Magnificent Bastards

Tebow Be Praised! Merry Cribbsmas!

2011-12-29T20:50:00.003+09:00

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It frightens me that there's a topless pic out there of this woman.

At last the pain is over. The inaugural season of the Cooper Football League has come to an exciting (if you aren't me) conclusion, with Tara's 2.5 Mendenhall prevailing. Is it me or does a Charlie Sheen and/or Ashton Kutcher reference seem really dated now? I guess it was a longer season than I thought.

Geoff, an admitted 'waiver whore' was bested with the help of Josh Cribbs, who scampered for a shit ton of yards but never scored, and put up over 29 points to lock up the championship. Drew Brees turned in a season-low 28 points for her. We should all be so unlucky.

Speaking of unlucky, Geoff's anti-Tebow aka Tony Romo predictably got knocked out of the game versus the Eagles on the first play of the game. He would have had to put up roughly 52,000 points for him to overcome Tara's lead, but I don't deal in hypotheticals ... ONLY TRUTHINESS.

Oh, and Mrs. Tara Price (his name is Trey) got third place after beating ohwhogivesashit.

Last year, I attended a shitty cummunity college. They have computers set up all around campus throughout the hallways there. Any street urchin can come in and use their old college ID and access the tubes of knowledge. One day, I was checking my grades online and listening to music with headphones. This jackhole sitting next to me was watching music videos and listening to Ron Paul speeches. Suddenly, without warning, he began shouting, "YEAH! THAT'S RIGHT! I'M SICK AND TIRED OF BEING SICK AND TIRED!" Being a Florida native, I've learned to ignore crazy people. That way, they don't actually exist so you don't feel bad for letting them starve.

He then proceeded to laugh hysterically at other videos, disturbing my readings of all things internet-ty. I should also mention that this was a black kid of about twenty years old. Of all the strange people I've been annoyed by here in my home state, I never would have imagined a young, black Ron Paul asswipe with no manners would make me want to terminate. After a while, he turned to me:

HIM: Hey yo...

ME: [face twisted in mean scowl and ignoring with headphones on]

HIM: EXCUSE ME

ME: [deep sigh] Yeah?

HIM: Can I use your cell phone?

ME: Well, I'm sure they have pay phones here...

HIM: I'm calling a number in Dade county, and I don't have any money.

ME: No. Sorry.

He tsked a few times (loud enough so I could hear him) then left. I now realize that the actual swill spouted forth by ALL the candidates, pundits and undecided voters leading up to this year's election will be many, many times worse than any run-in with an unhinged PaulTard.

I don't have cable, you see. Between Netflix, YouTube and my intensive study time at the Regional Clown College, I'll be mostly spared these pricks elbowing each other to beat Obama. I wonder what the hell I'm going to do with all my time. So to help transition to the next season of the CFL, here's a few activities I hope to participate in:

Central Florida Warrior Dash That link is to a video of last year's event near UCF. Jen and I are doing it this year in celebration of her birthday. Unbeknownst to me, I registered myself without realizing that the conference championship games are that day. Looks like I'll miss most of the first game because I'll be chest-deep in worm feces, racoon urine and ringworms. Maybe Cake will perform at my get-well party.

Lebowski Fest Orlando This is a celebration of all things Lebowski! Activities include a costume contest, appearances from the cast and music from the band The Fuckin' Eagles.

Enjoying the new Van Halen album! Just kidding ... it sucks. Know what doesn't suck? The voice-only track of David Lee Roth on Runnin' With the Devil. It really speaks to me. I practice my job interview skills with this track turned up to eleven.

Smut shop sting operations! I've always wanted to do a bank job. That's street language for rob a bank. But if I couldn't do that, I'd work with the cops on a sting operation. I imagine my bladder emptying the second anything goes wrong, but the thrill could be bigger than any rush on the planet. I would need nerves of steel for this, but here goes:

Another Three Bite The Dust

2011-12-19T12:48:00.000+09:00

This week, I ran out of model airplane glue, so I needed a distraction from all the fantasy football I wasn't engaged in. I've taken up a new hobby: hanging out in Wal-Marts and finger blasting all the packs of paper towels. Ever done this? IT WILL FREE YOUR SOUL. I like to lead with my index and bird fingers and totally violate all the plastic wrap over the cardboard towel tube. My career first-time finger blasting percentage (when the plastic is broken on the first blast) is .990!

