life, because this post made Swami say "Fuck." In public. Three times. It just doesn't get much better than that, unless you're talking about, say, an essentially nekkid Lucy Liu lashed to a Saint Andrews Cross with little bits of leather (and I can't wait to see what kind of perverse search hits I start getting from that text string right there).
The fallacies are obvious, at least to me. I don't actually care whether anyone reads this blog. I'm just venting. That some of my friends choose to read is flattering and wunnerful. If they don't choose to read, they don't. If strangers visit, and once in a while they do, they're welcome. They're welcome to comment, too, no matter how fucktarded their POV (that doesn't happen often, and it hasn't happened in recent memory, just in case you might thing this comment is pointed at you). In fact, more fucktarded comments come from close friends than from strangers. But I digress. The point is that I don't care whether anyone's reading.
The other fallacy may be less obvious. Civility, like everything, is relative (yeah, I'm a relativistic nihilist, get over it). Incivility does not consist simply of using certain words deemed taboo. What's more uncivil, a random unknown mostly anonymous blogger screaming "Fuck," or a sitting United States Representative interrupting the President's speech to lie about the President lying? I submit that I'm not the uncivil one here.
I grow weary of right-wingers lying. I grow weary of their faux outrage. I will no longer suffer it kindly, not that I ever have. Roy Edroso's Village Voice summary of the absolutely batshit insane defenses of Joe Wilson's unconscionable behavior is as good a place as any to explore the issue.
On the other hand, discourse isn't civil. It's the price of America, which I still think is a pretty good thing. Of course it can be better, but frankly, Love It or Leave It has always been the most ridiculous and unAmerican of sentiments.
The thought that America is a pretty good thing probably makes me a bad lib. I know I'm a materialist. I think I'm an okay materialist; I like stuff, and I like other people to have stuff, too, especially food, shelter, clothing, equal treatment under the law, and preferential treatment under the law for those who have not enjoyed the same equal treatment under the law enjoyed by those of us who happen to be white, male, and not poor. I like sufficient asphalt to keep the rest of the assholes on the road out of my fucking way. I like trees, in their place. I like nature, in its place. I like clean water and safe food and the opportunity to obtain health care. I also happen to like stuff. Get over it.
We don't have to breathe fire over these people who stand in the way of so many of those very good things. We beat their asses in the last election. Of course we should leverage that, and of course our elected representatives should stand up to their terrorist liemongering. And they shouldn't bother with being civil about it, because the other side isn't. That's the real problem here; when they get to scream racist, hateful lies, then define the terms of the discussion in such a way that disagreement with racist, hateful lies is uncivil, we've fucked up pretty royally.
So, y'know, fuck you.
Update: Republicans claim efforts to punish Joe Wilson's deliberate and egregious violation of House rules are a partisan distraction from their patriotic bipartisan duty to make up new lies about health care reform proposals, Obama's legitimacy, and the nature of communism. They also whine about Pete Stark saying that some batshit Astroturfed town brawl protester wasn't worth the urine to piss on. Right-wingers are like that annoying kid standing an inch away from you, chanting, "I'm not touching you, I'm not touching you, I'm not touching you." Knee him in the balls, step on his nose while he's down, and move on, secure in the knowledge that you've dealt with him on the only level he understands, ignoring his outraged whinyass tittybaby cries that you wronged him.
Update II: This is one of the best days of my life, because this post made Swami say "Fuck." In public. Three times. It just doesn't get much better than that, unless you're talking about, say, an essentially nekkid Lucy Liu lashed to a Saint Andrews Cross with little bits of leather (and I can't wait to see what kind of perverse search hits I start getting from that text string right there).
Friday, September 04, 2009
Clawing Out Mine Own Eyes With Feces-Smeared Punji Sticks Taken From The Bottom Of A Vintage 1969 Pitfall Trap In The An Hoa Valley
So there's this, wherein my futbol club was embarassed mightily, at home, by a pack of passive-aggressive punkass bitches from a passive-aggressive city represented by about a hundred wingnut-class deluded and sartorially retarded passive-aggressive baristas who think that selling half the seats in a grid football field and covering the rest with tarps is called a sellout.
The fun started when said fucktards got all torqued because their venue lost the bidding for who got to host the game. They lost because they proposed a 1 PM weekday time for the game in their retard fish-frog stadium. They claim they lost because of politics. They are stark raving bugfuck. Hilarity ensued.
The fun ended when, in the wake of the fucktards' first goal, my club's retard fish-frog goalkeeper deliberately stomped on or near the prone body of sartorially retarded punkass bitch number 17, whose development arrested at about the age of 8. I must assert that it doesn't matter that our goalkeeper missed, or that number 17 deserved far worse; it was a wrongass thing to do, period. I thought there might be some hope when, with about 5 minutes left in regulation, with a righteous 7 minutes or so of stoppage time, the idiot baristas started taunting by singing "Goodbye." Our intermittently badass ganja anchor mid immediately slammed home a goal off of a free kick, but time ran out before DCU (down 2-1) could equalize.
I want nothing to detract from the fundamental message that my club sucked. They danced on the ball, they turned over the ball, their tactics were shite in the face of speedy opposition, and they didn't show the heart that I expect and deserve from them. Contrary to what this guy would have you believe, they were actually the better team for more of the game, but they couldn't convert because they were unwilling to direct the pelota toward the gol. That's sorta fatal.
Despite all of that, the crunchy baristas deserved to win. They scored more fucking goals. End of story. Congrats to them. They won a trophy. In about 30 years, when they've won eleven more, they'll have some basis for the amount of aggrieved fucking noise they make. Except they won't. Seattle FC can shove itself up its own city's rainy, dank, suicidal ass.
That's not all that makes me want to smear my eye sockets with dysenteric feces. There's also this thing about the New York Times spreading a rumor about a splashy Chelsea Clinton wedding extravaganza, then blaming the Internets and the Clinton family because no one (read: the New York Times) wanted to believe the denials. Shakesville says it right.
Finally, there's teabagger outrage over the President's planned address to our nation's schoolchildren next week. Some of the more clever wingnuts are pretending that it's about a suggested lesson plan accompanying the planned speech (one of the study questions/assignments in the suggested lesson plan was, indeed, effing stupid, as would be any teacher who taught to a suggested lesson plan without reviewing it and making sure it was age/grade/region-appropriate, but of course the remarkably dumb No Child Left Behind law has gotten rid of all of the teachers who are that lazy and ignorant--oh, wait, no it hasn't.). Except when they're not. Reagan, Bush, and Hoover (!) all took opportunities to speak directly to schoolchildren, which doesn't seem to be a problem for wingnut astroturfers. SN! links to Politico's pretty transparent attempt to flame the fans of outrage, which quotes one of my local county's school board members' feeble attempts to defend herself and the school board against lies propagated by malicious racist fuckwits.
So yeah, the shit-smeared punji sticks are looking pretty good.
The fun started when said fucktards got all torqued because their venue lost the bidding for who got to host the game. They lost because they proposed a 1 PM weekday time for the game in their retard fish-frog stadium. They claim they lost because of politics. They are stark raving bugfuck. Hilarity ensued.
The fun ended when, in the wake of the fucktards' first goal, my club's retard fish-frog goalkeeper deliberately stomped on or near the prone body of sartorially retarded punkass bitch number 17, whose development arrested at about the age of 8. I must assert that it doesn't matter that our goalkeeper missed, or that number 17 deserved far worse; it was a wrongass thing to do, period. I thought there might be some hope when, with about 5 minutes left in regulation, with a righteous 7 minutes or so of stoppage time, the idiot baristas started taunting by singing "Goodbye." Our intermittently badass ganja anchor mid immediately slammed home a goal off of a free kick, but time ran out before DCU (down 2-1) could equalize.
I want nothing to detract from the fundamental message that my club sucked. They danced on the ball, they turned over the ball, their tactics were shite in the face of speedy opposition, and they didn't show the heart that I expect and deserve from them. Contrary to what this guy would have you believe, they were actually the better team for more of the game, but they couldn't convert because they were unwilling to direct the pelota toward the gol. That's sorta fatal.
Despite all of that, the crunchy baristas deserved to win. They scored more fucking goals. End of story. Congrats to them. They won a trophy. In about 30 years, when they've won eleven more, they'll have some basis for the amount of aggrieved fucking noise they make. Except they won't. Seattle FC can shove itself up its own city's rainy, dank, suicidal ass.
That's not all that makes me want to smear my eye sockets with dysenteric feces. There's also this thing about the New York Times spreading a rumor about a splashy Chelsea Clinton wedding extravaganza, then blaming the Internets and the Clinton family because no one (read: the New York Times) wanted to believe the denials. Shakesville says it right.
Finally, there's teabagger outrage over the President's planned address to our nation's schoolchildren next week. Some of the more clever wingnuts are pretending that it's about a suggested lesson plan accompanying the planned speech (one of the study questions/assignments in the suggested lesson plan was, indeed, effing stupid, as would be any teacher who taught to a suggested lesson plan without reviewing it and making sure it was age/grade/region-appropriate, but of course the remarkably dumb No Child Left Behind law has gotten rid of all of the teachers who are that lazy and ignorant--oh, wait, no it hasn't.). Except when they're not. Reagan, Bush, and Hoover (!) all took opportunities to speak directly to schoolchildren, which doesn't seem to be a problem for wingnut astroturfers. SN! links to Politico's pretty transparent attempt to flame the fans of outrage, which quotes one of my local county's school board members' feeble attempts to defend herself and the school board against lies propagated by malicious racist fuckwits.
So yeah, the shit-smeared punji sticks are looking pretty good.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Why My Futbol Team Eats A Bag of Cocks
From Goff:
Wicks; Habarugira, James, John; Allen, McTavish, Simms, Jacobson, Burch;
Pontius, Moreno. Subs: Kocic, Namoff, Fred, Gomez, Shipalane, Quaranta, Emilio.
(Olsen, Wallace and Jakovic get the day off; no Szetela again.) UPDATE: It's
actually a 4-4-2 with Burch and James in the middle.
