Here are some things I've learned from reading blogs lately.
--Ann Althouse, who is widely known as a blithering idiot of the "9/11 changed my mind about Chappaquiddick"* variety, and as one of the finest legal minds this side of a pile of dog feces, thinks that education would be best served if we didn't make kids read fiction. While this is so blindingly ignorant that Althouse should be stoned to death before she opines again, Tristero demolishes her weak-assed opinion (it would be far to complimentary to call it an argument) masterfully at Hullabaloo. This woman is a menace to intelligent thought; intelligence runs away and hides when it sees that it's possible for a human to be so devoid of itself. She epitomizes why I'm a Hamiltonian Democrat.**
Interestingly enough, when one spellchecks "Althouse," the program suggests "outhouse." I wish she were bright enough for that joke to be beneath this discussion. It isn't.
--Various left-sphere bloggers are up in arms about musicians selling the use of their music for advertising purposes. Uhm, guys? Get lives. Seriously. You can't possibly be advocating that any sort of limits be placed on this, and you can't possibly be seriously prattling on about how people are somehow wrong to make a living from art. Just. Get. Lives. Kudos to others in the left-sphere who managed to recognize this argument for the hippie shite that it is. I've written before about my unbridled joy at seeing a cruise line use Iggy Pop's ode to his own heroin addiction as its catchy jingle. It continues to please me, even if Iggy's mainlining the proceeds. Tristero (it's lining up as a Hullabaloo sort of morning) differs. Just. Get. Lives.
--Rapist South Dakota legislators are serious fucktard conservatives. Uhm...duh?
--Tim Russert is still an assclown.
Apologies to Digby for making her blog my primary duncemine this morning (like she gives a fuck), but she's got it going on, it seems.
Here's the thing. Would I be better off reading this shit, or using my Internet connection more productively, like to stare at porn and wank off until my privates are red, swollen, and bleeding? Either way, the stupid hurts.
*I think this phrase may be trademarked by LGM.
** I believe in a republican government that isn't elected by people too fucking stupid to be entrusted with enfranchisement. Who decides what constitutes "too fucking stupid?" I do. Duh.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Other Dates of Note
Happy 42nd birthday to my little brother, 32-Ounce, who doesn't read this blog. He was done birthed in a small tarpaper shack in Kentucky. The question of which of us was delivered to our parents by gypsies is hotly disputed (each of us claims that honor). I don't remember a basket on the porch, so it must've been me.
32-Ounce earned his name on my 23rd birthday, when he puked 32 ounces of Nasty Bo back into the Keyhole (his other nickname) of a 16-ounce beer can as we rode a chartered bus back from an Orioles game. Until his wife, Sil, birthed the Crown Princes, it was his greatest accomplishment evahr. It remains the only one of his greatest hits that didn't involve boffing or fondling someone. Or something, but that little bit of obtuse involves secrets I won't tell outside of the fambly.
Salud, Baby Bro.
32-Ounce earned his name on my 23rd birthday, when he puked 32 ounces of Nasty Bo back into the Keyhole (his other nickname) of a 16-ounce beer can as we rode a chartered bus back from an Orioles game. Until his wife, Sil, birthed the Crown Princes, it was his greatest accomplishment evahr. It remains the only one of his greatest hits that didn't involve boffing or fondling someone. Or something, but that little bit of obtuse involves secrets I won't tell outside of the fambly.
Salud, Baby Bro.
Calling Megan Marshack
I gotta admit, I'm both distressed and pleased that raving lunatic Jerry Falwell's death yesterday did not overshadow that of my hero, Nelson Rockefeller. I had always figured that Falwell would breath his last in the arms of a non-Caucasian hooker. But that would've been, as others point out, way too kind for the lying hypocritical sack of piss and corruption. The old pusbucket will enjoy my eternal gratitude for leaving Nellie as the Greatest Dead Old White Guy of All Time, Bar None.
I don't wish anyone dead. But I'd be lying if I said his death brings a tear to my eye. Or any other form of sympathy or grief. Ta, Falwell, you mind-raping charlatan.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Special Guest
We have a special guest here on Minions today. Welcome, Landru.