Congratulations to our winners! Jennifer hemmed up fifth place by blowing out Glenn's Hellions by over 40 points. Glenn somehow managed to start Maurice Jones-Drew's backup instead of Benjarvus Green-Ellis (out of spite?). Geoff predictably handled Trey to move on (seriously: how did you make it this far?) and Tara mangled Josh with a little* help from Drew Brees. Jen's fifth place prize is the new dance game for XBOX Kinect: The Black Eyed Peas Experience! Click here to polish up your poppin' and/or your lockin'.

*a lot

Week 14: Playoffs Briefing/Tebow Commentary

2011-12-12T09:47:00.001+09:00

Please excuse the delay in posting this weeks' wrap-up. I'm still in the depths of a post-season ether binge and DADDY STILL NEEDS HIS MEDICINE. Anyway, on Sunday Jen passed on Joe Flacco for the emotional choice: Tim Tebow. Meanwhile, her romance with Mark Sanchez is over. They had a messy breakup: he later threw four touchdowns. Bummer.
After she confidently set her team, we nearly finished our masterpiece: a Twilight: Breaking Dawn diorama of Edward and Bella's consumation of marriage. IT. IS. HOT. Then, we set out to watch her stud, Maurice Jones-Drew scamper for 36 points against a ghastly pitiful Tampa Bay defense. The mighty MJD had two touches rushing and two more recieving, in part because Mercedes Lewis is a gash, but mostly because he's the Mighty MJD. Jennifer was in awe of his field presence:

JEN: [adorable squeeky voice] He's so little!

ME: Look at his legs, though.

JEN: [spits out Dr. Pepper] Whoa!

Meanwhile, our old nemesis Ted Ginn, Jr dropped 20 points on Tara's bench, as did my good buddy Shonn Greene. In fact, Tara's bench put up over 100 points. She was done early in her matchup vs. Jen's Woopie Cakes, and Jen took the lead during the late game before boyish fop Eli Manning drove his shitty squad down the field to score on the even shittier Cowboys. That score put up 37 points on Jen's banged up Dallas Defense, subtracting 2 points from Jen and winning the game for Tara by under 2 points. Trey tells us that Tara was yelling at the television, coaching Eli to checkdown the third reciever. That's precisely why we play this game: the interest we invest in every game that our players participate in is real and ferocious. This barely applies to me, dropping my final four games and finishing finishing last. I'm horrible at fantasy football.

Trey beat Glenn. [dismissive wanking motion] Jen is now matched with the Homestead Hellions for the fifth place game, in which there is probably no monetary reward.

HALFTIME! I present for your enjoyment ... fantasy curling. YOU'RE WELCOME, READERS.

The first three quarters of the Denver/Chicago game were hard to watch. Tebow lost 2 fumbles, and his recievers couldn't catch dick through 3 quarters of painfully dull football. If you heard that Tebow's passing game wasn't on target and he looked like shit, YOU ARE WRONG. He did fine, but his recievers sucked donkey scrotum.

Marion Barber is the goat of the day AND RIGHTFULLY SO. He got a touchdown called back for me a couple of weeks ago and I sent him out some bad mojo for the duration of the game. He ran like a beast the entire game against Denver's stingy defense. Then in the fourth quarter WHEN GAMES ARE WON/LOST, he idiocically trots out of bounds to stop the clock, and promptly FUMBLES ON THE NEXT PLAY, allowing TebowTime to miracle together a comeback. The haters at KSK called Barber Tebow's enabler. They go on to bark that all of Tim's wins come by a field goal.

EXCUSE ME, DUMB SHITS. When did a win (or seven of them) by three points not become a win? Seems like some asshole is still stuck in his college days playing drunk Jenga with his 'bros. In college, your rankings suffer if you don't run up the score (see Spurrier, Steve). In the pros, A GROWN MAN'S GAME, your team can win by one point and it only means a better spot in the playoff picture.

Brian Urlacher, THE LOSING TEAM'S MIDDLE LINEBACKER called Tebow "a pretty good running back." Saint Timmy responded by saying earnestly, "That means a lot coming from a great competitor like him." I fucking love this guy, on and off the field. Liking Tim Tebow just feels right; like taking a shit without a shirt on. He's insulted by a guy who's number was never called during the game, a COMPLETE NON-FACTOR. He talks shit afterwards, and Tim Tebow kills him with kindness. Meanwhile, the hype (positive and negative) continues: My buddy Chad said, "Tim Tebow is the most talked about white Bronco since the O.J. chase." Now, all he needs is a white girlfriend that doesn't sleep around with waiters.

I absolutely adore the blogosphere's vitriol for him. A KSK commenter put it best - "At this point we're all Frank Grimes to Tebow's Homer Simpson."

