By Jingo

I have a hard time with the Olympics. Some of it is just fucken cool. But it's painfully obvious that, while most of the athletes are there for the best of reasons sincere (if nationalistic), the thing is a boondoggle that's not of any real value to improving the world condition.

Unfortunately, so's the World Cup. So suck it. Bring on my bread and circuses.

There are some things that are self-evident. One is that my local nation is better than yours. It just is. Especially, in this season, if you're my friend from Canada, for whom I shall not make up a name, so that when Purple sends him this post through the Faceybookz in an obvious effort to discredit me and Obamacare, I can pretend that I have lots of friends from Canada and it's not actually about him.

Another piece of self-evidentia is that even though my local nation is better than yours, especially if yours is Canada, other nations are not to be disrespected (unless they're Canada). For example, the skip of the British womens' curling team is pretty hot, as are a number of Russian women hockey players, some Italian skater chick I happened to notice because Ilse is obsessed with figure skating in all its forms (a million deaths are not enough for Porcelain Face) in addition to unicorns and the Olympics in general, and, also according to Ilse, Henrik Lundqvist and some guy on the Norwegian mens' curling team. Note the absence of anything Canadian on my Hot List. And hers. I said note it, bitchez.

By the way, if you're concerned that I'm not getting to the point, don't be. There isn't one.

Specifically not to be disrespected: the Russians. You wouldn't know it from watching the endless American rainbow fairy tale that is NBC's coverage of these Olympics (and every Olympics), which spent the entire opening ceremonies telling us how Russia equals Soviets equals bad and brutal and horrible and Stalin, and did we by the way mention Stalin? Of course, they did a really shitty job of reconciling that to guys in spiked coal-scuttle helmets who torment Russians, as well as reconciling math concerning a certain major conflict between said guys and Russians. Nor would you know it from the world journo community, which appears to be convinced that Russians are shitting in its water and feeding it cockroach borscht.

I thought the Russians did a really cool pageant about their history and culture. Was it an obscene waste of money? Of course it was. See Rule One. But their pageant was every bit as awesome as every other country's Olympic opening pageant, and a damn sight better and more entertaining than the pasty white (and Anglo) pageants thrown by the last two pasty white (and Anglo, despite the vague mists of froggification and First Nationsization that Vancouver 2012 tried to pimp, and you are totally not getting a break from me at all in this post, you fucking Canadian fucks) nations to throw such galas.

Full disclosure: Tschaikovsky innately trumps anything Anglo. Suck it, we lose.

I've been fascinated by the Winter Olympics since I was a kid. Especially the hockey, which was my first true sports love. So I have this jingoism problem. You see, in a hockey sense, I really, really hate some other countries that, on the face of it, probably don't deserve it. I'm looking at you, Sweden. And you, Finland. The very notion of disliking Sweden or Finland for any reasons beyond spoiled fish in skunk mustard sauce or their craven national behaviors in the aforementioned major conflict should be a pretty serious clue that I have a serious need for antipsychotics here (and in case you don't know: Sweden was a neutral that profited from sales of war materiel to both sides, while Finland sided with the Germans, because they were terrified of the Soviets, until the Soviets kicked their asses and made them change sides).

Subsequent Olympics have only exacerbated the problem. When Vladislav Tretiak was revealed as one of the torch-lighters in Sochi, I recognized him and almost involuntarily hissed, to Ilse's great puzzlement (fucking GenXers, and fuck also my generation's upbringing with hammers and sickles populating our duck-and-cover dreams). I cursed vividly when I saw today that the Czechs (minus the Slovaks) will be the United States' opponent in the quarters. And you will have no trouble guessing who I detest first and best among hockey nations.

This is difficult, because who I detest second and second-best among mens' hockey nations this time around is us. There are maybe 6 guys on the US Olympic hockey team who don't make me want to slit my own throat in disgust. But my country's laundry is what it is. Contrast Sweden, whose hockey team I've hated since I was about 7; it includes three of my favorite Olympians (Backstrom, Marcus Johansson, and the aforementioned suave, debonair, and blindingly awesome King Henrik Lundqvist, if you're curious).