Landru: Fuck you. This interview format is getting really tired.
YAMM: It never gets old for us.
Landru: Sigh. I've already done the meta joke. Just get on with it.
YAMM: Firedoglake wants to tell you how to become a rich famous super mayamayablogger.
Landru: Firedoglake wants to do some self-congratulatory wanking.
YAMM: No, no, they're trying to help build the online progressive movement.
Landru: Ki yi yi. The online progressive movement is a pack of crunchy fucknuts screaming at each other, when they're not busy screaming at the other side. And you yourself, YAMM, and me myself are but a tiny bit of willing windsmear on the underwear of that alleged phenomenon, I mean like molecules of it, not even enough to stink. And really? Super mayamayabloggers are just bigger, and in the case of everyone at FDL but TRex, stinkier stains. People who truly haven't made up their minds aren't reading this shit. And if they're reading it, they're just thinking whatever the last blogger told them, whether it's Gun Counter Gomer or a fucking hippie retard like the guy who runs MyDD.
YAMM: Harsh words for your fellow man, there, Landru.
Landru: Fuck 'em. People are people, WTF you gonna do? And new media are just media. They're slicing up the same pie as the old media, and while the selectivity offered by participatory media such as BlowTube is appealling to a lot of people, most of those are already Internet-savvy. The masses are still watching the television, despite the degree to which the Web has penetrated our culture.
YAMM: So what brought all this on? You're so angry when we talk to you this way.
Landru: In-laws on final approach. Wrong side of the bed. CPAP machine is probably good for me, and it certainly lets my beloved wife sleep better since I'm not gasping and snorting like a dying swine, but I hate the thing. No matter how determinedly we wank, they're still lying fascist crooks. Even those who are, in theory, supposed to be on our side. And as a side note, let me just express my feeling that, even though I am essentially an atheist, I sincerely hope that fascist-enabling cockwhore Lanny Davis has himself a nice long roast in Hell. I love my children, no, really, I love my children, dammit. And best of all, best friend has taken on a melancholy oddness, and I'd hate to leave that uncompeted with. Fucker.
YAMM: Okay, seriously, have you considered antidepressants?
Landru: They constipate me.
YAMM: It sounds like you're a mess.
Landru: I am nancy, hear me roar. Look, I'm fine, I made choices, choices have consequences, end of story.
YAMM: You're never going to do what Firedoglake wants if you keep up this self-indulgent whinging.
Landru: Fuck you. I don't want to do what Firedoglake wants. This is a vanity blog, pure and simple. It is a way of shouting to my friends that, even though I'm too fucking busy to be a human being any more, and part of that is self-imposed and part of it is because I'm dysfunctional and part of it is just fucking because, I'm still here and I still love them and I still sometimes have something to say that will make them snort coffee through their noses. Or not. So fuck off with the what other people want bullshit. This blog is a self-indulgence, and sometimes it's a reachout, and sometimes it's a reacharound, and other times it's just a granfalloon. Okay?
YAMM: Always a pleasure, Landru.
Landru: Oh, for fuck's sake, go do something useful, would you?
Landru: Fuck you. This interview format is getting really tired.
YAMM: It never gets old for us.
Landru: Sigh. I've already done the meta joke. Just get on with it.
YAMM: Firedoglake wants to tell you how to become a rich famous super mayamayablogger.
Landru: Firedoglake wants to do some self-congratulatory wanking.
YAMM: No, no, they're trying to help build the online progressive movement.
Landru: Ki yi yi. The online progressive movement is a pack of crunchy fucknuts screaming at each other, when they're not busy screaming at the other side. And you yourself, YAMM, and me myself are but a tiny bit of willing windsmear on the underwear of that alleged phenomenon, I mean like molecules of it, not even enough to stink. And really? Super mayamayabloggers are just bigger, and in the case of everyone at FDL but TRex, stinkier stains. People who truly haven't made up their minds aren't reading this shit. And if they're reading it, they're just thinking whatever the last blogger told them, whether it's Gun Counter Gomer or a fucking hippie retard like the guy who runs MyDD.