Fuck you, Tom Soehn. If you can't be bothered to give a fuck, why should I? This is a team you've "built for international play?" Then you're a fuckstick moron. These are fucking professional athletes. They can't play two games in a week? Even in a crowded fixtures schedule, you can't come up with a more competitive rotation than to play all the fucking scrubs for a competition you claim you believe is important? Danny Fucking Szetela pissed in your oatmeal so rudely that you'd rather play Ely Fucking Allen for the 32 minutes it takes even a dipshit like you to realize he's a fucking liability? What, Szetela can't decide to backpass ineptly instead of attack, just like you fucking coach everyone else on your team to do, you despicable fucking bunkered-up loser? You're coughing up three goals a game with awesome consistency, and that makes you afraid to fucking attack? And what the fuck do you do if they don't keep their fucking shape, whip them fucking raw? That's how they act like they're coached. And when a team thinks holding shape is more important than possessing the ball, than attacking, and bunkers the fuck up with an endless succession of poorly executed backpasses, it's going to get fucking embarrassed in its own fucking house and any house it visits. When a team can't be bothered to run to keep up with its own attack, they don't give a shit, and when it happens game after game after fucking game, embarrassing the greatest football team in all the land game after game after fucking game in front of its adoring fans, that's pretty clearly a coaching problem. And you, Tom Fucking Soehn, have the unmitigated balls to hang your fucking players out to dry when you're clearly and deliberately coaching them to play like pussies. Fuck you, Tom Soehn.
Fred? Run, you fucking cocksucker. Stop fucking dancing, pass the fucking ball, and run like my football club is paying you hundreds of thousands of dollars in green American fucking money to actually fucking run like you're a professional fucking athlete, you fucking assclown.
And fuck you, Payne and Kasper, for putting up with--nay, encouraging--this insulting bullshit.
But most of all, fuck you, Tom Soehn, you cowardly fucking loser.
Updated Additional Fuck You, Tom Soehn:
(Also from Goff):
Soehn: "I want to put something to bed. We keep talking about [all the] games. You know what? It's no different than we have had every year. It's the reality: We have games every three days. I don't want to hear it as an excuse. We won't use it as an excuse. It's reality. We're going to move forward and make sure that is not even an idea. It's a reality."
Then where was Jacovic, you gormless piece of shit? Where was Namoff before the last 30 minutes? Where the fucking fuck was Quaranta before halftime? Where was Emilio? Why are you throwing reserves and guys who just got here out on the field and expecting them to compete, and throwing them under the bus when they have problems gelling? Why are you complicit in taking up four roster spaces with fucking Medicare cases, much as we love them? If the problem with Szetela is really that he's out of shape, what the fuck do you expect from a guy who's played in Europe when you bring him in during the European offseason? If the problem is a face-saving cover for him bitchslapping you like you deserve, why are you so fucking rigid and clueless that you can't see that you're coaching this club to total fucking destruction?
Fuck you, Tom Soehn. Fuck you and your lying bullshit and your haplessness and your utter loss of control over this team and your fucking equivocating and your fucking blaming your players for your shitty decisions. Y'know, you're not fucking technically inept, or at least you shouldn't be. Why the fuck are you coaching like you are? Fuck you, Tom Soehn. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
Wicks; Habarugira, James, John; Allen, McTavish, Simms, Jacobson, Burch;
Pontius, Moreno. Subs: Kocic, Namoff, Fred, Gomez, Shipalane, Quaranta, Emilio.
(Olsen, Wallace and Jakovic get the day off; no Szetela again.) UPDATE: It's
actually a 4-4-2 with Burch and James in the middle.
Fuck you, Tom Soehn. If you can't be bothered to give a fuck, why should I? This is a team you've "built for international play?" Then you're a fuckstick moron. These are fucking professional athletes. They can't play two games in a week? Even in a crowded fixtures schedule, you can't come up with a more competitive rotation than to play all the fucking scrubs for a competition you claim you believe is important? Danny Fucking Szetela pissed in your oatmeal so rudely that you'd rather play Ely Fucking Allen for the 32 minutes it takes even a dipshit like you to realize he's a fucking liability? What, Szetela can't decide to backpass ineptly instead of attack, just like you fucking coach everyone else on your team to do, you despicable fucking bunkered-up loser? You're coughing up three goals a game with awesome consistency, and that makes you afraid to fucking attack? And what the fuck do you do if they don't keep their fucking shape, whip them fucking raw? That's how they act like they're coached. And when a team thinks holding shape is more important than possessing the ball, than attacking, and bunkers the fuck up with an endless succession of poorly executed backpasses, it's going to get fucking embarrassed in its own fucking house and any house it visits. When a team can't be bothered to run to keep up with its own attack, they don't give a shit, and when it happens game after game after fucking game, embarrassing the greatest football team in all the land game after game after fucking game in front of its adoring fans, that's pretty clearly a coaching problem. And you, Tom Fucking Soehn, have the unmitigated balls to hang your fucking players out to dry when you're clearly and deliberately coaching them to play like pussies. Fuck you, Tom Soehn.
Fred? Run, you fucking cocksucker. Stop fucking dancing, pass the fucking ball, and run like my football club is paying you hundreds of thousands of dollars in green American fucking money to actually fucking run like you're a professional fucking athlete, you fucking assclown.
And fuck you, Payne and Kasper, for putting up with--nay, encouraging--this insulting bullshit.
But most of all, fuck you, Tom Soehn, you cowardly fucking loser.
Updated Additional Fuck You, Tom Soehn:
(Also from Goff):
Soehn: "I want to put something to bed. We keep talking about [all the] games. You know what? It's no different than we have had every year. It's the reality: We have games every three days. I don't want to hear it as an excuse. We won't use it as an excuse. It's reality. We're going to move forward and make sure that is not even an idea. It's a reality."
Then where was Jacovic, you gormless piece of shit? Where was Namoff before the last 30 minutes? Where the fucking fuck was Quaranta before halftime? Where was Emilio? Why are you throwing reserves and guys who just got here out on the field and expecting them to compete, and throwing them under the bus when they have problems gelling? Why are you complicit in taking up four roster spaces with fucking Medicare cases, much as we love them? If the problem with Szetela is really that he's out of shape, what the fuck do you expect from a guy who's played in Europe when you bring him in during the European offseason? If the problem is a face-saving cover for him bitchslapping you like you deserve, why are you so fucking rigid and clueless that you can't see that you're coaching this club to total fucking destruction?
Fuck you, Tom Soehn. Fuck you and your lying bullshit and your haplessness and your utter loss of control over this team and your fucking equivocating and your fucking blaming your players for your shitty decisions. Y'know, you're not fucking technically inept, or at least you shouldn't be. Why the fuck are you coaching like you are? Fuck you, Tom Soehn. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
Friday, August 21, 2009
More Things You Need To Know, Part Infinity
Quentin Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds is quite possibly the most fucking awesome movie ever fucking made. If you've ever liked a Tarantino movie, you must see this one. If you hate Tarantino, you're a gormless douche, but I'm willing to concede that you probably shouldn't see the movie. I'm not going to say anything else; in a few weeks, after it's out of the theatres, we might further discuss in specific detail the magnificent awesomeness that is this movie.
Okay, I promised some San Francisco stuff. I still don't have the energy to go with the original story line I had planned, so we'll just do some quickie stuff with the major punch lines.
The short version is this: it's a very fine city populated by smug fuckwits. California: Fuck you. Now, I personally know people...okay, person...who have migrated to California, who are perfectly fine...well, person, and this is not directed at her. But there aren't a lot of exceptions to this.
My favorite San Francisco self-entitlement moment was when I was standing on a crowded street corner on Market Street, waiting for the light to change so I could cross whatever other street we had come to. I was elbowed and shoved from behind by someone who said, in the most aggrieved way possible, "Excuse me." I reacted like any normal person would: I whirled around to see what was going on, instinctively yelling, "What the fuck?" A 20ish Calichick with a little ratdog was upset that I wasn't pushing people out of my path so that she could get around the corner. "You're in my way," she whined. I was almost too flabbergasted to respond, but I did manage to loudly suggest that she eat a bag of cocks. The horrified looks from the locals were priceless. Yeah, the little bitch elbowed me and shoved me because she and her little fucking dog (the official emblem of doucherton Californians) failed sharing in kindergarten and couldn't wait on a crowded fucking street, but I'm the one who's not nice. Eat a bag of cocks, California.
Other than the populace, it's a really cool city, and an utterly fantastic food town. It was a nice trip, and I wish that it had been a real vacation, but work intruded far too much for me to actually relax. I got bothered by someone every single business day of my vacation, until yesterday (and I think that stopped only because, upon my return to DC, I actually had to go to the office for a few hours on Wednesday, in the middle of my fucking vacation, to take care of some exceptionally unpleasant business).
Some pictorial evidence:
Probably our best picture day was at the zoo. Here, a ring-tailed lemur proudly shows off his genitalia.
Meerkats do not trust me.
This picture is funny to me and exactly two other people, assuming that there's enough contrast for them to read the funny part.
Lazy, self-entitled San Franciscans sleep away their day in the sand pit.
For Sasha.
Obligatory. Yes, the fat tourist in the black jacket should look familiar.
Ilse simulates an earthquake on the Golden Gate Bridge.
Ginormous gulls oversee everything in San Francisco, including Alcatraz.
It is possible that the Grateful Dead lived here. It is also possible that we had the wrong house.
We are quite absolutely certain that the Jefferson Airplane lived here.
I'd like to tell you that this is in Italy, but it's actually on Coit Hill.
Okay, I promised some San Francisco stuff. I still don't have the energy to go with the original story line I had planned, so we'll just do some quickie stuff with the major punch lines.
The short version is this: it's a very fine city populated by smug fuckwits. California: Fuck you. Now, I personally know people...okay, person...who have migrated to California, who are perfectly fine...well, person, and this is not directed at her. But there aren't a lot of exceptions to this.