Week 13: Save Me A Waffle

2011-12-07T02:08:00.001+09:00

Brian and I both missed the playoffs this year. I KNOW, RIGHT? I'm as surprised as you. By week seven, I hoped to eventually knock someone out of the playoffs as a final "fuck you" to anyone who participated in my defeat. Alas, I would not have my vengeance because fuckwit Marion Barber had a touchdown called back and Shonn Greene (whom I fired before kickoff) scored twice and had a hundred fucking yards. I was playing Geoff, and I couldn't knock him out of the money, but could I at least squeak out a victory before I return to fantasy football purgatory? NOOOOOOO...

Now, the Rex Ryan hate can begin in earnest. The Jets' run/pass ratio was the lowest in the league with teams that have winning records, and now you decide to hand it off to that underachieving shitdick of a back. YOU FAT FUCK. I HOPE YOU CHOKE ON A SEWAGE-DIPPED CORNDOG.

The Toyota Biggest Blowout Award brought to you by Toyota is bequeathed upon Josh's Pick City for routing Jen's Whoopie Cakes by over 24 points. Next week is the playoffs, so let's take a look at all the regular season blowouts ... because I love torturing soul.

The largest differential Blowout so far goes to Josh's Pick City, who decimated Brian by OVER 100 POINTS in week 10 thanks to Aaron Rodgers and Larry Fitzgerald. Tara held the award for most weeks, totalling three times. She got the shit end of the stick only once in week 2. I'm neglecting to mention my team because my therapist says I shouldn't.
The remainder of the season, I'll be updating the results as usual, except I obviously won't include a sad report on my failures as a manager. You won't have my Magnitudes to kick around any more. Instead, you all can focus on my failures as a commissioner. Then, we can all have an uncomfortable chuckle at my expense and wait until mid-March to collect your winnings.

In closing, this clip encapsulates how I really feel about fantasy football, every season, and for all eternity:

See you in macrame'! I hate all of you.

Week 12: Pray For Forgiveness

2011-11-29T22:07:00.001+09:00

Presenting our new trophy/scarlet letter for last place: A tattoo artist got cheated on and instead of giving her a Narnia tattoo, he gave her a swirled pile of shit. I think the stink lines really make it pop. Whether or not this is true, it happened in Ohio, so I'd like to think it could happen.

The Biggest Blowout Award brought to you by Toyota is given to Trey's Groovers for their 48-point drubbing of Brian's shitty squad of ever-changing names. Congratulations! Brian's bench didn't even show up.

Sunday night, Bob Costas commented on end zone celebrations, chastising the individualists in all of us. For the record, I LOVE LOVE LOVED Stevie Johnson's miming of Plax shooting himself. Especially the part where he cost his team the game by tacking on penalty yards to the ensuing kickoff, having Plax score THEN dropping a go-ahead touchdown. That's like a triple payback right there. In retrospect, end zone dances are part of the problem, but no one talks about what's really going on here.

First, Costas' essay. It starts like this: "For those of you too busy keeping up with the Kardashians to notice..." He almost lost me there. Excuse me, you Lilliputian talking head! Are you lecturing us for sleepwalking through society's downfall because some really hot prostitute is shaking her ass in our face? Oh, I see what's going on here. The nerdy man with the microphone is drawing parallels between reality programming and football hubris. IT'S ALL OUR FAULT FOR WATCHING THE REAL WORLD! His colleague, Mike Florio did a write-up on it, adding that Chad Ochocinco tweeted a comment about Costas' rant, as if that matters. Here's Florio's reaction to it, including the text of Costas' rant. It reads more like 500 words promoting their gay online talk shows, and it can't be appreciated without video accompaniment, so here you go.

The whole thing is bullshit. It made me think about Tim Tebow while shuffling through the wins/losses at the water cooler. A lot of unnecessary attention has been given of late to Florida's own. The Tebowing phenomenon never really got national attention until he got trolled by some no-named lineman. Prior to that, the blogosphere endlessly ridiculed his piety. Religion (especially Christianity) is an easy target in this country. To me, it's boring and went out of style thanks to dick jokes. Countless athletes either kneel or point to the big coach upstairs whenever they're rewarded with an Earthly triumph over their opponents. Why are all the haters focused on him? Because he's the most successful or not successful enough? The most visible journalists usually don't go near this subject; they don't like God in their sports. They mostly avoided Kurt Warner's expressions of faith and instead focused on his weirdo graybush wife. Kurt Warner isn't all that much different from Tebow except that Tebow is likable and not boring as shit.