YAMM: Harsh words for your fellow man, there, Landru.
Landru: Fuck 'em. People are people, WTF you gonna do? And new media are just media. They're slicing up the same pie as the old media, and while the selectivity offered by participatory media such as BlowTube is appealling to a lot of people, most of those are already Internet-savvy. The masses are still watching the television, despite the degree to which the Web has penetrated our culture.
YAMM: So what brought all this on? You're so angry when we talk to you this way.
Landru: In-laws on final approach. Wrong side of the bed. CPAP machine is probably good for me, and it certainly lets my beloved wife sleep better since I'm not gasping and snorting like a dying swine, but I hate the thing. No matter how determinedly we wank, they're still lying fascist crooks. Even those who are, in theory, supposed to be on our side. And as a side note, let me just express my feeling that, even though I am essentially an atheist, I sincerely hope that fascist-enabling cockwhore Lanny Davis has himself a nice long roast in Hell. I love my children, no, really, I love my children, dammit. And best of all, best friend has taken on a melancholy oddness, and I'd hate to leave that uncompeted with. Fucker.
YAMM: Okay, seriously, have you considered antidepressants?
Landru: They constipate me.
YAMM: It sounds like you're a mess.
Landru: I am nancy, hear me roar. Look, I'm fine, I made choices, choices have consequences, end of story.
YAMM: You're never going to do what Firedoglake wants if you keep up this self-indulgent whinging.
Landru: Fuck you. I don't want to do what Firedoglake wants. This is a vanity blog, pure and simple. It is a way of shouting to my friends that, even though I'm too fucking busy to be a human being any more, and part of that is self-imposed and part of it is because I'm dysfunctional and part of it is just fucking because, I'm still here and I still love them and I still sometimes have something to say that will make them snort coffee through their noses. Or not. So fuck off with the what other people want bullshit. This blog is a self-indulgence, and sometimes it's a reachout, and sometimes it's a reacharound, and other times it's just a granfalloon. Okay?
YAMM: Always a pleasure, Landru.
Landru: Oh, for fuck's sake, go do something useful, would you?
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
The Stupid It Burns*
As usual, Minions brings you yesterday's news tomorrow.
Mitt Romney believes that in France, marriage is a 7-year contract. Would that Mitt had listened when he was told, "You're an idiot." That, it seems, is pretty demonstrable. Limited-term marriage in France? Not so much (apologies for semi-legitimizing pseudofascist pseudojournalist Ms. Ana Marie Assobsession, but she seems to have it more right and more conveniently comprehensive than anyone else I can find, this time).
It seems the left side of the sphere is aflame with discussion about raising the age of consent for porn performance. Uhm, guys? Let's leave teh stupid to the other side.
This started with Garance Franke-Ruta, who usually does not seem to have shit for brains. She wrote an op-ed for the WSJ, forgetting that the WSJ is a fucking fascist media tool, she's a liberal feminist, the WSJ hates her guts and wants her to die as a result of an unsafe abortion, and the WSJ is just using her. The joy of giving herself over to the opposition seems to have led to a cascade failure in Ms. Franke-Ruta's cognitive systems.
The problem, it seems, is that the guy responsible for the Girls Gone Wild series of videos is a racketeering rapist fuckpig. He's on trial somewhere and will, one hopes, get his comeuppance. Just in case you live in a cave, the video series depicts young drunk women lifting their shirts and showing off their breasts, and other nominally lewd things. There have been a number of stories about the racketeering rapist fuckpig leveraging these young drunk women into more hard-core performances, including a story in which he attempts to rape a reporter writing a story. There can be no question that the guy is a piece of shit.
But putting the criminal responsible for much of the problem in jail isn't enough of a solution for some. Franke-Ruta, in her WSJ piece, suggested raising the age of consent for pornographic performances from 18 to 21. This gem of idiocy has touched off a debate between anti-pornography zealots and...uhm, everyone else, I think. Let's substitute "abortion" for "pornography" and I think we can very easily suss out a number of potential problems with that line of thinking, ne c'est pas? I mean, enough problems in like four seconds of rational thought to grok that there's a killer logical inconsistency here. Anti-pornography, pro-choice feminists (and I think we can probably agree that the number of anti-pornography, anti-abortion feminists is slim enough to warrant dismissing their significance) are fatally hypocritical, and given the relative importance of the two issues, maybe it's just best to shut the fuck up about pornography?