My favorite San Francisco self-entitlement moment was when I was standing on a crowded street corner on Market Street, waiting for the light to change so I could cross whatever other street we had come to. I was elbowed and shoved from behind by someone who said, in the most aggrieved way possible, "Excuse me." I reacted like any normal person would: I whirled around to see what was going on, instinctively yelling, "What the fuck?" A 20ish Calichick with a little ratdog was upset that I wasn't pushing people out of my path so that she could get around the corner. "You're in my way," she whined. I was almost too flabbergasted to respond, but I did manage to loudly suggest that she eat a bag of cocks. The horrified looks from the locals were priceless. Yeah, the little bitch elbowed me and shoved me because she and her little fucking dog (the official emblem of doucherton Californians) failed sharing in kindergarten and couldn't wait on a crowded fucking street, but I'm the one who's not nice. Eat a bag of cocks, California.
Other than the populace, it's a really cool city, and an utterly fantastic food town. It was a nice trip, and I wish that it had been a real vacation, but work intruded far too much for me to actually relax. I got bothered by someone every single business day of my vacation, until yesterday (and I think that stopped only because, upon my return to DC, I actually had to go to the office for a few hours on Wednesday, in the middle of my fucking vacation, to take care of some exceptionally unpleasant business).
Some pictorial evidence:
Probably our best picture day was at the zoo. Here, a ring-tailed lemur proudly shows off his genitalia.
Meerkats do not trust me.
This picture is funny to me and exactly two other people, assuming that there's enough contrast for them to read the funny part.
Lazy, self-entitled San Franciscans sleep away their day in the sand pit.
For Sasha.
Obligatory. Yes, the fat tourist in the black jacket should look familiar.
Ilse simulates an earthquake on the Golden Gate Bridge.
Ginormous gulls oversee everything in San Francisco, including Alcatraz.
It is possible that the Grateful Dead lived here. It is also possible that we had the wrong house.
We are quite absolutely certain that the Jefferson Airplane lived here.
I'd like to tell you that this is in Italy, but it's actually on Coit Hill.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Things That Annoy Me
Losing 0-5 to Mexico. Even if it was Team USA's B- team, and even though this edition of the Gold Cup doesn't count for much.
Drawing the second-worst team in MLS. Even in their stadium.
Movies that make swiss cheese out of well-constructed book plots, shredding them and raping them in the ass until it's obvious that any forthcoming movies in the franchise will be virtually unrecognizable. Not that I didn't like the movie, except for what they did to it in Peru.
The way these fucking movie things slowed down my blog's loading time to the approximate speed of tectonics. So I fixed it.
My family. Not those who live in this house, so much, though they have their moments. Parents, siblings, extensions thereof, cousins and suchlike? Oh yeah.
Seattle, both the city and its soccer team and that team's clueless douchenozzle fans, although not my good friends who live there, who are neither fans of that team nor douchenozzles. Mostly.
That thing I do, although I won't go into any detail because whatever I say, Choir Boy and his ursine pervert neighbor* will torment me with it. Not that the lack of detail will stop them. Oh, no. Not for a moment.
The fact that I have two more weeks of total scorching burnout scheduled before I get to take a freaking vacation, and those two weeks are already looking, schedule- and work-wise, freaking impossible. My social filters gave way weeks ago--as near as I can tell, in the middle of a week out of the office that was neither all play nor all work--resulting in some spectacular trainwrecks of decorum and good taste, and whatever controls keep me from doing things that result in prison are failing fast.
Anything else that annoys me that you'd like to share?
UPDATE: bDr's comment and my necessary rejoinder remind me that Max Bretos and Chris Sullivan annoy me. A lot. Also:
* I was content to leave that reference as ridiculously obscure inside baseball, but who I mean is this guy, who was, it seems, unaware that Sonia Bompastor is totally June 2009, and that my new WPS objects d'woof! are Allie Long (a Tar Heel) and Rebecca Moros (a Dookie). But that's okay, it's not like I stop by his office every day and tell him who's currently giving me a woody. It's not that I don't appreciate Ms. Bompastor. She's a tremendously nice person (seriously) and an awesome player. But I gotta be me, and sex will be where I find it. I mean, do you really think I'd turn down Ben Olsen?
Drawing the second-worst team in MLS. Even in their stadium.
Movies that make swiss cheese out of well-constructed book plots, shredding them and raping them in the ass until it's obvious that any forthcoming movies in the franchise will be virtually unrecognizable. Not that I didn't like the movie, except for what they did to it in Peru.
The way these fucking movie things slowed down my blog's loading time to the approximate speed of tectonics. So I fixed it.
My family. Not those who live in this house, so much, though they have their moments. Parents, siblings, extensions thereof, cousins and suchlike? Oh yeah.
Seattle, both the city and its soccer team and that team's clueless douchenozzle fans, although not my good friends who live there, who are neither fans of that team nor douchenozzles. Mostly.
That thing I do, although I won't go into any detail because whatever I say, Choir Boy and his ursine pervert neighbor* will torment me with it. Not that the lack of detail will stop them. Oh, no. Not for a moment.
The fact that I have two more weeks of total scorching burnout scheduled before I get to take a freaking vacation, and those two weeks are already looking, schedule- and work-wise, freaking impossible. My social filters gave way weeks ago--as near as I can tell, in the middle of a week out of the office that was neither all play nor all work--resulting in some spectacular trainwrecks of decorum and good taste, and whatever controls keep me from doing things that result in prison are failing fast.
Anything else that annoys me that you'd like to share?
UPDATE: bDr's comment and my necessary rejoinder remind me that Max Bretos and Chris Sullivan annoy me. A lot. Also:
* I was content to leave that reference as ridiculously obscure inside baseball, but who I mean is this guy, who was, it seems, unaware that Sonia Bompastor is totally June 2009, and that my new WPS objects d'woof! are Allie Long (a Tar Heel) and Rebecca Moros (a Dookie). But that's okay, it's not like I stop by his office every day and tell him who's currently giving me a woody. It's not that I don't appreciate Ms. Bompastor. She's a tremendously nice person (seriously) and an awesome player. But I gotta be me, and sex will be where I find it. I mean, do you really think I'd turn down Ben Olsen?
Monday, July 13, 2009
Friday, July 03, 2009
Sarah Palin Is Bugfuck Crazy
This is really weird. Palin's statement was virtually incomprehensible, riddled with self-contradiction. To stay in office would be the path of a quitter? Huh? A point guard dribbles through the press with her head up? Huh? Her presence in office wastes the taxpayers' money? Huh? "The world needs more children like Trig." WuzzafuckHUH?
I agree with Sasha who has not, as of this second, published this theory (and who, to my unbounded giggling delight, has finally renounced the savior I worked so hard to get her to reject, failing because, as best I could tell, Bill Clinton gave her herpes), but seems pretty convinced that Palin's getting indicted on Tuesday, or that the other shoe is otherwise going to drop hard, soon. The content of Palin's attempt at coherence certainly supports this notion; her tone was unbelievably paranoid and defensive, in addition to just plain weird. It sounded like the sort of thing that will click into place as a point-by-point defense in a few days. Sorta like Mrs. Cake forgetting to turn off her precognition. Except less charming. Okay, except not-at-all charming.
While I do favor major scandal as the most likely option I maintain that, given Palin's nearly complete disconnection from reality, it's possible that she actually thinks that this utterly bizarre behavior will help her preznitential bid. That's loonier than a barrel of Canadian dollars, but that's really never stopped her before.
It's also a little weird that someone so determined to pick fights was so clearly determined to back away from them. A subtext of her rambling statement was that she thinks that her continued ventures into public ridicule (every one of them self-triggered and self-exacerbated) are some sort of a distraction, that as the governor of one of our smallest states, she was drawing fire. Uhm...no. As a self-marketed national political spokesperson for an opposition party that just got its ass kicked and seems to be doing its best to self-destruct, Palin will remain a target for as long as she chooses to do anything public as a profession.
And she'll deserve it. Her behavior has been shameless, self-promoting, detrimental to her family, and a disservice to her state. She's an intellectual lightweight and a paranoid bully who has wasted unquantifiable energy taking revenge on real and perceived enemies, and on every perceived slight. Guess who was thinking about pedophilia in relation to a talk-show host's joke about one of her daughters getting knocked up in Yankee Stadium? It wasn't David Letterman. Palin chose to ignore the obvious about her daughter, the unwed teenage babymama, and hold up her younger daughter in connection with the concept. Any suggestion to the contrary is either idiotic or contrived.
Palin's every bit as unconcerned about the welfare of her state as she is about the welfare of her family. She fought a losing battle to reject federal stimulus money for her state (that alone should've gotten her impeached, or shot from a helicopter, or whatever it is they do to inept state officials in Alaska), did psychotic pinwheels in her positioning over former Senator Ted Stevens and his legal issues, and attempted to appoint a Republican to a seat that, under state law, had to go to a Democrat. LGM, with a Juneau-based contributor, has done a fabulous up-close job of covering Palin's ineptitude as governor.
Of course, it's all mightily entertaining. Watching Palin flail away in public appearances is like watching her struggle with a Chinese finger puzzle. The only way for her to beat the thing is to destroy it. The same applies to her political career. Had she simply stayed in place, shut the fuck up, done a little studying, and waited for every one of her potential rivals other than Pawlenty and Huckabee to ejaculate themselves out of contention, she'd have had a really good chance to beat Mitt Romney for the 2012 Republican nomination and lose in a 1972esque landslide to Barack Obama. It's actually a shame; the lunatic fringe of the right wing needs to be led by a crazy person (which Huckabee isn't--quite--and we'll have to hold out for the continuing emergence of Bobby Jindal). It's potentially bad for our side, since pushing the extreme right's head under water and holding it there for 4 years is the only chance the Republicans have of reclaiming the White House for a very long time. But all that needs to ripen.
Thanks, Sarah. And just like my wife's former colleagues at Yes, I'm Packing, So What? High School were grateful to the other county school that had a stabbing incident a week later, Mark "I Finally Bagged A Chick That Likes Sex" Sanford thanks you, too.