It gets worse. Of course I despise the Canadian mens' team. But I reserve the most spittle for their womens' team, who fundamentally cheated to beat the US women in group play (which doesn't matter--the final will be US-Canada). It appears I have a bit of a problem with Canadian women playing goal-scoring sports. But I'll just try to stick to nationalism here without hauling out the misogynist artillery.

Friend Jim has done his best to provide fine and healthy counsel on my larger sports hate problem (but ask him about Duke). My jingoism transcends even my routine homerism. Therein, of course, lies the rub when I try to make sense of the Olympics. Best for me to just eat the bread and roll with the circus, I think. And to play Civ V or FM when my television is showing Ilse her tiny ice ballerinas.

Zombie Marie Curie

Geeks rock.

That is all.

Update: No it isn't. I haven't said anything about this yet because I'm still fuming, and I recognize that fuming unstoppably about the outcome of any sporting event--even a 7-month season that should've been an 8-month season--is not the mark of a great mind, although it's probably the mark of the level of sophistication you've come to expect of this blog. I even uncharacteristically allowed myself to be diverted for a few days by some sad but good news. So I'll keep it brief³, because there are only a couple of key conclusions here.

1. Someone isn't qualified to discuss this, and I am grateful to him for thus far shutting the fuck up about it. I'll give you two clues; he knows who he is, and he isn't Tony Fucking Kornheiser (although to Kornheiser's limited credit, there is something to be said for tradition).

2. I really hate to say this, a lot, but a few days of brain-chewing hasn't changed my conclusion: Fire Boudreau. I hate it hate it hate it hate it hate it. He seems, by all evidence, a great guy, and he seems to be a good hockey teacher. And I can't even articulate the mechanics of how he's a shitty playoff coach. But he is. Math don't lie. And a 4-0 waffle-stomping in a playoff series, by a team from fucking Florida, coached by the youngest coach in the league and manned by some of the oldest, Frenchest, douchebaggiest shitbirds in the fucking league (and truly, I could easily have gone on linking for a dozen more adjectives, adverbs, and nouns, had I only the energy)¹, is powerful math. Fire Boudreau. This is absolutely not forgivable. It is not acceptable. It is slow, miserable choking canine death, it is an abomination, it is a travesty of a mockery of a sham. Fire Boudreau.

¹ Let me be clear about this, because I don't think you've quite got the picture. I hate hockey teams from south of our own with the blazing, blinding passion of a thousand million white-hot exploding suns, and the hockey team from the south that I hate most of all is the motherfucking, cocksucking, douchetard frogface wetfart motherfucking Tampa Bay motherfucking Lightning, especially those two ass-pirate Frognucks Vinnie LeCavalier and Martin St. Pierre. This was so before this year's playoffs, and it will remain so when the sun has risen and fallen its last, presumably completing a cycle of millions of years of setting upon Stanley Cups won by Hurricanes, Panthers, and Thrashers (but not, I emphasize, by Capitals, because the thing I fear most, yes, the little kernel of fucking fascist fear at the core of my tiny little being, is that I will live another fucking 60 years and not see a fucking Stanley Cup in this fucking city, and do you know what that will make me? Do you know? THAT WILL MAKE ME A MOTHERFUCKING RED SOX FAN², or even worse, a fucking Cubs fan, the Red Sox fans of the new millennium, so just fucking kill me now. Jeebus.).
² And I cannot suggest strongly enough, at this point, that certain of my closest friends refrain from math right now. Yes, you know who you are, too.
³ I lied. Get over it.

Old Habits, Part Whatever

Crotchety old git.

It's also her birthday, of course:


Rock on.

Old Habits

Him. Birthday. Now. Deliver the love, mofos.