Leaving that aside, let's enumerate some problems with Franke-Ruta's proposal.
1. In theory, the problem she's trying to solve isn't 18-year-olds showing their tits. It's drunk 18-year-olds showing their tits.
2. 18-year-olds aren't supposed to be drunk.
The whole thing reeks of the War on Fucking. There's no question that exploiting people is a bad thing. There's an existing legal remedy for that, though; part of the requirement for a contract to be legal is that both parties have the capacity to make a contract. It's pretty clear that a drunk person doesn't have the capacity to contract consent. The implications for consensual sex itself don't matter; they're already extant, and anyone with a brain located anywhere other than the head of their cock understands that. That's an entirely different problem.
The problem here is that, in addition to being born of the same idiotic reasoning that gave birth to a very bad recent Supreme Court decision, Franke-Ruta's suggestion admits of paralyzing confusion about the propriety of sexual behavior. If 18-year-olds can't make a contract to flash their body parts, they're damned sure not qualified to have sex. Is that really what she's saying? I'm honestly not sure, and I'll be she's not, either.
Feminists are the last people I'd expect to have to defend against in the War on Fucking. Shut the fuck up and take a few minutes to separate your ass from a deep well the next time you decide to whore yourself out to the Wall Street Journal and the Christian Right, Garance Franke-Ruta.
The last word must be left for Jon Swift.
Update: It has not escaped my attention that I posted this screed--which someone uncharitably inclined could construe as anti-feminist--a mere two days after a weekend of wallowing in cheesecake blogging. That's an unfortunate juxtaposition, to be sure. It doesn't obviate my point.
I'm also very sorry that this post has more font colors than one of bDr's psychedelic nightmare posts. My bad.
*Title catchphrase unabashedly ripped off from Sadly, No!
Portions in blue added after the original post, because it was suggested to me--righteously, I thought--that I only tied together certain chunks of thought in the confines of my own head. No material was deleted from the original post.
Mitt Romney believes that in France, marriage is a 7-year contract. Would that Mitt had listened when he was told, "You're an idiot." That, it seems, is pretty demonstrable. Limited-term marriage in France? Not so much (apologies for semi-legitimizing pseudofascist pseudojournalist Ms. Ana Marie Assobsession, but she seems to have it more right and more conveniently comprehensive than anyone else I can find, this time).
It seems the left side of the sphere is aflame with discussion about raising the age of consent for porn performance. Uhm, guys? Let's leave teh stupid to the other side.
This started with Garance Franke-Ruta, who usually does not seem to have shit for brains. She wrote an op-ed for the WSJ, forgetting that the WSJ is a fucking fascist media tool, she's a liberal feminist, the WSJ hates her guts and wants her to die as a result of an unsafe abortion, and the WSJ is just using her. The joy of giving herself over to the opposition seems to have led to a cascade failure in Ms. Franke-Ruta's cognitive systems.
The problem, it seems, is that the guy responsible for the Girls Gone Wild series of videos is a racketeering rapist fuckpig. He's on trial somewhere and will, one hopes, get his comeuppance. Just in case you live in a cave, the video series depicts young drunk women lifting their shirts and showing off their breasts, and other nominally lewd things. There have been a number of stories about the racketeering rapist fuckpig leveraging these young drunk women into more hard-core performances, including a story in which he attempts to rape a reporter writing a story. There can be no question that the guy is a piece of shit.