Update: It's possible that, in my fascination with the bizarre, I overlooked the simple. The Anchorage Daily News, which has long been one of the best news sources in the world for Palinalia, quoted Mike Hawker, a Republican state senator from Anchorage as stating that the resignation "gives her unfettered ability to pursue her economic interests, whether it be a book deal or speeches, that type of thing, without being cluttered by state ethics law."
If it's that simple--and I'd opine that it seems as likely as any of the other possibilities bandied about so far--it's less bugfuck crazy than I thought, which makes her statement's rambling incoherence all the more bizarre. But that may just be a reflection of her utter discomfort inside her own skin. The manic urgency of her narcissism has, since her rise to national attention, seemed to drive that sort of scary pseudopositive blather, that transparent and inept attempt to portray ignorance as wisdom, to portray deep, all-consuming paranoia and outright crazy behavior as serving the public interest.
It also doesn't do her political ambition (assuming she still has some--she's been acting pretty desperately defeated) any service. Y'know, I try not to revel in other peoples' mental illness, but this person really challenges my principles.
I agree with Sasha who has not, as of this second, published this theory (and who, to my unbounded giggling delight, has finally renounced the savior I worked so hard to get her to reject, failing because, as best I could tell, Bill Clinton gave her herpes), but seems pretty convinced that Palin's getting indicted on Tuesday, or that the other shoe is otherwise going to drop hard, soon. The content of Palin's attempt at coherence certainly supports this notion; her tone was unbelievably paranoid and defensive, in addition to just plain weird. It sounded like the sort of thing that will click into place as a point-by-point defense in a few days. Sorta like Mrs. Cake forgetting to turn off her precognition. Except less charming. Okay, except not-at-all charming.
While I do favor major scandal as the most likely option I maintain that, given Palin's nearly complete disconnection from reality, it's possible that she actually thinks that this utterly bizarre behavior will help her preznitential bid. That's loonier than a barrel of Canadian dollars, but that's really never stopped her before.
It's also a little weird that someone so determined to pick fights was so clearly determined to back away from them. A subtext of her rambling statement was that she thinks that her continued ventures into public ridicule (every one of them self-triggered and self-exacerbated) are some sort of a distraction, that as the governor of one of our smallest states, she was drawing fire. Uhm...no. As a self-marketed national political spokesperson for an opposition party that just got its ass kicked and seems to be doing its best to self-destruct, Palin will remain a target for as long as she chooses to do anything public as a profession.
And she'll deserve it. Her behavior has been shameless, self-promoting, detrimental to her family, and a disservice to her state. She's an intellectual lightweight and a paranoid bully who has wasted unquantifiable energy taking revenge on real and perceived enemies, and on every perceived slight. Guess who was thinking about pedophilia in relation to a talk-show host's joke about one of her daughters getting knocked up in Yankee Stadium? It wasn't David Letterman. Palin chose to ignore the obvious about her daughter, the unwed teenage babymama, and hold up her younger daughter in connection with the concept. Any suggestion to the contrary is either idiotic or contrived.
Palin's every bit as unconcerned about the welfare of her state as she is about the welfare of her family. She fought a losing battle to reject federal stimulus money for her state (that alone should've gotten her impeached, or shot from a helicopter, or whatever it is they do to inept state officials in Alaska), did psychotic pinwheels in her positioning over former Senator Ted Stevens and his legal issues, and attempted to appoint a Republican to a seat that, under state law, had to go to a Democrat. LGM, with a Juneau-based contributor, has done a fabulous up-close job of covering Palin's ineptitude as governor.
Of course, it's all mightily entertaining. Watching Palin flail away in public appearances is like watching her struggle with a Chinese finger puzzle. The only way for her to beat the thing is to destroy it. The same applies to her political career. Had she simply stayed in place, shut the fuck up, done a little studying, and waited for every one of her potential rivals other than Pawlenty and Huckabee to ejaculate themselves out of contention, she'd have had a really good chance to beat Mitt Romney for the 2012 Republican nomination and lose in a 1972esque landslide to Barack Obama. It's actually a shame; the lunatic fringe of the right wing needs to be led by a crazy person (which Huckabee isn't--quite--and we'll have to hold out for the continuing emergence of Bobby Jindal). It's potentially bad for our side, since pushing the extreme right's head under water and holding it there for 4 years is the only chance the Republicans have of reclaiming the White House for a very long time. But all that needs to ripen.
Thanks, Sarah. And just like my wife's former colleagues at Yes, I'm Packing, So What? High School were grateful to the other county school that had a stabbing incident a week later, Mark "I Finally Bagged A Chick That Likes Sex" Sanford thanks you, too.
Update: It's possible that, in my fascination with the bizarre, I overlooked the simple. The Anchorage Daily News, which has long been one of the best news sources in the world for Palinalia, quoted Mike Hawker, a Republican state senator from Anchorage as stating that the resignation "gives her unfettered ability to pursue her economic interests, whether it be a book deal or speeches, that type of thing, without being cluttered by state ethics law."
If it's that simple--and I'd opine that it seems as likely as any of the other possibilities bandied about so far--it's less bugfuck crazy than I thought, which makes her statement's rambling incoherence all the more bizarre. But that may just be a reflection of her utter discomfort inside her own skin. The manic urgency of her narcissism has, since her rise to national attention, seemed to drive that sort of scary pseudopositive blather, that transparent and inept attempt to portray ignorance as wisdom, to portray deep, all-consuming paranoia and outright crazy behavior as serving the public interest.
It also doesn't do her political ambition (assuming she still has some--she's been acting pretty desperately defeated) any service. Y'know, I try not to revel in other peoples' mental illness, but this person really challenges my principles.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
My Friend Beth
In the midst of busy lives, we must make room for joy and sadness, sometimes simultaneously. My friend Beth passed away a few days ago, after an illness of several months. Beth's brain cancer had been in remission for a number of years, but when it recurred, all courses of treatment were ineffective.
Beth was someone that very few of you knew; she was a colleague of mine in my immediately past life as a non-profit guy. She was a program officer at the foundation that funded our work, and for 5 years, I worked closely with her, travelled with her, and saw her only a few times a year, when the winds of work put us in the same city.
Beth was full of the joy of life, and I know that she wanted us all to revel in it, and to remember only good things now, to remember her as she lived. My favorite time with her was in Beijing 3 years ago; we shared a stunningly inexpensive meal at an out-of-the-way local restaurant. I had chicken so spicy that the hostess was dashing to wash off pieces of it in a finger bowl to spare my delicate American sensibilities. I blushingly declined. The next day, my last in Beijing (and the first day I had an opportunity for sightseeing), we went to Tiananmen Square and the Forbidden City in the rain, accompanied by another colleague. Twice, Beth yanked my braindead tourist ass out of the path of fast-moving police vehicles (sidewalks in Beijing are a dicey proposition sometimes, especially for those of us with heads tucked firmly in our hinders).
Beth and I were opposites; you know me as relatively dark and brooding and cynical, and she was far more positive, in a northwest rainforest crunchy sort of way. Despite that difference, our friendship thrived. She always chose to believe in the best in me, no matter what the surface evidence showed, and no matter what I thought of myself. That's a gift for which I will always be grateful.
I have to cry for Beth, long and hard, but I know I must let it pass. I owe her that.
Goodbye, my friend. All good things...
Beth was someone that very few of you knew; she was a colleague of mine in my immediately past life as a non-profit guy. She was a program officer at the foundation that funded our work, and for 5 years, I worked closely with her, travelled with her, and saw her only a few times a year, when the winds of work put us in the same city.
Beth was full of the joy of life, and I know that she wanted us all to revel in it, and to remember only good things now, to remember her as she lived. My favorite time with her was in Beijing 3 years ago; we shared a stunningly inexpensive meal at an out-of-the-way local restaurant. I had chicken so spicy that the hostess was dashing to wash off pieces of it in a finger bowl to spare my delicate American sensibilities. I blushingly declined. The next day, my last in Beijing (and the first day I had an opportunity for sightseeing), we went to Tiananmen Square and the Forbidden City in the rain, accompanied by another colleague. Twice, Beth yanked my braindead tourist ass out of the path of fast-moving police vehicles (sidewalks in Beijing are a dicey proposition sometimes, especially for those of us with heads tucked firmly in our hinders).
Beth and I were opposites; you know me as relatively dark and brooding and cynical, and she was far more positive, in a northwest rainforest crunchy sort of way. Despite that difference, our friendship thrived. She always chose to believe in the best in me, no matter what the surface evidence showed, and no matter what I thought of myself. That's a gift for which I will always be grateful.
I have to cry for Beth, long and hard, but I know I must let it pass. I owe her that.
Goodbye, my friend. All good things...
Saturday, June 06, 2009
June 6 Revisited
I blogged three years ago about this date, and that post remains relevant, because my prose is pretty timeless that way. Go read it.
It bears repeating that false equivalence remains a popular way to evidence one's argument, especially if the argument is too moronic to stand on its own (that doesn't render my side immune to the temptation). The false equivalence is likely to mount, what with that centrist fraud we elected President traipsing about Europe for the 65th anniversary of D-Day, reflecting (as he should) on the horror and the sacrifice and the necessity and that which followed.
Think today about the men and women who worked and fought and died and sacrificed 65 years ago for a less threatening world--by which I mean a world that was actually less threatening, in a very real way, to millions of people. Think about the advances in quality of life, for billions of people, that ensued. And think about what it will take to advance, even in a small way, the quality of life for the four fifths of the world's population that have yet to enjoy much of that prosperity, and hope or pray, as suits you, that humanity has what it takes to make even some fraction of that happen. There's not a damn thing about that equivalence that's false. At this point in my thinking, the certain fact that the President is a centrist fraud diminishes a little in importance, because fraud though he is and will remain, at least he's not a dick (in this regard), and I do believe that he has some glimmer of hope and concern for that four fifths of humanity.
And that's what D-Day means to me.
It bears repeating that false equivalence remains a popular way to evidence one's argument, especially if the argument is too moronic to stand on its own (that doesn't render my side immune to the temptation). The false equivalence is likely to mount, what with that centrist fraud we elected President traipsing about Europe for the 65th anniversary of D-Day, reflecting (as he should) on the horror and the sacrifice and the necessity and that which followed.
