Crotchety old git.
It's also her birthday, of course:
Rock on.
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.
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