But putting the criminal responsible for much of the problem in jail isn't enough of a solution for some. Franke-Ruta, in her WSJ piece, suggested raising the age of consent for pornographic performances from 18 to 21. This gem of idiocy has touched off a debate between anti-pornography zealots and...uhm, everyone else, I think. Let's substitute "abortion" for "pornography" and I think we can very easily suss out a number of potential problems with that line of thinking, ne c'est pas? I mean, enough problems in like four seconds of rational thought to grok that there's a killer logical inconsistency here. Anti-pornography, pro-choice feminists (and I think we can probably agree that the number of anti-pornography, anti-abortion feminists is slim enough to warrant dismissing their significance) are fatally hypocritical, and given the relative importance of the two issues, maybe it's just best to shut the fuck up about pornography?
Leaving that aside, let's enumerate some problems with Franke-Ruta's proposal.
1. In theory, the problem she's trying to solve isn't 18-year-olds showing their tits. It's drunk 18-year-olds showing their tits.
2. 18-year-olds aren't supposed to be drunk.
The whole thing reeks of the War on Fucking. There's no question that exploiting people is a bad thing. There's an existing legal remedy for that, though; part of the requirement for a contract to be legal is that both parties have the capacity to make a contract. It's pretty clear that a drunk person doesn't have the capacity to contract consent. The implications for consensual sex itself don't matter; they're already extant, and anyone with a brain located anywhere other than the head of their cock understands that. That's an entirely different problem.
The problem here is that, in addition to being born of the same idiotic reasoning that gave birth to a very bad recent Supreme Court decision, Franke-Ruta's suggestion admits of paralyzing confusion about the propriety of sexual behavior. If 18-year-olds can't make a contract to flash their body parts, they're damned sure not qualified to have sex. Is that really what she's saying? I'm honestly not sure, and I'll be she's not, either.
Feminists are the last people I'd expect to have to defend against in the War on Fucking. Shut the fuck up and take a few minutes to separate your ass from a deep well the next time you decide to whore yourself out to the Wall Street Journal and the Christian Right, Garance Franke-Ruta.
The last word must be left for Jon Swift.
Update: It has not escaped my attention that I posted this screed--which someone uncharitably inclined could construe as anti-feminist--a mere two days after a weekend of wallowing in cheesecake blogging. That's an unfortunate juxtaposition, to be sure. It doesn't obviate my point.
I'm also very sorry that this post has more font colors than one of bDr's psychedelic nightmare posts. My bad.
*Title catchphrase unabashedly ripped off from Sadly, No!
Portions in blue added after the original post, because it was suggested to me--righteously, I thought--that I only tied together certain chunks of thought in the confines of my own head. No material was deleted from the original post.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Getting To Seven of Nine
I'm not sure how Minions spent the weekend taking a right turn into cheesecake, but it did. Apologies to my feminist readers who have some problem with me thinking some women are hot and maybe wanting to objectify them (in a purely egalitarian, caring deeply about Their orgasms sort of way). Apologies to my homosexual readers who may feel discriminated against. Apologies also to Yoko Matsugane, Sarah Silverman, and Christy the Naked Cheerleader, for getting their hopes up before so casually dumping them. I'm sure the pain is brimstonish, the odor searing.
What the hell? It happened again, for like a whole paragraph. And the title. WTF? Who writes this shit? Sorry. The purpose of this post has nothing to do with any of the foregoing. It has to do with DC United.
Read here. As usual, bDr says it better than I could (I beat him to it once; big freakin' deal, he's still the king). As usual, I argue with him in the comments about the few bits where he doesn't, or where he just went wrong (he's not mean enough to Josh Gros, he didn't thank Ba'al enough for Troy Perkins, he hasn't figured out that the Christian Gomez dressing for DCU games is a corpse (although he admits there's something wrong), and he totally missed the significance of Justin Moose's sparky but defensively frightening first half and Tom Soehn's associated admission of a dire coaching fuckup by pulling Moose at halftime and reorienting his midfield to better throw a wet blanket on dangerous bitchboy Jonathan Bornstein.
A point I'm not sure bDr has articulated, but if he didn't he should have because it's his point:
Between the games of the last week and the upcoming road game against FC Expandomatic, DCU has had nine points on the table after their disastrous opening (wherein they coughed up nine points to other teams). After the draw against the Ning the Merciless, that dropped to seven potential points--Seven of Nine. Get it? Right. No more cheesecake. My bad, totally.