Think today about the men and women who worked and fought and died and sacrificed 65 years ago for a less threatening world--by which I mean a world that was actually less threatening, in a very real way, to millions of people. Think about the advances in quality of life, for billions of people, that ensued. And think about what it will take to advance, even in a small way, the quality of life for the four fifths of the world's population that have yet to enjoy much of that prosperity, and hope or pray, as suits you, that humanity has what it takes to make even some fraction of that happen. There's not a damn thing about that equivalence that's false. At this point in my thinking, the certain fact that the President is a centrist fraud diminishes a little in importance, because fraud though he is and will remain, at least he's not a dick (in this regard), and I do believe that he has some glimmer of hope and concern for that four fifths of humanity.
And that's what D-Day means to me.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
A Punch In The Balls
Housekeeping first; as the last Xtranormal movie warned, I'm not going to blog that way for some time. It limits my expression, it keeps this guy from being able to easily grab quotes1 from me so that I get published in a higher-traffic blog (which is, as we all know, my sole raisin), it's getting repetitive (although everyone loves the Ilse dance), and most importantly, the scripts that Xtranormal loads as a result of the embeds significantly slow down my site's load time (UPDATE: Gee, the site seems to load much faster this morning, just not having an embed as the top post.). For that reason, I'll leave the embeds as they are for a bit, then convert them to links in a week or two. Or less, if I have time and get really sick of the slow loads.
Let's move on to the topic of the night, which this guy correctly, understatedly, and uncharacteristically (for him--he's obsessed with keeping his blog clean, although I hope he never kisses me with that mouth, even though he's a total sex god) referred to as "a punch in the balls."
As you will find from other sources, DCU lost at New England tonight, only its second loss of the season, and only 2-1, after a more-or-less acceptable first half and a not very good second half. As D pointed out in his first impressions, they shouldn't have been in a position to lose.
That said, center official Hilario Grajeda called a travesty of a game. The centerpiece of it was a fuckawful penalty in the 89th minute against Brian Namoff. Grajeda blew the whistle a full six seconds after Taylor Diving Fucking Twellman flopped backwards and pretended Namoff had pulled him down.3 D offers that he'll forgive Grajeda if it develops that the assistant referee thought it was a penalty.
I won't. The assistant referee had a better angle (for once--offsides calls coming from that A.R. were consistently off, too, in both directions), but a more distant view. It should've been obvious to him that Namoff didn't pull the diving fucker down. I also won't forgive Grajeda because, in the last minute of stoppage, he didn't call a penalty when Rodney Wallace was blatantly and obviously pulled down, by the jersey, in the box, as he was trying to play a pretty well-placed cross. The foul committed against Wallace was far more egregious--and booking-worthy--than the foul Namoff was alleged to have committed.
That was the worst of it, but Grajeda lost control of the game early and kept paying for it. Sainey Nyassi should've been booked three or four times, by my count; the inept fucking moron actually booked Josh Wicks for making a fucking save--again, because Taylor Diving Fucking Twellman fell down and rubbed his pussy; and he consistently overlooked bumping and shirt-tugging. Some of it cut both ways, but when it counted, Grajeda very clearly and decisively favored the home team (or maybe he was getting Taylor Diving Fucking Twellman's jersey after the match).
This is getting old. Sometimes MLS officials' ineptitude is just plain distracting, as it was in the USOC game at RFK against the Red Scum. That was a dreadfully officiated game, and fortunately the game was so decisive that the referee couldn't fuck it up. Mostly. Other times, entire games revolve around asinine decisions by people who shouldn't be in the middle of a pitch.
It's also a credible view that the team shouldn't have been in a position to go down on a 90th-minute penalty. But that doesn't matter. If you live on the edge, that's where you live, and if you keep getting yourself out of the deep cacky, you have a right not to be put back in it by utter fucking incompetence.
I've been hard on Tom Soehn. I've softened that view the last couple or three games, although I still think that his mentality--and thus the team's--is entirely too defensive. I think Soehn has some heat to take for tonight's effort. The Rev have some speedy motherfuckers on the wing, and playing a slow 3-5-2 against that is just bone fucking dumb (I'm not the first person to say this: has Tom Soehn ever played Football Manager?). On the other hand, the lineup was well-chosen (the subs weren't--McTavish was a dumbass sub from a coach who swears he wants to bring Jacobson into the offense more, and I'd have brought in Moreno before Mister Sulu, although it was appropriate not to start Jaime), and the team's effort in the first half didn't seem to reflect a bunker mentality. Wicks shouldn't, in my view, have to take much of a rap; he made a great and appropriate effort on the Shalrie Joseph goal, and Joseph just plain beat him, though Jacovic (I think it was him--whoever was defending the cross on the right side just got stomped on that play5) probably should.
After all of my rant, D still said it better and best: what a fucking punch in the balls.
1 While I'm on the topic, I am putting a jihad on him for not doing a full debrief on the RSL game, thus leaving to the book of unwritten history this best six-word game summary evar: "They're the real hot item, Powdermilk."2
2 Yes. I'm done now.
3 Some are contending that Grajeda called a handball on Jacovic that was simultaneous with the Twellman dive. Twellman didn't think so. On the other hand, he tells us in the same interview that he also thinks he has a God-given right for the goalkeeper to get the fuck out of his way and let him score, and that failure to do so constitutes a penalty, so I'm not sure I want to bank anything on what Taylor Diving Fucking Twellman4 thinks.
4 Way more discommodated (as a Terp) than Tino Quaranta ever was or ever will be as a human.
5 UPDATE: I now think it was Pontius who got punked there, adding another slice of flat to what was really not a very good game for the lad. Who this guy doesn't like any more anyway.
Let's move on to the topic of the night, which this guy correctly, understatedly, and uncharacteristically (for him--he's obsessed with keeping his blog clean, although I hope he never kisses me with that mouth, even though he's a total sex god) referred to as "a punch in the balls."
As you will find from other sources, DCU lost at New England tonight, only its second loss of the season, and only 2-1, after a more-or-less acceptable first half and a not very good second half. As D pointed out in his first impressions, they shouldn't have been in a position to lose.
That said, center official Hilario Grajeda called a travesty of a game. The centerpiece of it was a fuckawful penalty in the 89th minute against Brian Namoff. Grajeda blew the whistle a full six seconds after Taylor Diving Fucking Twellman flopped backwards and pretended Namoff had pulled him down.3 D offers that he'll forgive Grajeda if it develops that the assistant referee thought it was a penalty.
I won't. The assistant referee had a better angle (for once--offsides calls coming from that A.R. were consistently off, too, in both directions), but a more distant view. It should've been obvious to him that Namoff didn't pull the diving fucker down. I also won't forgive Grajeda because, in the last minute of stoppage, he didn't call a penalty when Rodney Wallace was blatantly and obviously pulled down, by the jersey, in the box, as he was trying to play a pretty well-placed cross. The foul committed against Wallace was far more egregious--and booking-worthy--than the foul Namoff was alleged to have committed.
That was the worst of it, but Grajeda lost control of the game early and kept paying for it. Sainey Nyassi should've been booked three or four times, by my count; the inept fucking moron actually booked Josh Wicks for making a fucking save--again, because Taylor Diving Fucking Twellman fell down and rubbed his pussy; and he consistently overlooked bumping and shirt-tugging. Some of it cut both ways, but when it counted, Grajeda very clearly and decisively favored the home team (or maybe he was getting Taylor Diving Fucking Twellman's jersey after the match).
This is getting old. Sometimes MLS officials' ineptitude is just plain distracting, as it was in the USOC game at RFK against the Red Scum. That was a dreadfully officiated game, and fortunately the game was so decisive that the referee couldn't fuck it up. Mostly. Other times, entire games revolve around asinine decisions by people who shouldn't be in the middle of a pitch.
It's also a credible view that the team shouldn't have been in a position to go down on a 90th-minute penalty. But that doesn't matter. If you live on the edge, that's where you live, and if you keep getting yourself out of the deep cacky, you have a right not to be put back in it by utter fucking incompetence.
I've been hard on Tom Soehn. I've softened that view the last couple or three games, although I still think that his mentality--and thus the team's--is entirely too defensive. I think Soehn has some heat to take for tonight's effort. The Rev have some speedy motherfuckers on the wing, and playing a slow 3-5-2 against that is just bone fucking dumb (I'm not the first person to say this: has Tom Soehn ever played Football Manager?). On the other hand, the lineup was well-chosen (the subs weren't--McTavish was a dumbass sub from a coach who swears he wants to bring Jacobson into the offense more, and I'd have brought in Moreno before Mister Sulu, although it was appropriate not to start Jaime), and the team's effort in the first half didn't seem to reflect a bunker mentality. Wicks shouldn't, in my view, have to take much of a rap; he made a great and appropriate effort on the Shalrie Joseph goal, and Joseph just plain beat him, though Jacovic (I think it was him--whoever was defending the cross on the right side just got stomped on that play5) probably should.
After all of my rant, D still said it better and best: what a fucking punch in the balls.
1 While I'm on the topic, I am putting a jihad on him for not doing a full debrief on the RSL game, thus leaving to the book of unwritten history this best six-word game summary evar: "They're the real hot item, Powdermilk."2
2 Yes. I'm done now.
3 Some are contending that Grajeda called a handball on Jacovic that was simultaneous with the Twellman dive. Twellman didn't think so. On the other hand, he tells us in the same interview that he also thinks he has a God-given right for the goalkeeper to get the fuck out of his way and let him score, and that failure to do so constitutes a penalty, so I'm not sure I want to bank anything on what Taylor Diving Fucking Twellman4 thinks.
4 Way more discommodated (as a Terp) than Tino Quaranta ever was or ever will be as a human.
5 UPDATE: I now think it was Pontius who got punked there, adding another slice of flat to what was really not a very good game for the lad. Who this guy doesn't like any more anyway.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
What, You Thought I Forgot?