In his head since before it existed, be in yours:



Y'know what? Someone else has a birthday today, and she's the most Googleriffic target on this blog who isn't named Megan Marshack (whose picture has never actually appeared in this blog, but who apparently holds a special place in the minds of Googlers--I suspect this may be one of the very few sites in the whole Intertubes that contains her name). But I digress. Give it up for Bong Girl!

Because she's clearly ready to give it up for you.

On The Plight of the Neutral Observer in a War Zone

1. BPWTF? Since I'm not sure I'm at liberty to reveal the connection, I won't. Let's just say it's pretty deeply rooted.

2. Conrad. Conrad is soused and lives in Turkey. He's from the same minion gene pool as Purple and Whispers.

3. Conrad's brother Conrad Graham (the blog formerly known as I Don't Care If You Don't Like Me). Way the fuck less soused than he used to be, and lives in Philadelphia. Also from the same minion gene pool as Purple and Whispers. Cute as a fucking bug, and far less annoying.

4. Kitten Wars. Smart money's on the cracker. The intellectual doesn't have the stomach for a long war.

5. Speaking of which, don't you people ever learn?

The Golden Swiss Bunnies of the Apocalypse. Surrender and get really fat thighs.

No, this bunny's going to kick your ass. Seriously. Appropos of nothing, I found this bunny at a publication called New Lesbian Times. I do not know what that means.

Clorg supporters.

Hello Dweeze.

Seriously, dogs just suck.

If Rose McGowan as an armed amputee isn't the hottest fucking bunny ever, I don't know what is.

Obama supporters.

Nothing is safe from performance art.

Dilettantes.

Peace in Our Time

War is over. Happy Christmas. War is over, now. Hello Hitler and Hello Kitty Rave Whore have done their jobs and can go back in their little boxes now.

We now return to regularly scheduled programming.

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).

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:

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?

A Smoking Pair of Boots

That's all that's left of Minions' bracket. It became apparent by the end of the first round that this was no ordinary tournament; a pair of true upsets and an 8-9 game or two were the only deviations from the chalk. The day thereafter, Minions officially lost interest when Maryland played so badly against a pretty crappy mid-major that its only hope of victory lay in decent officiating; good luck with that. And the day after that, Minions was declared legally dead when Texas, Virginia Tech, and Wisconsin all bit the big one in ridiculous displays of ineptitude.

Dignity and some other things* require that Minions stick by its unfortunate prediction that the Fuckeyes of the Official Land Grant University of the State of Ohio will win the tournament. Even if that happens and Minions is, technically, vindicated (in some tiny and mostly technical way), Minions' wife is going to kick its ass, because she also has OSU to win.

But it is not to be. Florida is smokin' hot, dood. I hate them and I'm pretty sure God does to, but what the fuck is to love about this Final Four? The successful title defense is there, waiting to happen, compounded by the football-basketball Florida-OSU thing, and the impending departure of Greasy Billy Donovan for Lexington, Kentucky--another news item sure to drive Our Friend Goth one step closer to a rope in the garage.

Hence, Minions' silence. Only now, after the dearth of anything to like in the Final Four, can I finally simmer down and write about the smoking rubble that has been the last two weeks of basketball.

Kudos to Georgetown; I hate the Hoyas so much that I was very nearly hoping that UNC would beat them. I was more hoping for a random act of terrorism by a vengeful and angry Old Testament God, but I understand the limits of reason, and I concluded that, if a gun were held to my head in demand of a preference, ACC loyalty would win out. But l'chaim** to the Hoyas; coming back from 11 down and holding the Heels scoreless for 80 percent of an overtime is Pure Comedy Gold.

Kudos to UCLA; I hate them very, very much, after a 50-point second-round drubbing of the Terrapins some years ago. But goddam are their cheerleaders hot. Those little blue shifts? The basketball jerseys and not much else? Mwah!

There are many who will call this the most boring NCAA tournament evahr. I'm with them. Matters are not helped by the Terrapin women choking on a Mississippi team (and grats to them--they've a shot at the Final Four tonight) that they absolutely firebombed just four months ago.

