Comedy Are Funny

I've been accumulating, packratting items to throw in here when I had a moment. I haven't got a moment, but volume demands that I fart all of this out, lest I explode.

I Was Wrong

That's right, I was wrong in my fright post about the Terps at the beginning of the football season. The Terps did, in fact, beat State at Homecoming, to my delight and that of Ilse and our friends. Of course, this merely raises hopes about upcoming games against feverishly weak Felon State and the University of Overtown. I'll stick with my season-record prediction, and my plea for popular campus sites around College Park to be adorned with Ralph Friedgen's ridiculously huge cranium.

In other Terps news: Bite me, Doctor Death (rewarded at right for his return to occasional blogging with a linking we should've done long ago), for actually suggesting that we should acknowledge some other school's chick hoops. Christie Tolliver will eat your kidneys, poisoned as they are by kidney pie. For those of you unprivileged, Doctor Death is our man in London, there to scout tube stops with good call-girl ads in the phone booths. While Doctor Death is crippled by UConn, Sox, Patriots, and various other minor fandoms, and in the right light he's a dead ringer for Peyton Manning, we love his cute little expat ass to pieces anyway.

You Lie

I got push-polled by the Republican Senate campaign here in Maryland. I was slow on the uptake; after a number of more-or-less straight questions about how likely I was to vote and who I'd support, I got a slew of questions that essentially translated to this:

Ben Cardin fucks kittens in the ass before breaking their necks and sucking out the stem cells. Does that make you more or less likely to vote for him? Somewhat, or strongly?

It wasn't really any fun, though. The poller was some bimbo in California who did not understand the concepts of "push-polling" or "if Steele backer Mike Tyson raped you, would you want an abortion?"

Hush Up

Breaking news this morning: Washington Post endorses Ehrlich for re-election as Maryland governor. From the august pages of that staid, Communist, America-hating journal:

"More worrisome yet is the fact that an O'Malley victory would herald a return to the brand of one-party Democratic rule that has served the state poorly in the past."

Uhm...kinda like the one-party Republican rule at the national level, about which the Washington Post has not peeped? EVER?

I look forward to shoving this up the ass of the next fucktard who tells me that the Post is a liberal paper.

Why We Fight

Anyone who's seen any of the Michael J. Fox ads on stem cell research understands their power. This is a simple issue, one on which opponents of stem cell research are simply wrong and completely inarticulate. That they enlist drug addict pedophile and prostitution consumer Rush Limbaugh to carry an untruth-based case against the messenger is pretty much self-defeating. This one has legs. Scream it from the rooftops. I can't think of an issue that more starkly illustrates the other side's cruelty and disrespect for humans.

And Finally

Courtesy of everyone in the universe (and thus I link directly to YouTube), the first four minutes of Borat, which promises to make cruelty and disrespect for humans fun.

The Athleticism of the Turtle

I'd just like to point out that, from a results perspective, I have yet to be wrong about the Terrapins' football season. Being wrong last week would've been just orgasmic, but as we covered in the post just before this one, that was not to be. In other Terps' football news, Ralph Friedgen is still fat.

Midnight Madness was Friday night at Cole, err, Comcast. Or Maryland Madness, or whatever the hell they call it now. We invented it, you know. No, seriously. Leftuh was the first one to do it, and it just caught fahr all ovuh this gray-uht nation of our'n. Our reward for this? Leftuh's kid is a fucking assistant coach now. Can we give it back?

So the Madness was mildly entertaining, of a sort. The men's team returns a passel of self-centered a-holes and brings in some moderately interesting younguns, including an energetic and potentially dangerous shooting guard from Venezuela, a gigantic bruiser who's hurt, a lanky "slasher" (who hasn't, to my knowledge, been portrayed by Tony Perkins) who will turn out to be a great honking disappointment, and the latest Point Guard Messiah, who looks suspiciously like the last True Point Guard Messiah, known secularly as The Alien Steve Blake, except perhaps slightly less skinny. The haircut, the ears, and the hype are about the same.

This team will lose a shitload of basketball games, because they're still poisoned with negative energy left behind by that douchebag John Gilchrist, who will forever remain The Worst Recruit Evar. The point guard isn't a point guard, and blew out his ACL eating pancakes for breakfast at noon an hour ago anyway, the vaunted shooting guard is a doofus, although he has clearly taken steps to rectify his hair-centeredness, our big boy is all elbows, and our new bruiser is, seriously, named Bam-Bam Osby. But the unadulterated point is the very first bit in this paragraph:

This team will lose a shitload of basketball games.

Far more exciting is our women's team. By which I mean this:

The 2006 National Champion Maryland Terrapins

Yeah, that's right. The Defending National Champions have lost precisely nothing, and they've added a couple of transfers. Most of what they haven't lost is...uhm, okay, most of what they haven't lost, by weight, is Jade Perry. But most of what they haven't lost in playing terms is the most outstanding young person on this planet, Christie Tolliver, the point guard and Jedi Assassin. This girl is a fucking killer, a stone-cold murderer who don't take no shit off no punks from blue schools. If you are a representative of a blue school, Christie Tolliver will eat your fucking punkass kidneys while your heart's still beating and still have fresh breath and a lovely smile, without having to brush her teeth. Christie Tolliver will cut out your brain stem and still go to Heaven. Christie Tolliver's shit don't stink. I am not being the tiniest bit sarcastic, and if you think I am, Christie Tolliver will come kill you while you fucking sleep but wake you up just long enough so's you know you're daid, you Dookie bitch.