Friday, May 15, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
Dear Pittsburgh
Shut the fuck up a whole lot. Seriously, whatever happens tonight, or Wednesday night? Or doesn't? Just shut the fuck up. Your whole fucking Yinzer city, with your greasy soft coal, your shitty beer, your northern redneckitude, your bandwagoning and anti-bandwagoning and your whole western side of the state? Shut the fuck up. Seriously. A whole lot.
I mean, y'all have the most massive inferiority complex anyone in this universe has ever seen. And it's about Cleveland. That's just fucking sad.
Update: Assholes.
I mean, y'all have the most massive inferiority complex anyone in this universe has ever seen. And it's about Cleveland. That's just fucking sad.
Update: Assholes.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
In Which I Sound The Same Note
That note being that Tom Soehn cannot be gone from my futbol team's life soon enough for my taste. Did he give up two stupid goals? No. Did he actually put in an innovative lineup against Toronto tonight, one that generated some energy? Yes. Did he bunker, during the 5 minutes in which he could possibly have done so? No.
Then why, Landru, why? Why do you so hate this man? Why do you hold it against him, and not his predecessor, Saint Piotr of Polska, that he played for the fucking Fire? Why do you deride his coaching ability when his team, your team, isn't as bad as you feared, as bad as it probably should be, would be if not for the sucky rubitude of Rinky Dink League Soccer (h/t this guy, as ever)? Why do you bust out in uncontrollable laughter at the sight of his tough-guy picture during introductions? Why can you not restrain yourself from chanting "wanker" when his name is called?
Because he's the worst man manager ever, that's why. I'll give him credit for the starting lineup. I just did. See? It's right up there, top of the post. I wasn't even pissed off by the first sub, at least not too much--Fred needed to have a sit, and while Tino Quaranta will remain forever unforgiven, he's no longer discommodated and he doesn't quite suck. And his wife just had a baby, so he's all peppy and shit. Fine. I was apoplectic about his second sub. Lessee...restarting from a stunningly stupid goal that puts us down one, we remove the one guy who's been showing energy up front, the guy who's still running his ass off and showing some flair, and put in Jaime Moreno and his osteoporosis--who already went 70 minutes, about 30 over his weekly limit, on Wednesday night? And leave in Emilio, who's acquired this hobby of trying to dribble into three defenders on every touch? What the fucking fuck, dood? The only good thing I can say about it is that he didn't pull Rodney Wallace and put in Boy Z--my faith in Soehn is such that, while I'm pretty good at predicting his substitutions--even the braindead ones--I missed with that prediction around the 60th minute or so.
So, the Moreno thing actually turned out good--anyone else in the game in stoppage would've shanked the penalty that equalized--but not percentage baseball, not good situational management. And you will never in a million years convince me that Soehn was playing a hunch.
It was also dumb in light of the offense's particular affliction tonight, which was that it wanted to play with its food. Time and fucking time again, the attack put together beauty touches to get the ball in the 18, then kept trying to make more beauty touches rather than beautifully touching the ball in the direction of the fucking goal. Here's a clue, boys: the mouse is better in your tummy than it is scuttling off wounded into its hole in the wall. Cut it the fuck out and shoot.
What was I babbling about? Oh yeah, the one guy who wasn't playing with his food? Ange N'Silu, yanked by Tommy Soehn after Dejan Jacovic gave up The Dumbest Goal In History.
Look, there's nothing better than standing with this guy and this guy and this guy and watching United, except maybe substituting my wife for that last guy--she has considerably less back hair. But he's a perfectly palatable sub. No matter: I love my club. I love the game. I love many of the players. But Jesus H. Tittyfucking Christ on a Wobblyass Bamboo Crutch, I'm tired of the dumb.
Final weird and unrelated note: every time someone scored in this game, someone scored in the hockey game, which I was tracking on the Crackberry. Damnably odd. I'll forget about it by my end-season hockey rant, which by my calculations will be coming sometime very soon.
Then why, Landru, why? Why do you so hate this man? Why do you hold it against him, and not his predecessor, Saint Piotr of Polska, that he played for the fucking Fire? Why do you deride his coaching ability when his team, your team, isn't as bad as you feared, as bad as it probably should be, would be if not for the sucky rubitude of Rinky Dink League Soccer (h/t this guy, as ever)? Why do you bust out in uncontrollable laughter at the sight of his tough-guy picture during introductions? Why can you not restrain yourself from chanting "wanker" when his name is called?
Because he's the worst man manager ever, that's why. I'll give him credit for the starting lineup. I just did. See? It's right up there, top of the post. I wasn't even pissed off by the first sub, at least not too much--Fred needed to have a sit, and while Tino Quaranta will remain forever unforgiven, he's no longer discommodated and he doesn't quite suck. And his wife just had a baby, so he's all peppy and shit. Fine. I was apoplectic about his second sub. Lessee...restarting from a stunningly stupid goal that puts us down one, we remove the one guy who's been showing energy up front, the guy who's still running his ass off and showing some flair, and put in Jaime Moreno and his osteoporosis--who already went 70 minutes, about 30 over his weekly limit, on Wednesday night? And leave in Emilio, who's acquired this hobby of trying to dribble into three defenders on every touch? What the fucking fuck, dood? The only good thing I can say about it is that he didn't pull Rodney Wallace and put in Boy Z--my faith in Soehn is such that, while I'm pretty good at predicting his substitutions--even the braindead ones--I missed with that prediction around the 60th minute or so.
So, the Moreno thing actually turned out good--anyone else in the game in stoppage would've shanked the penalty that equalized--but not percentage baseball, not good situational management. And you will never in a million years convince me that Soehn was playing a hunch.
It was also dumb in light of the offense's particular affliction tonight, which was that it wanted to play with its food. Time and fucking time again, the attack put together beauty touches to get the ball in the 18, then kept trying to make more beauty touches rather than beautifully touching the ball in the direction of the fucking goal. Here's a clue, boys: the mouse is better in your tummy than it is scuttling off wounded into its hole in the wall. Cut it the fuck out and shoot.
What was I babbling about? Oh yeah, the one guy who wasn't playing with his food? Ange N'Silu, yanked by Tommy Soehn after Dejan Jacovic gave up The Dumbest Goal In History.
Look, there's nothing better than standing with this guy and this guy and this guy and watching United, except maybe substituting my wife for that last guy--she has considerably less back hair. But he's a perfectly palatable sub. No matter: I love my club. I love the game. I love many of the players. But Jesus H. Tittyfucking Christ on a Wobblyass Bamboo Crutch, I'm tired of the dumb.
Final weird and unrelated note: every time someone scored in this game, someone scored in the hockey game, which I was tracking on the Crackberry. Damnably odd. I'll forget about it by my end-season hockey rant, which by my calculations will be coming sometime very soon.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Perversity in Sports
Heh. You thought you were gonna get pictures of WAGs.
Last night I went to RFK to see United begin its defense of the US Open Cup. I didn't stay home and watch the Caps lose to the Rangers to go down 3-1 in their playoff series. Did I make the right choice? I can't decide.
I went in expecting the Cup defense to be about 92 minutes in length, and I was pleasantly surprised when a fundamentally reserve lineup beat Dallas' fundamentally reserve lineup. That said, Dallas really, really sucked. They brought in star dickweed Kenny Cooper late in the game, and he rewarded them by banging his penalty kick off the post (and then illegally putting the ball in the net before another player touched it--a subtlety which escaped a lot of people, including, it appears, DCU's goalkeeper). They were essentially hapless. That really limits the amount of good news I'm willing to take away from a game in which Fred walked the ball into the net (and nearly didn't), and this guy (intellectual property credit to this guy):
donkeyed it in from 22 yards off of a for-once-our-way bounce. The beautiful thing about the goal is that it came well after the 52-minute mark, which was about when Soehn started to thank the 2,000 of us who showed up (each of us counting for about 2.5 bodies in the announced count) by heading for the bunker. Take that, Soehn, you bitch. You better hope every team's as bad as the Burn.
Last night I went to RFK to see United begin its defense of the US Open Cup. I didn't stay home and watch the Caps lose to the Rangers to go down 3-1 in their playoff series. Did I make the right choice? I can't decide.
I went in expecting the Cup defense to be about 92 minutes in length, and I was pleasantly surprised when a fundamentally reserve lineup beat Dallas' fundamentally reserve lineup. That said, Dallas really, really sucked. They brought in star dickweed Kenny Cooper late in the game, and he rewarded them by banging his penalty kick off the post (and then illegally putting the ball in the net before another player touched it--a subtlety which escaped a lot of people, including, it appears, DCU's goalkeeper). They were essentially hapless. That really limits the amount of good news I'm willing to take away from a game in which Fred walked the ball into the net (and nearly didn't), and this guy (intellectual property credit to this guy):
donkeyed it in from 22 yards off of a for-once-our-way bounce. The beautiful thing about the goal is that it came well after the 52-minute mark, which was about when Soehn started to thank the 2,000 of us who showed up (each of us counting for about 2.5 bodies in the announced count) by heading for the bunker. Take that, Soehn, you bitch. You better hope every team's as bad as the Burn. Really, I can't complain about the game. I'm not sure I watched the same game WaPo guy Goff did; his ratings sort of suck. He was overimpressed by Barklage, and by Greg Janicki, whose handball let to the failed PK. I said the handball was incidental and the PK was a judgment call; the aforementioned bDr played the "what if it happened to us?" card, for which he can bite my shorts, although I admit that I don't know what a ref could do other than award a PK or wave the thing off, since they're not really supposed to find a way to even these things up. The wanktard Mr. Soehn seems to think I'm wrong, too (he blamed Janicki's inexperience, which suggests a perception of willfullness), so I'll have to go find footage and flagellate myself with it until I agree with the rest of the universe on this one.
Anyway, Goff was also overimpressed by Quaranta, who starts off any game with a minus three rating in my book, and way underimpressed by BoyZZZ (who ran his ass off but made two bad, but inconsequential, flow-of-play decisions) and Jacovic (who did a fine job of making it look like the team wasn't bunkering, by moving forward from his right-side slot).