DCU did what it had to do yesterday, despite the best efforts of certain defenders to snatch disaster from the jaws of a Borg-like triumph (while we're on the topic). A win in Toronto in two weeks is just as mandatory if the team is to make a graceful recovery from its fuckawful, pointless start; unlike the gasping, damn-near-dead Star Trek franchise, it needs seven of nine.
Prediction Corner: So look for Lefty the Poacher to score his first couple of expando-goals that afternoon (/bDr).
What the hell? It happened again, for like a whole paragraph. And the title. WTF? Who writes this shit? Sorry. The purpose of this post has nothing to do with any of the foregoing. It has to do with DC United.
Read here. As usual, bDr says it better than I could (I beat him to it once; big freakin' deal, he's still the king). As usual, I argue with him in the comments about the few bits where he doesn't, or where he just went wrong (he's not mean enough to Josh Gros, he didn't thank Ba'al enough for Troy Perkins, he hasn't figured out that the Christian Gomez dressing for DCU games is a corpse (although he admits there's something wrong), and he totally missed the significance of Justin Moose's sparky but defensively frightening first half and Tom Soehn's associated admission of a dire coaching fuckup by pulling Moose at halftime and reorienting his midfield to better throw a wet blanket on dangerous bitchboy Jonathan Bornstein.
A point I'm not sure bDr has articulated, but if he didn't he should have because it's his point:
Between the games of the last week and the upcoming road game against FC Expandomatic, DCU has had nine points on the table after their disastrous opening (wherein they coughed up nine points to other teams). After the draw against the Ning the Merciless, that dropped to seven potential points--Seven of Nine. Get it? Right. No more cheesecake. My bad, totally.
DCU did what it had to do yesterday, despite the best efforts of certain defenders to snatch disaster from the jaws of a Borg-like triumph (while we're on the topic). A win in Toronto in two weeks is just as mandatory if the team is to make a graceful recovery from its fuckawful, pointless start; unlike the gasping, damn-near-dead Star Trek franchise, it needs seven of nine.
Prediction Corner: So look for Lefty the Poacher to score his first couple of expando-goals that afternoon (/bDr).
Friday, May 04, 2007
Take That, Ilse
(Updated; see below. The official compilation is now Lucy Liu, Charlize Theron, Melissa Theuriau, Lauren Graham, and Parker Posey. And we're done with this.)
There appears to be some confusion over The List. Ilse doubts my historic inclusion of certain individuals on that all-important document. Therefore and herewith, in no order pertaining to anything:
5. Melissa Theuriau. She's a French newscaster. I didn't know either, until TBogg introduced us.
There appears to be some confusion over The List. Ilse doubts my historic inclusion of certain individuals on that all-important document. Therefore and herewith, in no order pertaining to anything:
1. Lucy Liu. For example, here:
1a. The pharmacist at my grocery store, who is a dead ringer for Lucy Liu (Ilse is calling bullshit on this one, in the event that the pharmacist at my grocery store should accidentally wake up one day completely demented and have some desire to fuck me. I consider this encouraging, even though Ilse's perspective on who might want to fuck me is unfathomably skewed.)
2. Charlize Theron. For example, here:
Charlize is a rarity in that I don't do blondes.
3. Sarah Silverman, although I gotta say her stock stays depressed for as long as she's banging Jimmy Kimmel. I like to think that he's the one doing the catching, if'n you catch my drift.
4. Yoko Matsugane. Thanks to every misogynist sports blog everywhere for making her a household name.
5. Melissa Theuriau. She's a French newscaster. I didn't know either, until TBogg introduced us.
Honorable mentions who shall, sadly, have to remain off-list and, therefore, untouchable unless I can get to this blog in time to alter the evidence: Alyssa Milano (problem: Dodgers fan); Catherine Zeta-Jones (problems: she'd break me like a twig, and I'd have to fight Ilse and Wheezy to get at her anyway); and her:
But mostly because that, for some reason, deeply disturbs Ilse.