Yessir, we likes us some Christie Tolliver. In fact, we likes us the whole Maryland womens' team, way the fuck more than we likes our mens' team. Come to think of it, we don't like our mens' team very much at all, although that's a condition that can easily be cured with three or four well-placed victories over blue schools.

We have yet another team of Defending National Champions, that being our mens' soccer team. Sadly, they just got punked by Jesuits, at home. Stay tuned--the ACC tournament is yet to come--but I suggest that homies of a certain northeastern institution that doesn't belong in our athletic conference protect their kidneys real good for a while.

Why I Want Ralph Friedgen's Fat But Empty Fucking Head Impaled on a Stake in the Middle of the M Circle as a Warning to His Kind

So we, "we" being the Family of Terrapinality, have this beautiful hunk of running back named Lance Ball. Lance is a fucking monster, fast and huge and powerful, a classic quick back with tremendous leg power. Lance is The Man, and has emerged as the most used of the Terps' three perfectly fine running backs. Lance ran for 115 yards in the Terps' ridiculous 27-23 loss to those annoying little fucking bees from Atlanta on Saturday.

Here's when Lance didn't run: on fourth and two from the annoying little fucking bees' 41 yard line, with about 7 1/2 minutes left in the game. Lance had run for 20 yards already on that drive, but Ralph, he of the fat but empty fucking head that should be impaled on a stake in the middle of the M Circle as a warning to his kind, and who is generally billed as an old-school, smashmouth kinda guy, didn't seem to understand that the best way to get two fucking yards would be to squash you some fucking annoying little bees and gut Lance Ball's well-muscled studpuppy ass up the fucking middle. I mean, if you can't get two yards running when you desperately need it, you ain't shit.

Ralph ain't shit.

He had our boy Sam Hollenbach, who is a more-or-less competent quarterback, throw on fourth and fucking two. Interception.

Here's when Lance also didn't run: on third and fourth down after those fucking annoying little bees managed to miss a figgie on the ensuing drive, and Sam pitched the ball FIFTY-SIX FUCKING YARDS to freshman phenom Darius Heyward-Bey for a first down on the fucking annoying little bees' 8 yard line. On 3rd and goal from the 5, Ralph Friedgen's fat but empty fucking head that should be impaled on a stake in the middle of the M Circle as a warning to his kind, decided to throw the ball again, even though those fucking annoying little bees have themselves quite a pass rush, and at this point only have about 15 yards of field to defend, so we know what's coming, right?

Of course they're blitzing. I mean, duh. So let's get our quarterback chased until he grounds the ball and we lose a down and we're on the fucking 20 yard line, shall we? Sure, sounds like a plan.

I've had an interesting 36 hours or so since those moments (good times!) on Saturday. I have some weird pains in that whole upper body area that I worry about so much. As the whole thing was going down and I was screaming in a murderous rage at the top of my lungs and sputtering and turning various colors (good times!) and shrieking threats and vile imprecations and death at Ralph Friedgen's fat but empty fucking head that should be impaled on a stake in the middle of the M Circle as a warning to his kind, Ilse was quite concerned. Now, these pains have been accompanied by some other stuff (gas and shit, mostly, if you must know) that suggests a cause for these pains other than Ralph Friedgen's fat but empty fucking head that should be impaled on a stake in the middle of the M Circle as a warning to his kind. But there you have it.

In other news: Joe El Senor Jesucristo Super Mayamaya Jefe Gibbs is a pussy, but it didn't matter as much. Or maybe it did. Down 16-3 to the Unusually Large Blue Persons of Northern New Jersey, and facing a 3rd-and-1 on the Blue Persons' 24 yard line, of course El Senor runs uberstud Clinton Portis up the fucking middle to preserve the drive and maybe get a touchdown that keeps hope alive, right?

Nah. Of course he didn't. He threw the fucking ball over the middle incomplete. To try to get one fucking yard. PUSSY.

So now it's fourth and one, on the Blue Persons' 24. Of course, El Senor runs uberstud Clinton Portis up the fucking middle to preserve the drive and maybe get a touchdown that keeps hope alive, right?

Nah, of course he didn't. He sends out John Hall to try a field goal at the edge (yes, that's right, 42 yards is the fucking edge of our vaunted and expensive placekicker's range) of his range. Wide left. PUSSY.

I've wanted Joe El Senor Jesucristo Super Mayamaya Jefe Gibbs crucified since the day he got here. But wanting Ralph Friedgen's fat but empty fucking head impaled on a stake in the middle of the M Circle as a warning to his kind? Tipping point, baby. Thanks for the chest pains, you braindead chunk of testosterone-poisoned blubber. Now get the fuck out of town.

Nothing To See Here

Really. A combination of personal, family, and business issues are keeping me from having time to focus on posting. It was yesterday before I realized there was some reason people I encountered kept making pedophilia jokes about someone named Foley. I am totally fogged in, mostly by stuff relating to that sudden parenthood thing you've all heard too much about. Check back occasionally--I'll try to post something that isn't snivelling once every few weeks, and if there's an uptick in substance or the frequency thereof, you'll figure it out. I think that by now, you know well enough where I stand. In the meantime, read bDr, to whom you can link on the right, and all of those celebrities over there as well (especially TBogg and Rude, who will at least alert you if there is something about which you should be outraged), and especially the very fine sports blogs in the Sausage section, which tend to be a bit less maddening than anything involving Mark Foley's love of perfectly formed 16-year-old cocks.