Also in Goffinho's quotes: Soehn hedges his bets on Milos Kocic, dismisses Santino Quaranta's hamstrings (I think Tino is a lot of bad things, but I don't think he's shirking), shuns the novel notion that attacking is good ("For [Moreno], it's always good to bring him in, hold the ball and kill off a game."--I thank you for the readiness with which that phrase springs to your lips, Tom, and I'm sure your team's captain thanks you for going to him first when you need to do nothing productive in the course of a game), and backhands both Janicki (aforementioned) and Reg Barclay. Soehn also dissed Louis Crayton in his commentary on Kocic, praising Kocic for doing the same shit Crayton does, only dumber. I guess it all rests on how Tommy's feeling about his fiber intake from day to day. As bDr said a few weeks ago, I'd sure hate to play for this guy.
I can't articulate this very well right now, but I'm getting a little sick of Goff, too. I'll have to think on that one a bit before I take it on. He's a fine writer, but he's starting to radiate more of a smug quality that's putting me off. I'll be back to you on this. Just as soon as I figure out how to blame it on Soehn.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Tom Soehn, Ralph Friedgen, What's the Difference?
Heads. Stakes. Public places.
Say what you will about Jair Maruffo, reputedly one of the best officials in the league, hating DC United (he does), or being unable to tell time (he can't), or having some deep, abiding love of Shalrie Joseph's cock that prevents him from sending off Joseph for the most egregious of fouls (I'd submit that a Maruffo threesome with that fuckface Joseph and punkass bitchJohn Thorrington Wells Thompson is not out of the range of plausibility). That didn't cost United a chance at three points tonight. No sirree. Seriously for reals.
What more compelling evidence do we need that Tom Soehn needs to be run out of town on a rail? The fucker* started bunkering at halftime of a 0-0 draw, subbing out Clyde Simms (who was, it appears, hurt, so no foul--and in any event, replacement Andrew Jacobsen played pretty well) and the apparently uninjured Marc Burch at halftime of a game in which Christian Gomez, Jaime Moreno, and Ben Olsen (combined actual age: 99; combined Futbol age: approaching 600) were still playing.
Two defensive halftime subs, one unnecessary, in a 0-0 draw. Defensive subs. On a night when Chris Pontius, on the right, could do nothing but lay back and shoot at the sky (money quote from this guy: "I don't like Pontius anymore."), and when Emilio, up front, could do little but yell at teammates, and the entire motive power of the attack to that point was provided by a 600-year-old hydra.
Go on, poofy technicality person, argue with me that inserting Quaranta and dropping back Wallace is an attacking move. Bullshit. Dropping Rodney Wallace back to replace Burch--who sucked no worse than usual--is in no way anything but bunkering the fuck up.
Chickens started returning to roosts a little while in to the second, when Gomez, frustrated by two consecutive Pontius skyballs, suddenly turned up lame. Looked suspiciously like a high vagina sprain to me. Soehn inserted Fred, and moved the still unforgiven** Quaranta to the middle. Minutes later, Moreno turns up lame (he appeared to take a knock, unlike Gomez, who had most recently, before his exit, been seen screaming at Pontius). Gesticulating wildly at the sideline with the "sub me" motion, Moreno showed that he was so unaware of his surroundings that he didn't realize that he was on the field with three guys who weren't there when he started. Niiiice.
There's a talent shortfall on this team, and I'm beginning to doubt the heart of an awful lot of players not named Benny. And I'm damn sure doubting the testes of any coaches named Tom. Even if I'm not thrilled with the effort of...oh, crap--a whole lot of United players from South America--the heart that's there deserves better management than a guy who thinks bunkering is acceptable any time before the 75th minute. And really: how many different ways can Soehn find to retreat?***
I'm done. Head. Stake. West Front of the Capitol. Now.
*Substitute palliative phrasing in case this guy honors me with an attendance certificate for showing up here so soon after a game: "simpering sissy bitch."
**But no longer discommodated. This can, of course, turn on a dime.
***With apologies to, again, this guy, the word I'm looking for is "pussy."
Say what you will about Jair Maruffo, reputedly one of the best officials in the league, hating DC United (he does), or being unable to tell time (he can't), or having some deep, abiding love of Shalrie Joseph's cock that prevents him from sending off Joseph for the most egregious of fouls (I'd submit that a Maruffo threesome with that fuckface Joseph and punkass bitch
What more compelling evidence do we need that Tom Soehn needs to be run out of town on a rail? The fucker* started bunkering at halftime of a 0-0 draw, subbing out Clyde Simms (who was, it appears, hurt, so no foul--and in any event, replacement Andrew Jacobsen played pretty well) and the apparently uninjured Marc Burch at halftime of a game in which Christian Gomez, Jaime Moreno, and Ben Olsen (combined actual age: 99; combined Futbol age: approaching 600) were still playing.
Two defensive halftime subs, one unnecessary, in a 0-0 draw. Defensive subs. On a night when Chris Pontius, on the right, could do nothing but lay back and shoot at the sky (money quote from this guy: "I don't like Pontius anymore."), and when Emilio, up front, could do little but yell at teammates, and the entire motive power of the attack to that point was provided by a 600-year-old hydra.
Go on, poofy technicality person, argue with me that inserting Quaranta and dropping back Wallace is an attacking move. Bullshit. Dropping Rodney Wallace back to replace Burch--who sucked no worse than usual--is in no way anything but bunkering the fuck up.
Chickens started returning to roosts a little while in to the second, when Gomez, frustrated by two consecutive Pontius skyballs, suddenly turned up lame. Looked suspiciously like a high vagina sprain to me. Soehn inserted Fred, and moved the still unforgiven** Quaranta to the middle. Minutes later, Moreno turns up lame (he appeared to take a knock, unlike Gomez, who had most recently, before his exit, been seen screaming at Pontius). Gesticulating wildly at the sideline with the "sub me" motion, Moreno showed that he was so unaware of his surroundings that he didn't realize that he was on the field with three guys who weren't there when he started. Niiiice.
There's a talent shortfall on this team, and I'm beginning to doubt the heart of an awful lot of players not named Benny. And I'm damn sure doubting the testes of any coaches named Tom. Even if I'm not thrilled with the effort of...oh, crap--a whole lot of United players from South America--the heart that's there deserves better management than a guy who thinks bunkering is acceptable any time before the 75th minute. And really: how many different ways can Soehn find to retreat?***
I'm done. Head. Stake. West Front of the Capitol. Now.
*Substitute palliative phrasing in case this guy honors me with an attendance certificate for showing up here so soon after a game: "simpering sissy bitch."
**But no longer discommodated. This can, of course, turn on a dime.
***With apologies to, again, this guy, the word I'm looking for is "pussy."
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
World Autism Awareness Day 2009
Woot. It's time to celebrate, again. Oh, wait a minute...We first visited WAAD last year, and what a post that was. What's changed? Not a lot, except that Bam-Bam's food choices are a little narrower these days than they were a year ago.
Idiots still abound. The science blogs to your right have done their usual fine job of covering the idiocy. CNN continues to let Larry King invite Queen Idiot Jenny McCarthy onto his show to allow her to spread misinformation that furthers her goal of killing people. Minions commemorates Jenny's this with a new sidebar link to the Jenny McCarthy Body Count, which tracks the number of U.S. deaths from vaccine-preventable illnesses. Way to go, Jenny. Every single one of them is on your head. Time chose today to help CNN out with its Jennyrobics, in an appalling interview in which Jenny tells us that children with disabilities are called "shadows" and that she'd cheerfully sign her kid up for the measles, a potentially fatal disease. All of this is in aid of her latest premeditated and willful attempt to kill people with preventable diseases.
By the way, Jenny hates "toxins" in vaccines but is an avid supporter of Botox.
Meh. Enough of that. I'll look forward to CNN's and Time's coverage of holocaust denial, Flat Earthism, and the Easter Bunny (hippitus hoppitus!)
Bam-Bam remains who he is. There's been no breakthrough in his development since the last time we discussed this, and maybe there will be one someday, or maybe there won't. We do what we can. He does what he can, giggling most of the way. This morning, Bam-Bam and I will get up, and he'll snuggle into my lap for 5 minutes (possibly grabbing my hands and placing them on his butt, indicate that he wants me to drum lightly there for a few beats, or maybe we're past that now), and eat his Wild Berry Poptarts and his Krispix, and ask me for a video (it will be a Sesame Workshop production, his current video obsession) before he gets on the bus to go to school, and turn around and throw his head back so he can look at me upside down, and bounce on his trampoline after he throws me out of his playroom so that he can have some time to be Bam-Bam before the world starts making demands of him.
I'm okay with all of that, because there's no other rational choice.
Give a thought to Bam-Bam and the rest of the spectrum, and vaccinate your fucking kids. That is all.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Things to Blog About
There's definitely shit to blog about. It's soccer season, and we finally just went ahead and went in on season tickets with this guy, since he started making scary noises about dropping his two perpetually unused tickets that have allowed me to sit behind Barra for years, mostly for free. I'm still fascinated with hockey--more in a minute. The saddest thing ever happened last night, and thanks to Kristie Tolliver, Master Assassin, and her running buddy Marissa Coleman for a great four years--it's a dreadful shame for it to end on one off night against a red-hot, well-coached team with a good game plan, but it is what it is. I have a thought-wank percolating in me about culture, which isn't a post yet because it pretty much boils down to some stunning obviousness, even though I'm pretty sure there's something profound-sounding in it somewhere.
But I'm tired and busy and work bites a dick, so I'm keeping it to a quick hockey post. Steinbog tells us about some Pennsylbama metal band and its "Crosby Sucks" anthem, and interviews the band. That's all just mildly entertaining. They want Crosby to "fall in a volcano." So do I. Commonality of interest is great. They hit their interviewing stride, though, when Steinberg asks them about their next Caps song:
Stay tuned. The thought-wank on comparative culture is coming. And when it's done and the mess is cleaned up, I'll turn it into something postable.