I'm sure that energy will overcome me at some point, and I'll manage to post something less self-indulgent. Or not. See you then.

*Mostly a desire to fuel the crazed paranoia of Our Friend Goth.
**And t'voyu mat.

Dilemmariffic!

(UPDATED: See below)

With Leather, which I have linked to and, I have decided after much turbulent thought, will continue to link to, is a fun little place. Matthew Ufford, aka Captain Caveman, aka yet another hot young writer in New York waiting for a breakthrough he probably more-or-less deserves, is a funny guy, with a great eye for guy-funny stuff like football and chicks you'd probably like to fuck. He's demonstrated this time and again at KSK (the most important blog in the world) and at Leather, his very own blog, which someone is apparently paying him to write. Great work if you can get it and stand it, and all the love in the world to him. You go, booyee.

Sometimes Ufford and the other guys at KSK skate over collections of points that some people might consider lines (Will Leitch, at Deadspin, doesn't, because he's a paid employee of Gawker and would sure hate to have to go get a job because he stood up and screamed "I Am Spartacus!" and it's hard to hold that against him). I am of the opinion that this shouldn't be a problem. In fact, until today, every time that they've done so, I've laughed my ass off at people in their comments sections who have, in my view, taken things a bit too seriously. And truly? The stuff perceived as over the line has been so ephemeral I don't even remember it, although I think some people got sticks up their butts over a Challenger joke. I mean, I'll punch out any of my friends who makes a Len Bias joke, but coming from strangers? Internet strangers without candy? Meh. Fuck it. I can accept the premise that this might be funny to people in the world at large with senses of humor philosophically similar to mine, who don't happen to carry around giant throbbing boners for the University of Maryland.

One of the reasons the boys at KSK (and Leitch, if he weren't a pussy) get away with this is that they generally don't do politics. I admire their restraint. What I think I actually admire is their focus; I'm incapable of anything but putting everything in a shaker and working it over until memes and jokes and rage just splice and collide and pour out nice and cold into a little glass of sophomoric bile or pee or, maybe sometimes, whoopee cushions, depending on what direction the meds are taking me today. Not so Ufford and the others at KSK. They stay on point. Usually.

I can't imagine that's easy; they're all bright guys and have opinions like everyone else. Ufford, as I understand it, is an ex-Marine, a recent one, who did time in Iraq. That's got to lead to a point of view, especially for someone as articulate as he is. But I've read a lot of words that Matthew Ufford has written, and I haven't a fucking clue what point of view he holds on that issue, which issue I think we can all agree is pretty fucking compelling and tends to lead people to a certain willingness to express themselves. That, friends, is focus. And restraint, a quality sometimes urged upon this blog even by the very closest of its friends (fuck you, Purple).

So I've never once (seriously) chided anyone from this band of writers for anything they've written, and I have jumped in to chide others for taking them to task for jokes that weren't funny to everybody. And that's why I'm not taking on this one in the comments section of Leather, which today tells me that Amani Toomer's soon-to-be ex-wife is a bad person because Toomer alleges that she's had some number of abortions. I am presuming that Matthew Ufford wrote this, because it's not tagged with anything to indicate that it was penned by his assistant editor, some guy from Chicago whose name escapes me at the moment (and which I cheerfully admit that I'm too lazy to look up).

It's a little difficult to know where to begin, so I guess I'd best fall back on full disclosure: As you know, I fucking hate the New York Giants. As you know, unless you're my friend TJ, Amani Toomer is a fucking douchebag. And as you know, I am a strong supporter of reproductive freedom, and an opponent of the war on fucking.

Here's the factual place we might should start: the source for the story is Page Six. The chance that there is anything factual in this story beyond the correct spelling of Toomer's name, the general location of the story as a product of the New York metropolitan area and, possibly, the name of Toomer's wife, is slim. At best. It is possible that this could act to mitigate my anger at Ufford for running with this item the way he has; he likely knows damn well that the story is likely fairly sloppy, and he may well be poking fun at the story from that perspective--and that I'm not willing to credit that so much because he's cracking wise about this woman who may or may not have had some number of abortions.