MASSIVELY IMPORTANT UPDATE:
Scratch the Japanese Hooters Girl. What kind of a dipshit forgets Lauren Graham? The me kind of dipshit, that's what kind.
EXTREME WITLESSNESS UPDATE II: Okay, this is the last one, but it's important. Buh-bye, funny Jew girl tainted by Kimmelseed. This is a perfect example of why these things should be compiled carefully. While drunk. Say hello to the incomparable Parker Posey, and we'll just get on with our lives, then, shall we?
Beating the Dog
Just once, just once I'd like to get a DCU post up on the tubes before that dogma-N person. Just oncet.
DCU came home last night, looking for their first win of the season. They didn't get it, although a win against the cruel Ning the Merciless, even at home, is a venti order for a team in freefall.
bDr and I differed, until last night, on the topic of the coach-scalp; when they flashed Tom Soehn's face on the screen of the Ocho last night, I began screaming for him to be hung from the Whitney Young bridge. This is mostly because I am a mean and petty son of a bitch, not because I know anything about anything.
But even then, the gods conspired to mock me, because ESPN finally got over its Ning-love just enough to tell me that Soehn was finally abandoning the once fashionable, but plague-stupid 3-5-2 and settling into the far more sensible (sensible, that is, for a team that prefers the other team not to score goals) 4-4-2 formation. Then, ESPN set aside its impulses to felch Taylor Fucking Twellman just long enough to note that 105-year-old striker (end Fiver) and true American Football Hero Jaime Moreno was sitting on the bench, glaring intently past his bleached bangs at the action unfolding on the field.
I was forced to revise my opinion of Mr. Soehn long enough to stop screaming at him and start screaming at the putrescence that is MLS referee Terry Vaughn. Fortunately? This worked, and Vaughn's ineptitude swung well into DCU's favor by the end of the game, although his booking of Emilio for diving after appallingly punkass bitch James Riley shoved Emilio down in the penalty box was a classic Vaughn moment of getting a thing exactly as wrong as it could be gotten.
On the other hand, thanks for sending off dickhead Shalrie Joseph on a brutal assfucking of an improper red card, Terry. Too bad DCU couldn't capitalize.
Note to Loud Side: Sing louder. We couldn't quite make out the lyrics of the Taylor Twellman song on the Ocho, not least because The Worst Announcer in Futbol and Eric Wynalda wouldn't STFU.
The Ocho completely fucked the game up. For starters, the Ninglove was overpowering--on those occasions when a bad call went against the Ning, Wynalda couldn't stop himself from loving Taylor and the Revettes, but on perfectly reasonable calls--and yes, Virginia, Moreno earned that PK--Eric needed an extra saucer of milk. For another, Wynalda was so pissed off at DCU that he couldn't stop the bile. Do you know why they wouldn't play off of the wing after Joseph went down and the Ning clogged the middle, Eric? Because they don't have any fucking wingmen, you metrosexual toad!
To give due credit, Wynalda's at his best when he's a bitter little queen; his performance in the booth during the last USMNT friendly, when he couldn't stop peppering The Traitor Bruce Arena with thinly veiled attacks over his mishandling of the last World Cup, was precious, just MasterCard priceless. And he's right far more often than he's wrong (contrast: Tommy "Poonch It In The Oonion Baag" Smyth, the third man in the booth last night). But when he gets a bug up his ass, he clenches down on that fucker and wanks away until he's ready to shit the fucking Hope Diamond.
Fun: Guy Kpene. Nicholas Addlery (but ineffective, unfortunately). The Incomparable Fred, who's a damn sight more entertaining than pussyboy Freddy Adu on his worst day and Freddy's best. Fecundo Erpen, but only because he's a fucking dolt.
Die: Taylor Fucking Twellman, you diving fucking pussy bitchboy. Die die die die die, not least of all for making me discommendate a Terrapin. The Ocho, for sperming its excitement all over the undeserving geezer Pat Noonan. Matt Reis, for being Matt Reis and for singlehandedly staving off DCU's last rush (which turned out to be its best chance to go ahead). Khano Smith, for being a dick. James Riley, for being a super mayamaya DICK. Steve Nichol, just because. Jay Heap, for obvious reasons and because it took ESPN to make me remember that you're a Dookie cocksucker.