Instead of having you read through a rant listing this country's excellence, and how all this would be impossible IN CHINA, here's Zooey Deschanel singing the National Anthem at something called the World Series:

Right before kickoff on Sunday, Jen and I were in a rush and she hadn't set her team. I "suggested" that she dump Mark Sanchez and pick up one of the best guys in the Matchup Rating section. She easily accepted, started Vince Young and Mark Sanchez went on to throw four touchdowns. But all that doesn't matter one ball hair, because my girlfriend is better at fantasy football than me. Jen's Woopie Cakes beat me by 5 points. Keep in mind, she actually owns a copy of Air Bud 2 and you will fully understand my pain. People with such tastes shouldn't be good at anything.

Week 11: Blink 182 Edition

2011-11-18T01:51:00.001+09:00

DO NOT ADJUST YOUR SCREEN: This is a photoshop of Tim Tebow ... IF HE WAS BLACK. I think we can all agree that his beard would be trimmed a little tighter than that. I bet there's a Kanye West-esque Jesus Chain under all that Spiritual Armor he's wearing, too. Anyway, he went 9/20 for about a hundred yards and still beat the Jets. AWESOME.

This week marked a milestone for my Magnitudes: I benched Phil Rivers for Jay Cutler. He promptly broke his thumb. Anything I touch turns to shit.

I had to fucking rehire Shonne Greene because 99% of all NFL backs fucking suck this year and bye weeks are still decimating my roster. I swear that bye weeks are like Somalia during Ramadan. Predictably, Greene disappeared in the 2nd quarter with a rib injury, and my fate was sealed early on vs. Glenn's resurrected Homestead Hellions. He couldn't even scrounge 3 lousy points for me. To add insult to fatal injury, I was finished off by my fantasy football nemesis, Mr. Rob Gronkowski. WHY MUST YOU DESTROY MY HOPES OF WINNING, YOU GIANT GASH?

And just because Tara made the playoffs, here's a story about Franco Harris; one of the most famous Steelers. He's passionate about PSU football, Joe Paterno and showering with young boys.* God in Heaven, what a gigantic mess. I bet all the Terrible Towels in the world couldn't mop up all the bodily fluids excreted thanks to all these assholes.

The Toyota Biggest Blowout Award brought to you by Toyota is awarded, once again to Geoff's Dawgs. He destroyed Jennifer's Whoopie Cakes by over 60 points. He had three players score in the twenties, and three more score in the teens. Can anyone stop this juggernaut? This team must be neutered, and fast.
So here I sit, in last place again. I'm ranked lower than my girlfriend, who barely replaced Reggie Wayne (on bye) on Sunday. It seems that no matter what league I'm in, who my opponent is or how promising my matchups are, I almost always fucking FAIL FAIL FAIL at this. Sometimes I feel like I'm my own worst enemy:

*Dramatization. May not have happened.

Week 10 Wrap-Up: Sad Dolphin Edition

2011-11-11T03:19:00.000+09:00

Still better than losing to the Broncos. [dies]

Everyone knows the Dolphins have a propensity for sucking out loud. Watching the team fail at all sorts of important categories like offense, special teams, and coaching is especially painful this year. It's made for an even more disappointing season because their defense is pretty badass. Meanwhile, the Patriots' D is the worst in the league in several categories, and they're 6-3; so maybe you'll begin to understand my pissedoffedness at these assholes.

The Toyota Biggest Blowout Award brought to you by Toyota goes to Josh's Pick City. He destroyed Brian's Whogivesashitwhatthey'recalled by over 100 points. Wow. Just wow. Brian only had one player in double digits and he's dropped the last 5 games. Hey, things are lookin' up!

AAAAAANNNND Trey edged me out Monday night with the help of shithead back Adrian Peterson. There's that old familiar feeling. He only needed 9.5 points to defeat my Magnitudes, and he got 9.75. What an asshole. My girlfriend has beaten Tara's 2.5 Mendenhalls and is now ranked higher than I am.

To help put this all in perspective, here's a Cleveland Browns fan ranting directly to the source. This is just how I feel about the league I created, preside as commisioner over, and really suck at. This dude was the genious behind Cleveland's Hastily Made Tourism Video ("...see our river that catches on fire...our economy is based on Lebron James...").

BIZZARRO WORLD WEEK 9 WRAP-UP

2011-11-09T01:03:00.003+09:00

Bill Murray as FDR.