The meat of the story seems pretty ritualistic; Toomer, a douchebag, complains that his wife, a blonde, reneged on a pact to bear him many children, and that she carried out that renegation by terminating four pregnancies, and that she wouldn't cook or clean or take his name, and that she wouldn't take meds for her depression, and that she "disrespected [his] integrity and manhood."

The blonde, a chiropractor and law student, contends that Toomer was a douchebag, with various embedded legal contentions, including that he pissed on her clothes and tossed her Blackberry into the Hudson, while stifling her career ambitions and pestering her for sex.

Like I said, pretty ritualistic, yes? Clearly, these kids don't like each other. Standard divorce fare. Toomer's accusations sound moody and testosterone-poisoned; hers sound stereotypically shrill. All of which is undoubtedly skewed by the filters of their lawyers, as further filtered by Page Six.

So why am I pissed? Let's go to the videotape:

"Of course she doesn't cook or clean. She doesn't have the time with all the trips to Planned Parenthood. She's done more abortions than a closet full of wire hangers in the 1950s. Pol Pot killed fewer babies."

Aw, dood. You didn't. No, really, you didn't. After staying clean on politics for so long, you decide to smear Planned Parenthood on a blog read largely by guys? You equate abortion with babykilling? With fucking Pol Pot?

Okay, okay. I've defended your right to edgy humor before, I'll do it again. We're done here, right?

Uhm...no.

"Yeah, Toomer is such a bad guy, says the woman who uses the abortion clinic instead of the Pill. But she's right about one thing -- a BlackBerry is way more important than a fetus. It's true. You ever tried to play Tetris on a baby bulge? Fucking impossible."

Dood. Dood. DOOD. The abortion clinic instead of the pill? For one thing, that's Amani's allegation, run through Page Six. For another, you do understand that the pill has a limited success rate, right? I mean, you don't take it totally for granted; shit happens. For another, you've not only ignored, you have pissed on the equal possibility that Amani Toomer may have actually abused this broad. Equal, I say, because we have roughly equal evidence to the effect that he's a douchebag and she's a golddigger (which is, after all, what this is about)--and all of that evidence came from PAGE FUCKING SIX.

I thought long and hard, and I'm not cutting With Leather from my daily reading, or from the Sausage to your right. I'm not going to take Ufford to task on his home turf, because while some folk over there will get it, a lot won't, and I don't need the aggravation, and I don't want to become PNG in a place where I occasionally find a need to drop a witty comment. I am going to write to him privately and ask that he read this post, and offer him an opportunity to correct any egregious factual wrongs I'm doing him here.

And I'm damn sure not suggesting that you go take this up yourself. I'm really not. What I am doing is this: you're on notice, Mister Ufford. While it is perfectly reasonable that my respect and affection may be trivial to you--and in fact, there's no reason why they should be anything but trivial--you have trifled with them today, Sir. Seriously. Please maintain your laser-like focus on what the fuck it is you're supposed to be doing. Thank you.

UPDATE: Matt Ufford updated the post in question, to note that he does not, in fact, take seriously anything he reads on Page Six. He reminds that "nothing -- nothing -- on this site is serious unless I make it an explicit point to 'take off my With Leather hat.' You fucking nancies."

I'll take his point and be done with this. My sacred cow ain't your sacred cow.

Ketchup

Busy week.

These not-bunnies are sleeping after eating Landru's blogging time this week.

But the world refuses to sit still as I don't blog it, so I'll catch up a bit here.