And lookee there. We're up ahead of his Dogfullness. But only because we're shallow and vapid, and he's the soul of thoughty. Go read him.
DCU came home last night, looking for their first win of the season. They didn't get it, although a win against the cruel Ning the Merciless, even at home, is a venti order for a team in freefall.
bDr and I differed, until last night, on the topic of the coach-scalp; when they flashed Tom Soehn's face on the screen of the Ocho last night, I began screaming for him to be hung from the Whitney Young bridge. This is mostly because I am a mean and petty son of a bitch, not because I know anything about anything.
But even then, the gods conspired to mock me, because ESPN finally got over its Ning-love just enough to tell me that Soehn was finally abandoning the once fashionable, but plague-stupid 3-5-2 and settling into the far more sensible (sensible, that is, for a team that prefers the other team not to score goals) 4-4-2 formation. Then, ESPN set aside its impulses to felch Taylor Fucking Twellman just long enough to note that 105-year-old striker (end Fiver) and true American Football Hero Jaime Moreno was sitting on the bench, glaring intently past his bleached bangs at the action unfolding on the field.
I was forced to revise my opinion of Mr. Soehn long enough to stop screaming at him and start screaming at the putrescence that is MLS referee Terry Vaughn. Fortunately? This worked, and Vaughn's ineptitude swung well into DCU's favor by the end of the game, although his booking of Emilio for diving after appallingly punkass bitch James Riley shoved Emilio down in the penalty box was a classic Vaughn moment of getting a thing exactly as wrong as it could be gotten.
On the other hand, thanks for sending off dickhead Shalrie Joseph on a brutal assfucking of an improper red card, Terry. Too bad DCU couldn't capitalize.
Note to Loud Side: Sing louder. We couldn't quite make out the lyrics of the Taylor Twellman song on the Ocho, not least because The Worst Announcer in Futbol and Eric Wynalda wouldn't STFU.
The Ocho completely fucked the game up. For starters, the Ninglove was overpowering--on those occasions when a bad call went against the Ning, Wynalda couldn't stop himself from loving Taylor and the Revettes, but on perfectly reasonable calls--and yes, Virginia, Moreno earned that PK--Eric needed an extra saucer of milk. For another, Wynalda was so pissed off at DCU that he couldn't stop the bile. Do you know why they wouldn't play off of the wing after Joseph went down and the Ning clogged the middle, Eric? Because they don't have any fucking wingmen, you metrosexual toad!
To give due credit, Wynalda's at his best when he's a bitter little queen; his performance in the booth during the last USMNT friendly, when he couldn't stop peppering The Traitor Bruce Arena with thinly veiled attacks over his mishandling of the last World Cup, was precious, just MasterCard priceless. And he's right far more often than he's wrong (contrast: Tommy "Poonch It In The Oonion Baag" Smyth, the third man in the booth last night). But when he gets a bug up his ass, he clenches down on that fucker and wanks away until he's ready to shit the fucking Hope Diamond.
Fun: Guy Kpene. Nicholas Addlery (but ineffective, unfortunately). The Incomparable Fred, who's a damn sight more entertaining than pussyboy Freddy Adu on his worst day and Freddy's best. Fecundo Erpen, but only because he's a fucking dolt.
Die: Taylor Fucking Twellman, you diving fucking pussy bitchboy. Die die die die die, not least of all for making me discommendate a Terrapin. The Ocho, for sperming its excitement all over the undeserving geezer Pat Noonan. Matt Reis, for being Matt Reis and for singlehandedly staving off DCU's last rush (which turned out to be its best chance to go ahead). Khano Smith, for being a dick. James Riley, for being a super mayamaya DICK. Steve Nichol, just because. Jay Heap, for obvious reasons and because it took ESPN to make me remember that you're a Dookie cocksucker.
And lookee there. We're up ahead of his Dogfullness. But only because we're shallow and vapid, and he's the soul of thoughty. Go read him.
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