My Magnitudes edged out Brian's Whateveryoucallthem thanks to Lazerface and Darren Sproles. It also helped a little that Julio Jones was on his bench. The only thing unusual about that is that matchup is that I actually won. Big fucking deal: I'm 3-6 and lingering in 7th place.

The Biggest Blowout Award presented by Toyota is goes to Jen and her Whoopie Cakes, for routing Glenn's Ghost Hellions. All she did was hang 22 points on him, but she did with the help of Matt Hasselback, Brandon Marshall, and Reggie Bush. Wait, WHAT?!?!?!

The universe is askew. Jupiter must be drunk or something. Tara lost! DOGS AND CATS ... LIVING TOGETHER!

I knew something was weird after I saw Charlie Day host SNL the other night and the only thing funny was Seth Myers' edgy jokes. His timing was on and everything! The fuck?

Then I learned that Jessie "The Body" Ventura, Navy SEAL, Vietnam vet, pro wrestler, Hollywood actor-turned Governer, has decided to renounce his U.S. citizenship and fucking become a Mexican. Here's why.

A few yearsd ago, I heard him on Howard Stern promoting his stupid conspiracy TV show. They recalled all the major events in his life. I enjoyed his antics for a while: pissing on the establishment, not being full of shit etc. but after hearing him talk for an hour about aliens, ancient prophecies and Mexico, I knew he'd succumbed to some sort of tropical parasite. anyways, here he is at his best:

ONE GAME WINNING STREAK BITCHEZ !!!!11!!

2011-11-01T23:38:00.001+09:00

The new MNF Crew. Happy Halloween!

My Magnitudes edged out Josh's Picks by five points, thanks to Phillip Rivers' sensational 5.79 point performance. Let me just say I AM DAMN PROUD TO LEAD THIS TEAM TO VICTORY. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to crying into my pillow.

This weeks' coveted Toyota Biggest Blowout Award goes to (guess who) Tara and her 2.5 Mendenhalls. She asploded Glenn's Hellions by over 42 points! Granted, Glenn put up only 53 points and started two players on bye weeks, but she still gets the trophy. She can put it next to her expired catchphrases that she uses in everyday life.

Geoff's spaded Dawgs take over the top spot this week, continuing a 6-game streak. Big Ben is playing Baltimore on Sunday and Megatron is on bye; which means .... awww fuck it he'll probably win anyway because he always wins.

And now a musical salute to Philip 'Laserface' Rivers featuring Modest Mouse:

Lucky Week 7?

2011-10-27T21:21:00.000+09:00

Not for me! I took home the coveted Toyota Biggest Blowout award, thanks to Drew Brees existing. I got housed for over 63 points by that twat with the weird scar on his face. My recievers are still eating shit, my QB still continues to suck, and I'll never even go to the playoffs.

Congratulations are in order for Glenn's Hellions, who edged out Trey's Bucket Groovers by 13 points. I couldn't get an interview with Trey for this report, probably OUT OF EMBARASSMENT THAT HIS OPPONENT HAS BARELY TOUCHED HIS TEAM IN WEEKS. Trey was beaten by a ghost.

Geoff's Dawgs took the number one spot from Josh's Picks, who was destroyed due in large part to bye weeks. Congratulations, Geoff! Your prize is this Halloween-themed video featuring Tim Curry as a wizard who's fabulousness is only eclipsed by David Bowie's Jareth. It featured AWESOME blue-screen effects, bedazzlingly creepy looks by the star, a tambourine, and a betamax player. Happy Halloween, everyone!

A special shout out to The world's biggest Harry Potter fan, Tara for talking trash on Facebook. She seems to think it's impressive that she's beating the Price brothers during her first run at fantasy football. Why is that impressive, Tara? BECAUSE YOU'RE A GIRL?

Week 6: Pick Up Sticks

2011-10-19T10:09:00.002+09:00

This week's matchups for me were just about as abyssmal as Dolphins football. When/if the Dolphins win this year, I'm going to throw myself a party that's only slightly less depressing than Kirk Cameron's.
Naturally, I lost to Geoff's mighty Dawgs because that dipshit Phil Rivers was on bye week, probably picking out new Ed Hardy belts. While in some blind coma of stupidity, I picked up Rex Grossman and he hung out MINUS FOUR AND A HALF POINTS. My highest scoring player was Robbie Gould: Chicago's kicker. I think you'll understand when I commit suicide by jumping, crotch-first on rusty, pee-stained spikes.

While watching the pre-game on Sunday, I fell victim to a Two and A Half Men promo and a little light bulb went off: Tara's team is named after that stupid, vaccuos, lazy comedy. That would explain her blatantly tardy use of a catchphrase for a motto: "DUH! WINNING!"