But I'm tired and busy and work bites a dick, so I'm keeping it to a quick hockey post. Steinbog tells us about some Pennsylbama metal band and its "Crosby Sucks" anthem, and interviews the band. That's all just mildly entertaining. They want Crosby to "fall in a volcano." So do I. Commonality of interest is great. They hit their interviewing stride, though, when Steinberg asks them about their next Caps song:
Change "Schultz" to "Jurcina" (though I respect my fellow Caps fans who would just as soon keep as Schultz, or change it to Erskine), and that's a pretty good cover of the very few things about the Caps that make me insane.Sports Bog: So what's the next Caps-related anthem?
LJ: These things just happen. It could be a "how to" guide on playing defense, sung directly to Jeff Schultz. Or maybe a verbal roadmap on getting out of skating circles
for Michael Nylander. We'll have to see...
P-rap: Probably a song about Brooks Laich beating down Walker, President of Texas.
OBM: A cover of the National Anthem, except we'll be screaming OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!' after every line.
Stay tuned. The thought-wank on comparative culture is coming. And when it's done and the mess is cleaned up, I'll turn it into something postable.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Happy Birthday, Planet
Dear Planet,
Isn't it amazing how much an aging Fred Schneider looks like your Uncle Weird?
No, honey, I mean your other Uncle Weird.
Love,
Landru
Isn't it amazing how much an aging Fred Schneider looks like your Uncle Weird?
No, honey, I mean your other Uncle Weird.
Love,
Landru
This Year? I'm This Guy.
Secrets of March Madness revealed:
Although, as Mr. Johnson says, "NO ONE follows college basketball..."
Although, as Mr. Johnson says, "NO ONE follows college basketball..."
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Sidney Crosby Is A Pussy
It's a gorgeous weekend here in My Local Locality, and tonight will be our third consecutive evening of tossing some meat on the grill for dinner, and we're very happy about all that. But despite Whispers' barely veiled ode to spring homosex and the imminence of footy, there's winter business still, and the Caps play the Pens today at 3 PM Eastern, if you can figure out when that is, what with the vicissitudes of the clock this weekend.
Which should return to our minds the preeminent fact about hockey: that Sidney Crosby is a pussy. This is not a personal failing I'm all that harsh on, in real life.* A whole lot of people can go through life as pussies, and barely, if ever, draw my ire.** They are not hockey players. Sidney Crosby, Giant Public Pussy, is a hockey player, and hockey players aren't supposed to be pussies. I myself? Am capable of the occasional high vagina sprain. I myself? Do not get paid millions of dollars to chase other people around ice at high speed, with sticks.
Sidney wants your respect. I left a few ounces of respect for you in my turlet a few minutes ago, Sid. Pussy. Go Caps.
*Yes, I'm lying.
** This is very nearly true.
Which should return to our minds the preeminent fact about hockey: that Sidney Crosby is a pussy. This is not a personal failing I'm all that harsh on, in real life.* A whole lot of people can go through life as pussies, and barely, if ever, draw my ire.** They are not hockey players. Sidney Crosby, Giant Public Pussy, is a hockey player, and hockey players aren't supposed to be pussies. I myself? Am capable of the occasional high vagina sprain. I myself? Do not get paid millions of dollars to chase other people around ice at high speed, with sticks.
Sidney wants your respect. I left a few ounces of respect for you in my turlet a few minutes ago, Sid. Pussy. Go Caps.
*Yes, I'm lying.
** This is very nearly true.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Other Things
But first, some words on the previous post, which was as inside as baseball gets. Only two of you got it, and only two of you have a hope of getting it, and I didn't get it until I casually and without rancor waterboarded the post's focus. Tough.
Further, I must, in the interest of responsibility, update the previous post without destroying its tone and flow, which was in fact an homage (which more than two of you should have gotten, and which you should work on if you didn't). The update is this: the author in question isn't Japanese, he's thoroughgoingly English and has a Japanese name by virtue of having emigrated from Japan to England at a young age. All this lies squarely in the realm of fact, none of which should denigrate the beauty of my previous post. Disagree? Don't like? Don't care? Tough.
The Washington Capitals today traded....uhm...no one. Some fans are outraged, others not so much. I'm the latter. I understand that the Cup may not happen this year, and that I need to put myself in the position of begging, as I once did for a local basketball team, for an uberchampionship once in my life, and be done with my bad self, understanding that that once may not be this year (as it was not, when I did it for that gloriously, but now drunkenly and pedophiliacally coached, major college team). The Caps had nothing to give that wouldn't have kept them from an outside shot at a serious run this year AND a number of serious runs in the future.
More later--I'm interested in this thing our President did today, one that has the potential to directly affect my life.
Further, I must, in the interest of responsibility, update the previous post without destroying its tone and flow, which was in fact an homage (which more than two of you should have gotten, and which you should work on if you didn't). The update is this: the author in question isn't Japanese, he's thoroughgoingly English and has a Japanese name by virtue of having emigrated from Japan to England at a young age. All this lies squarely in the realm of fact, none of which should denigrate the beauty of my previous post. Disagree? Don't like? Don't care? Tough.
The Washington Capitals today traded....uhm...no one. Some fans are outraged, others not so much. I'm the latter. I understand that the Cup may not happen this year, and that I need to put myself in the position of begging, as I once did for a local basketball team, for an uberchampionship once in my life, and be done with my bad self, understanding that that once may not be this year (as it was not, when I did it for that gloriously, but now drunkenly and pedophiliacally coached, major college team). The Caps had nothing to give that wouldn't have kept them from an outside shot at a serious run this year AND a number of serious runs in the future.
More later--I'm interested in this thing our President did today, one that has the potential to directly affect my life.
My Friend
Winter makes many of us fat and sleepy. It's why Euros play futbol now, rather than in summer, when some of us get fat and sleepy and sweat more of it off than we do in winter, while others, like my friend, go traipsing. Winter is not for them like my friend, who tizzes when he can't traipse, bending his (perfectly pleasingly) lysergically cubisticized and educationally wallpapered head around the unbendable, chewing and effervescing and bloopblooping until the interior of his thought becomes Asimovian space where impenetrable Japanese English-language novels become comprehensible and terrifying. Or even, the process seen from a more droogy (and, plausibly, far more dissociated) perspective like mine, laughably meaningful. Breathe unconditionally, bitchez.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Briefly
WE got new underpants for Bam-Bam. The previous ones were too small. Ilse didn't understand that briefs could be too small. She thought we menfolk like our boys snug. While this probably explains a great many things about Ilse, I'm not sure exactly what they are.
IF you are sporting a bumper sticker advertising a political concept, philosophy, or sporting team with which I sympathize, please do not drive like a dick.
Say Hi to Sid
THE Washington Capitals fucking rock, and the word "douche" is too nice, and far too tasteful, for Sidney Crosby.Note the Sid-friendly spin on the title of the video. Lessee...play is stopped, and Sid hooks Ovie, shoves him over the boards, whining the whole time, and then has a high vagina sprain when Ovie pays him back. Niiiiiice. That's definitely Ovie roughing Sid up.
I've discoursed before on my abject, most unpretty hatred of every Eastern Conference NHL team that isn't the Caps, and on my grievous distaste for much of the Western Conference as well. When it comes to hockey, I am, in fact, a black hole of hatin'. I can hate other hockey teams with the best of them. I got the PhD in Hatin'. There is no hell fiery enough to punish me for the degree and volume of my hockey hate. This may sound a little Brer Rabbity to some of my closer friends, but really, I am a bad, bad person when it comes to hockey fandom/hatedom, and in an eternal, philosophical sense, I almost certainly deserve some form of retribution for this stain on my karma.
Even so, Sid Crosby is such a hateful, whinging, bleeding pussy that it detracts from my enjoyment of how much I hate the Rangers, Flyers, Devils, Bruins, Islanders, and Canadiens. I mean, seriously, the Pens are fucking-A despicable, and it's a long, hard hate, born of far more spite than is healthy to have experienced in one short lifetime, a hatin' awesome enough to match my 40-year hate on the fucking Habs, which dates back to Ken Motherfucking Dryden (yeah, yeah, you kids get off my lawn).
So fuck you, Sid Crosby, you fucking viral cockblight, for fucking up my joy in hatin', for monopolizing my black soul's dark places so thoroughly (at least until tomorrow night, when the Caps take on the Flyers) that I couldn't even properly hate on Sergei Gonchar and Brooks Orpik and NBC's coverage of yesterday's game total monster ass-whupping. While you, Sid Crosby, are in fact a douche, your douchedom is of a character far too grotesque, too pestilential, too infected, too seedy, too odiferous, to be articulated in this hallowed space. Just fuck you, Sid, and with the dick of someone I don't like.
All this is a little funny, because Thursday, I'm taking this guy and Planet, the Best Kid Ever, to a Caps game (her first, I believe; I'm not sure about him) against the Thrashers, who aren't really worth the energy to hate. I hope they're not disappointed.
Okay, that wasn't brief. I got rolling. Totally my bad.
FINALLY, I can't find an online cite to the story, but I heard on my local all-news, all Badenful all morning, all scary all panicky traffic guy all afternoon, radio station that the president of my local locality's county council is a douche. Now, this is a douchedom less spectacularly pustulent than the aforementioned pestilential douchedom of Cindy Crysby. But it's still pretty doucheriffic, because this guy loves trees almost as much as he hates teachers. The man belongs on the Left Coast, which hasn't stopped him from getting elected and hanging in long enough to take his turn as head of the council (it rotates, I think annually). But now, the aforementioned radio station tells me (without backing it up on the station's Web site) that Council President Duckfucker is tearing into the county Board of Education for its $13-million (chump change) contract to buy Promethean Boards, claiming it violated state law for the Board to scatter a few pennies to install these things in every classroom in the county without first sucking Council President Duckfucker's tiny shrivelled classic liberal pussy dick.
Ilse, Goth (blog deceased), and this wise and wonderful uberwoman, will tell you that Promethean Boards are a life-altering event for teachers. I've seen them in action, and as a total layperson, I agree totally. That Council President Duckfucker wants to interpose his tree-loving self into the educational spending process in this, a top-ten U.S. school system, is just diamond shitting of the worst sort. That this jerk has actually caused me to abstain from voting in a council election makes it even worse. Suck it, Phil Andrews.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
