Magnificent Bastard: Dan Marino

(spills Cuba Libre on podium)

(stares at picture hanging above the podium)

Jesus! It's like staring into the maw of a yawning vampire stallion! Oh shit, is this thing on? Ahem...I'd like to welcome you all to Coral Springs for Magnificent Bastard's first induction ceremony. Isn't the band just great? Give it up for Menudo '08, ladies and gentlemen! Now somebody please get all these fucking pointy-sideburned panzies out of here.


No, I'm serious. And leave the waiter's uniforms. They're rented.



(finishes Cuba Libre, sucks on lime)



(jiggles glass)



Hey Consuela! Another Castro, please! God, I would kill an orphan for a waitress that understands english.

Ahem. Tonight we honor Daniel Constantine Marino, the infamous number thirteen. The most prolific passer in Central Catholic High School, University of Pittsburgh and National Football League history.

That's all good and all, but we're mostly here to enshrine Mr. Marino for his acting ability. That's right, film fans: Dan Marino starred opposite everyone's hyperactive, overacting Canadian Jim Carey in Ace Ventura: Pet Detective!


In his spectacular debut as an athlete playing an himself, Danny succeeded in conquering the world of comedy by delivering a riveting performance of a stiff-legged, quick-release quarterback who overcomes his attraction to transsexuals and the loss of his team's mascot to beat the Eagles in Super Bowl XXXVI. I still crack up every time I recall that last one. He stole our hearts again when he was in Adam Sandler's Little Nicky and he asked Satan for a Super Bowl Ring. Oh, Dan!



(sarcastically slaps Marino on shoulder)



They wouldn't let us use the projector, so I don't have a clip. Sorry, folks. That dried up prune, Hiuzinga sprung for the nicest Hotel in greater Metropolitan Dade county, but denied us the viewing pleasure of seeing Marino light up the big screen.


Come on up here, Danny boy! Give us a speech! And we'e not talking about that boring shitfest you gave everyone when they retired your number...HOLY KIICK'S GHOST that speech almost gave me hemorroids! I mean here I was, recording the whole thing on my VCR, expecting this meaningful Lou Gehrig moment.

Nope. Nothing. Not even a tear. It pissed me off so much, I didn't even mind losing to the Ravens. Dan Marino, ladies and gentlemen...


MARINO: Thank you, Bookworm. I'd like to thank my lovely wife Claire, my kids and especially Michael who couldn't make it tonight. He's hosting a charity fundraiser at the Marino Center for Autism Research.

And the fans. The fans are great too.


(stares at Marino)


The fuck was that? You know Danny, you're like rufies at an orgy. Everyone remembers why they came, but don't remember a gaddam thing afterwards. Thanks for coming out. You're a real MAGNIFICENT BASTARD.


One last note, folks, before dessert is served: a little known fact: Todd Blackledge was drafted ahead of him. Thank you and drive home safely.

Welcome to Thunderdome, Bitch!

Traveling 100 miles anywhere in a car, and you're bound to hit something. That's why I always buckle up. The other day I was navigating Dianne's rockin' Jetta, I cremated a butterfly at 85 mph somewhere near Narcoosee. We didn't stop to see if it was OK...most of it was still on the windshield.

The entire traumatic incident got me thinking about animals. And cars. And hitting said animals with cars. Here is a breakdown of wildlife I've slain during my career as an apocalyptic road warrior/orchid enthusiast:

Prey: A family of ducks
Vehicle: Chevy Astro van
Speeding back from Belle Glade, Coop was asleep in the passenger seat as I navigated the rim of Lake Okeechobee at dusk. I was 15 and was looking forward to being able to drive alone. Until then, I was sentenced to shuttle duty driving several unfamiliar vehicles.
The van was unremarkable except for being smelly and had a really sensitive throttle. I was speeding along at about 60 mph and saw a wierd shape ahead. I thought it was a trash bag or some shit. It quickly materialized into a duck and her ducklings, waddling across the road. Instantly, every action movie with a cheap car chase flashed through my mind: I envisioned myself swerving violently and flipping the van, ejecting myself and Coop from the wreckage and impaling ourselves on cyprus tree stumps.
This did not set well with me. I elected to swerve carefully instead, but it was too late: I STEAMROLLED MOMMA DUCK AND AT LEAST HALF OF HER YOUNG. This woke up Coop: "What the fuck?!" he grumbled. As I glanced in the rearview, I saw a couple of ducklings scrambling over their former family's smashed carcasses to escape the carnage.
We had Mountain Dew and KFC that night to celebrate.