In reality, 2.5 Rashard Mendenhalls would not even equal one Ray Rice. Here's Charlie Sheen in one of the Hot Shots! movies, properly remembered as someone that rules:

GIFSoup

Jennifer was the recipient of the business end of Toyota's Blowout award, losing by over 40 points to Josh. She assures me that she doesn't give a shit. She's past the part where she's excited just to participate in something with me. Perhaps if I had more than one measely win ....

This week's leader, Josh probably picked up the handy-dandy Beckett's football insider for $12. He probably believes everything he reads in it, too:

0-3 And Drowning In My Own Tears

2011-09-29T06:02:00.001+09:00

Last week, I endured another astonishing* loss in the CFL; this time to Trey. His Bucket Groovers eeked by my Magnitudes by the narrowest of margins. Screw that guy.

Geoff's Dawgs beat up on Glenn's Homestead Hellions to grab the coveted Biggest Blowout trophy, presented by our friends at Toyota. NOW WITH OPTIONAL TRUCK NUTS! He hung almost 85 points on Glenn's 0-3 squad, knocking them down to last place. Suddenly, I only feel like the second biggest loser here. Ya know what would make me feel better? The Mermaid family picture:

*not really. What are you, an asshole?

WEEK 2: Yeah, I'm Still Winless.

2011-09-20T00:06:00.000+09:00

Josh and Pick City had the biggest blowout, defeating Tara's 2.5 Mendenhalls by over 30 points! Trey's Bucket Groovers take over first place in the CFL by edging out Geoff's Dawgs. To celebrate their wins, we're all meeting under the highway 47 bridge and throwing a KUH-RAAAAZY RAVE!

Shocking Update: I'm Winless.

2011-09-14T02:19:00.000+09:00

I lost in both my leagues yesterday thanks in part to Nate Kaeding, who injured his frail, withered corpse during the first kickoff of the game. I'm not being too harsh when I say that I hope he spends the rest of his days with poop-smeared bamboo shoots shoved underneath his toenails. EAT A DICK.

Big shouts to Tara for dominating with her squad in the CFL and taking the number one spot from no one (it's week one, you see) . I know she likes unicorns; so PUMP UP THE JAMS:

This Here's An NFL Celebratory Snack Break, Son

2011-08-13T07:51:00.000+09:00

Fireworks & Boxing, You Say?

2011-06-09T19:37:00.005+09:00

As a kid, I loved Popular Science Magazine. I found it laying around my dentist's office and poured through it, searching for pictures of radical cars, jets and tubular inventions. The kids still say tubular, right?

I always enjoyed the history of the publication, too. In the back of each issue, they'd feature entries from the time capsule: Some grainy photo or illustrations would depict a wacky invention from an issue older than most buildings in my home state. It absolutely captivated my imagination and kept me distracted while a beautiful dental hygienist scraped the Pringles from my teeth.

I remember an issue that featured The Internet on the cover: a stylized painting of glowing, raised tubes over a city that the Jetsons might call home absolutely FLOORED MY SHIT. The article was fucking boring, but for a while afterwards, I was under the impression that America had installed a giant monorail system that physically delivered cool t-shirts and Encyclopedia Brittanica all over the world. You might say I have a impressionable imagination. Now imagine my amazement when I discovered pornography. That's why I don't shake hands with adolescent boys.

This cool science blog ran this screen cap of two guys wearing asbestos tuxedos getting into articulated frames of fireworks, where they would eventually mock fight. Imagine being a kid in 1934 and seeing this shit go down: it must've been life-changing for some filthy, starving depression-era little dudes. One night little English Jimmy's rolling a hoop down a hill with a stick, the next they're watching two guys covered in exploding fireworks fake punch each other.

My favorite is the guy rigging up the fireworks: I imagine him as Smokey, the slightly deranged pyrotechnics rigger on loan from Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show. The dapper vest and newsboy cap is just to set the stage actors at ease: In reality, he's as reckless as an acrobat on opium. Also, he probably smokes opium.

The Japanese Flourescent Light Bulb Fighters would totally fuck their shit up.

Simulated Bat Sex: The New Crotch Chop

2011-05-09T19:10:00.007+09:00

Sports Show with Norm Macdonald
Tags: Sports Show,Norm Macdonald,#SportsShow

I've tried out Norm McDonald's Sports Show a few times now, and it's just now making me laugh. I was unimpressed up to this point except for Norm's use of the Sad Bill Cosby meme (seen here). Here's his take on the whole Roger McDowell-Allegedly-Screaming-Obscenities-At-Children incident. From now on, let's just call it BatFuckGate, ummkay?