John Edwards (the Presidential candidate, not the other douche): What a spineless fucking piece of shit. Granted, he eventually expressed something vaguely resembling support for Amanda Marcotte and ShakesSis, who he had hired to reach out to the netroots. But he waited 36-48 hours after the faux explosion around them (caused entirely by noisemaking right-wing fucktards), before acting. Sasha points out (privately) that Edwards is either a complete pussy, or merely an ineffectual one. To the extent that it was possible that I'd support Edwards in the primary any more, it ain't now. That a so-called progressive candidate could find himself at odds with the "sentiment" of various posts by unshakeable feminists is not exactly what anyone would call progressive. And the outrage over girls saying "fuck" is sheer hypocrisy. I'm not a big fan of either blog (ShakesSis is linked here, because I occasionally mosey over and get a dose of whatever they're peddling), but this shit is way over the top.

Anna Anna Anna Anna Anna Nicole: I don't want to laugh at this tawdry tart's misfortune. It's hard for me to sit here and write that she was dumb, or something; she parlayed those tits and that ass into megawealth. On the other hand, I just heard the first "choked on her own vomit" story of the ensuing media frenzy. While Anna Nicole Smith was and is pretty much irrelevant to me, I must simply remind you that you can't dust for vomit.

Looney Astronaut: Sasha and I were discussing how this week's news alone should be outstanding fodder for TreyStoneParkerMatt, but sadly, they're not producing new episodes of South Park at the moment. Hopefully a wacky astronaut chick driving hundreds of miles in diapers to fuck up a workplace rival (and remember, Wacky Astronaut Chick says she wasn't involved with Studly Astronaut Boy) will remain topical until they start cranking some new stuff. And if there was no fucking involved, Victim Chick must leave quite a mess in the ladies' or around the coffee machine, to be provoking that much hatin'. This story is, by the way, the funniest. Thing. EVAR.

The Super Bowl: I think I done said all I'm gonna, in the game-night posts. The Cum Cannon just couldn't sling enough spooge to get the job done, and that's sad. From a high comedy perspective, the game rated about an A minus; the rain was a hoot, bashing the Cumslinger is a hoot, and it just doesn't get any better than 5-6 turnovers before halftime in the Super Bowl. The commercials this year neither heightened nor diminished the thing's comedy potential, although it was a pretty lackluster set of commercials. And Prince with a shadow demon penis? Priceless.

Futbol: Of course, blackDogred has addressed this thoroughly and essentially without fault. The U.S. mens' national team played a friendly against Mexico the other night, and it was massively entertaining. Unfortunately, I've gotten to the same point with USMNT that I've gotten to with the Terps; I dislike almost as many of the USMNT players as I do Maryland basktballers. While this is sad, it doesn't keep me from spewing bile when our boys play the Mexicans, who are aging, melancholy, unsportsmanlike pussies. The good news is that I can forget about this a few weeks into DCU's upcoming season and focus on hating Bruce Arena (who was in the booth with Eric Wynalda for the Mexico game, and THAT, friends, was pure comedy gold).

And in closing:

Greg says, "Fuck you, Michelle, Gun Counter Gomer, and Dan Riehl!"

Let Me Get This Straight

Shitting the bed isn't working. So we're going to take half a bottle of Ex-Lax, tie ourselves to the bed, and increase the volume? Riiiiiight.

Quagmire: Great name for a Family Guy character. Lousy concept for nation-building. Which, uhm, we don't do. Except when we do.

Note to morons: No, I didn't just equate U.S. troops to feces. Just, y'know, as a prophylactic against your most likely response to metaphor. Now shut up and go join the military, and don't pretend for a second that the left--which doesn't support the war and doesn't agree that terrorism merits a military response--is susceptible to your lame-ass attempts to turn back the chickenhawk argument. Enjoy your shit bath.

In other news, shitting the bed isn't working so well for the Terrapins, either. It is really difficult to despise the team that is your team. Unconscionably difficult, in fact. It's sad, but this team is doomed until the last player who ever met John Gilchrist skies out of College Park. This year's senior class is haunted by that ghost (and its progeny). Make like Chrissy Mac, MJ. Blow your knee again, DJ. Take your elbows to Italy, Ekene. And you, Shaggy? Just slump over, and try not to damage the floor when you hit it. Assuming you're capable of hitting the floor by simply falling down. Video evidence is inconclusive.