Prey: Buzzard
Vehicle: 1990 Chevy C1500 Pickup
Just north of town, across from a church (God hates me) this silly-ass carrion bird was feasting on the rotting entrails of some creature just as dumb as he was. It's last meal was right on the edge of the road. As I approached, I remembered that buzzards are like cows: they don't go in reverse. I also recalled that buzzards eat dead shit, and that would ruin my day if it hit me...BLAMM-O!!!
This vile avian crashed into my grill and skewed my headlight. While sparing the light itself, it created a shockwave of stinky hell that knocked the electrical rig loose on my radio. I lost power, right in the middle of a really rippin' Creedence guitar solo. After I repaired the damage, I shook my fist at the very crumpled, very dead bird and laughed maniacally. I must admit that after the ducks, I felt sorrow and anguish because they were both cute and delicious. But this fuck-stain was uh, as they say "cruisin' for a bruisin." The buzzard damaged my ride. For that, he MUST BE ENDED.

Prey: Toad
Vehicle: 1986 Ford Bronco
This fucker was badass. It's the vehicle of choice for murderers, after all! Featuring a removable canvas top and BIG ASS CHROME BUMPERS. Late at night near the lake, it gets pretty moist. No, I'm not talking about my armpits this time. Killing toads is really about simple ecology: reptiles are cold-blooded and have to stay warm. At night, the roads are steamy and offer said warmth. "Mr. Toad, Id like to introduce you to Mr. Bumper. He's a pretty big guy as you can see. Goodbye."
It doesn't take a freshman physics teacher's aid to explain it: At 70 mph, a 3 ounce amphibian can be COMPLETELY OBLITERATED by a 2-ton truck. Even over George Strait's greatest hits, an audible BOOONNNGGG! could be heard, clearly resonating his destruction into the swampy night. It sounded like Roger Clemens throwing a handfull of mashed potatoes onto Alex Van Halen's big ass gong. Later, I surveyed the destruction: all that remained was a small black stain. Victory!
Share your tales of irresponsible driving here. Or don't. I could give a rat's ass.

Dreaming Thin

Years ago, Steve Rushin wrote a piece in SI about dreaming. He introduces us to several athletes and coaches who as youngsters, dreamed to achieve what their heroes had. He goes on:

These dreams may not sound like much to you, and I sometimes feel like Lily Tomlin, who said, "I always wanted to be somebody, but I should've been more specific." More often, though I realize that herein lies the central beauty of sports: Lifelong dreams are fulfilled every day.

Rushin describes the feeling I imagined while laying in bed staring at the ceiling after Marino threw a game-winning touchdown...right after I finished thinking about Gabrielle Reece.

"Try some more," said another great thinker, Willie Wonka, while urging the brats who toured his chocolate factory to sample the lickable wallpaper. "The snozzberries taste like snozzberries!"

"Snozzberries?!" replied Veruca Salt. "Whoever heard of a snozzberry?"

To which Willy Wonka said only, "We are the music-makers. And we are the dreamers of dreams."

Damn, that spoiled bitch really grinds my gears. Oh, well...off to the goose nest with you! Wonka was alluding to a 19th-century poet named Arthur O'Shaughnessy, who wrote:

We are the music-makers

And we are the dreamers of dreams

Wandering by lone sea-breakers

And sitting by desolate streams

World-losers and world-forsakers

On whom the pale moon gleams

Yet we are the movers and shakers

Of the world forever, it seems

That brilliant Irish fucker! I'm not a poetry guy. Everyone who knows me realizes that. I'm more of a meat-and-potatoes, full-body-massage guy. I liked the piece so much, I cut it out and saved it. That was 7 years ago. I redicovered it while organizing one of my metric tons of momentos I aquired over the past decade. I can now say that it was a big influence on my choice to start this practical joke of a blog that you're reading.

Welcome to Magnificent Bastards! Here, you will read about the glorious achievements of athletes throughout history. That's the "magnificent" part. The "bastards" part addresses the less savory moments in our heroes' careers...the parts that they'd rather have us forget.

In the months to come, I will make a solid effort to bring you a consistent report of Magnificent Bastards: the good, the bad and the ugly. I welcome your comments and suggestions; when accompanied by generous flattery, of course.

In preparation for creating this blog, I asked a few friends to help me compile a listing of athletes that fit into both magnificent and bastard categories. This proved to be difficult and we soon gave up, realizing that Dan Marino was only a marginal bastard. His magnificence, however, remains unparalleled.

One Marino moment stands out in my mind as the singlemost ass-kicking touchdown in his career. When he beat the hated Jets with that fake spike pass, I became a sports fan. He became the music-maker; the mover and shaker. But even as Danny Boy's legend burns in my imagination like the fire of a thousand suns, I am forced to see my hero, this Magnificent Bastard, hocking NutriSystem with Larry the Cable Guy:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=92wr1UfMN_w

There is no God.