Right after Gloria "Mistress Litigator" Allred announced a demonstration, a member of Norm's audience noticeably yelped. NAILED IT! That line was masterful: the rehearsed timing of a master trial lawyer grandstanding for the hungry media hounds. It brilliantly triggered the awkward silence followed by the rapid shuttering of the cameras in hopes of capturing a moment of horror on the girls' faces. Alas, the videographer zoomed in on the adults (BOOOOO!) and the youngsters were cut out.

I like to brag that nothing shocks me, yet I still find it hard that this shit isn't just a prank. G-Red's prompting of Justin (her client and the girls' father) to help demonstrate penetration by a piece of sports equipment in the company of minors and 100 journalists reminds me of something the late great Andy Kaufman might do, if he were a seedy pervert. The only thing that would've made it more disgusting is if he would've made a fist. Maybe grunt a little over Technotronic's Pump Up the Jam.

Author's note: Ever tried to do the running man whilst wearing a fanny pack ON THE FRONT? You may just puncture your testicles.

The first time I learned about Gloria Allred was during the later stages of the Tiger Woods distraction. She offered her services (for FREE!) to one of the adult film actresses who wriggled her way onto the publicity teat until the milk ran dry. The press coverage was equally inhuman and whorish. How whorish, you ask? Imagine Kim Kardashian and Fergie 69-ing for Charlie Sheen filmed by ten thousand sex offenders.

The defendant McDowell, is my favorite guy in all this. He exposed Justin (of course his name's Justin) as a monumental douche of a father. Where is your class, sir? Taking your little girls to a ball park is just one lurid obscenity away from a UFC bout. I once went to a Spring training game at Disney's Wide World of Sports and sat behind a row of Phillies fans. No embellishment here; we all know how that shit went down.

Finally, WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDREN?!?!?! I hope to Christ I never have girls of my own. If something like this ever happened to me, I'd have to rush "the talk" right before the press conference. There's no fucking way in hell my innocent little princesses would learn about the birds and the bees from seeing a cunty attorney fuck their father's hand with a bat.

If you need to comment, go right ahead. I'm going out to buy some vasectomies.

This Asian Carp Invasion Must Be Stopped

2011-04-29T03:14:00.000+09:00

I'm A Smart Ass

2011-03-23T21:48:00.034+09:00

In my ever-expanding quest to keep the Jeremiah Weed flowing freely, I've decided to go back to school. Since my high school graduation, I've tried at least one skeevy bartending academy, countless personal training certifications, even Rocky Mountian Clown College.

Twice.

None of it has helped me achieve the dream of every red-blooded American man: a grand restoration of the original A-Team van. One of the bureaucratic hoops I have to jump through includes taking the Wonderlic test: it gauges knowledge of vocabulary and math skills. This test is also given to quarterbacks entering the NFL draft, in part to score their ability to learn new offenses.

I hope to accomplish a few goals here today:

*Expose some previously beloved icons of football to be drooling,glass-licking fucktards not worthy of a passing grade in underwater basket weaving

*Joyously shit on institutions of higher learning that I could never afford or personally risk humiliation by attending

*Dazzle you with BULLET POINTS!

The test has an twelve minute time limit and switches between math and grammar questions. I tried to make the admissions chick allow me to take the test online (read: force my nerdy Asian girlfriend to do the math part for me) but failed. Since mastering the English language at age 3, I put most of my preparation efforts into arithmetic. After agonizing over sample questions for a week and weeping over the possibility of being a wage slave until I'm forced to prostitute myself, I scored an unremarkable 27.

Then, I was told that my Wonderlic score was more or less a formality. More importantly, they wanted to know if I'm a pederast, how much money I could borrow, and if I had any traffic tickets (in that order). Sadly, this is not a joke.

On to the sample questions!

If a cup of pancake mix makes 2 pancakes, how many pancakes can be made with 3 cups of pancake mix?

I make pancakes at least once a week, bitch! Just like that, I'm smarter than half of the jugheads ever to play in the NFL.

Which number is larger: .8, 8, 90, 200?

My facepalm gesture says it all: Terry Bradshaw is dumber than a retarded giraffe.

A gallon of gas costs $2.50. How many gallons of gas can be purchased with $5? What, no beef jerky? To quote Shaq in Blue Chips: "This test is culturally biased."