There are them what don't believe me, but I say this to you now: two more NCAA tournaments will occur before the Maryland Terrapins grace the Big Dance again.

And remember: the Wii is just cute as a button. Just touch it anywhere and you'll have Fun!

Vroom! Vroom!

Changes

Mmkay, some things have changed around here. Note the new, more accurate pictorial representation off at the top of the sidebar. That's as close as it's gonna get, right there.

Links have come, links have gone. I have these friends, y'see, and they're in the habit of totally shutting down their blogs and starting new ones and trying to keep me from playing their little reindeer games. But I'm on to them, oh yes. I have ways of tracking them down. And this I have done. You'll notice new links to Fold to Combine and five point five over there in link-link land. Both are written by fine human beings. Consume their intellectual output. And in the case of five point five, go belch the national anthem and piss your name in the snow and generally make a horse's ass of yourself, because she's all Serious and shit, and if enough of us trash up the place and make it look like she built it on an Indian graveyard, she'll have to think up a new name and URL and move there at four in the morning and not tell anybody. But we'll find her. Oh yes we will.

I have left up links to several blogs that publish even more sporadically than this one. The reason for this is that I can't stand to tell most people that I killed their links. Especially my wife. That'd really suck, telling my wife that I dumped her for five point five.

I've also dumped some political and semi-culture stuff. Politics bores me, and I'm just no longer into certain forms of nominal culture that I used to find appealling (to the point where I'd write about them in other fora). What I'm really angling for is an invitation to replace Footsteps Falco over at Kissing Suzy Kolber. But that's gonna take a while.

Remember, I'm still not posting much. I have to really want to rant to take the trouble to log in to Blooger and type stuff, mmkay? The main purpose for this blog is to give me a nice navigation tool to all that stuff on the right. It has nothing to do with wanting to entertain you. If I wanted to entertain you, I'd link to that YouTube of me and Ilse stripping down and singing, "I've Got A Brand New Pair of Roller Skates, You've Got A Brand New Key." We clear on this?

Good.

Here. Now I think of it, have some YouTube. The one on the right is Ilse. The one on the left is K-Lo.

Breaking News: Why You've Never Heard of That Euroskank Who Made Me Into Bot Food

Uhm...because she doesn't exist.

Never mind.

This Blog Is Not About Fucking Alexandra Paressant

So you went away because I've grown intolerably lazy about posting? Good on you. You should.

Some things don't go away, though. One of them is hits on this blog. Minions has had craploads of hits in the last four or five days. 95 percent of them have been from bots, searching for stuff about Alexandra Paressant, who I mentioned briefly and unkindly not long ago.

I'm thinking through how I feel about this. Your input is welcome; feel free to tell me what I should think.

For the record, I think she's sorta skinny and really not at all appealling. Her horse-faced boyfriend is welcome to her.

Oddly Enough

This is also why I haven't posted for 12 days.

That and work, and houseguests, and...uhm...well, those two, plus PS2 and sex with my wife, who is way hotter than that poofter Ronaldinho's Eurotart girlfriend, pretty much cover it. Sorry.

I mean I'm sorry that I haven't posted. I'm not sorry that my wife is way hotter than Alexandra Paressant. Or that I have sex with her. Or that I play on the PS2. Or that I have houseguests. Got it? Especially the parts about my wife being way hotter than Alexandra Paressant and me having sex with her? With my wife, I mean, not Alexandra Paressant?

Good.

Noooooooooo!!!!!!!

Bonnie Bernstein dons mouse ears.

For those of you who don't know, I'd take a fucking bullet for Bonnie Bernstein, Princess of Terpdom. Man, if she and Juan Dixon got hitched, that'd be like the happiest day of my life.

Uhm, second happiest.

Update: Don't laugh, it could happen.