Which of the following shapes has the least drag, if thrown in the air: Square, Rectangle, Circle, Polygon, Triangle

OOOH OOOH I KNOW THIS ONE! FOOTBALL!

THE MASTERS OF THE UNIVERSE These are the lucky few quarterbacks who were born more handsome than I was and clearly bribed the test administrator with sexual favors in exchange for a high score. Fuck these elitist assholes.

Alex Smith 40 Utah Not smart enough to avoid San Fransisco!

Drew Bledsoe 36 Washington State He's the world's smartest felcher.

Jason Garrett 36 Princeton Now coaches the Cowboys. What an asshole.

Matt Leinart 35 USC Likely he Christmas tree'd the whole damn test.

Steve Young 33 BYU He worships a stupid fakey God.

Sage Rosenfels 32 Iowa State His name sounds like it was found on a dog-eared page of a vegetarian cookbook.

Troy Aikman 29 UCLA This is clearly a miscarriage of scholastic achievement.

THE DUMB FUCKS One of the most valuable lessons I ever learned was, "The sun shines on a dog's ass at least once in it's life." That time was when they signed their NFL contract for millions of dollars.

Jeff George 10 Illinois This is the lowest score I could find. Here's the most awesome picture I could find: he looks like Tom Arnold if Tom Arnold could run the 40 in under two minutes.

Romaro Miller 11 Mississippi I don't have the slightest idea who this guy is, but I don't want to know. I want him to remain a mystery.

Marcus Vick 11 VT The dumber Vick brother. There are probably more out there somewhere.

Kordell Stewart 13.5 Colorado State The half point was for sympathy.

Donovan McNabb 13 Syracuse After he learned the OT rules, he scored a 13.5

Brock Berlin 13 Miami He played for Miami, Dallas, St. Louis and Detroit. When did he peak, exactly?

Neil O'Donnell 13 Maryland Another reason to hate his caveman-looking bitch: he refused to un-retire after Tommy Maddox was injured, paving the way for Big Ben to start.

Seneca Wallace 14 Iowa State He hopes to earn a starting job. In Cleveland.

Terry Bradshaw 15 Louisiana Tech Maybe his crazy pills interfered with his smart pills?

Steve McNair 15 Alcorn State Never learned to avoid sleeping near an unstable woman.

Dan Marino 15 Pittsburgh Who needs math when you own most of the records?

Elvis Grbac 16 Michigan Never learned to spell his name correctly.

Heath Shuler 16 Tennessee Sadly, there's no entrance exam for Congress.

Antwaan Randle El 17 Indiana He's a fantasy killer for yours truly, so this shitty score makes me very happy.

Vinny Testaverde 17 Miami Holds the high score for guys named Vinny.

Jeff Blake 17 East Carolina Remember him? Neither does he.

Cleo Lemon 18 Arkansas State Of course he went to Arkansas State.

Derek Anderson 19 Oregon State Cheated off the wrong retard.

Bruce Gradkowski 19 Toledo Real tweet: "Going to play laser tage!"

Casey Clausen 20 Tennessee Sounds like he should be making toys in Santa's workshop.

Michael Vick 20 VT He eventually learned English: "I fucked up. I'm sorry."

Brett Favre 22 Southern Mississippi Not surprisingly earned an A- in photography.

Ben Roethlisberger 25 Miami-OH Surprisingly smart enough to avoid cameras when he ejaculates on helpless women.

It pleases me that I'm smarter than all of these rich pricks. Besides: everything I know I learned from Saturday morning cartoons:

My special lady friend has been going around calling me "Mr. 27" all week. She claims to have timed herself and scored a 35. I think she's a liar and a cheat: English is her second language (after bad English). The website that posted these scores has a link to a blog and a few other things like:

The models reveal no statistically significant relationship between intelligence and collegiate passing performance. Likewise, there is no evidence of higher compensation for a player with higher intelligence as measured by the Wonderlic Personnel Test.

Well then ... I guess we can all go home now. This has been a monumental waste of time.

So This Happened This Weekend

2011-03-08T03:19:00.012+09:00

Last night, convicted rapist and co-star of The Hangover debuted his new reality show on Animal Planet, called Taking On Tyson. It's about the world of pigeon racing.

"Boxing legend Mike Tyson always has loved pigeons. They've been a part of his
life since childhood. In fact, Mike threw his first punch when a neighborhood
bully killed one of his beloved pigeons and threw it in his face. In TAKING ON
TYSON, Mike goes beyond raising pigeons to racing them for the first time, and
entering the highly competitive subculture of pigeon racing. The stakes are high
in a sport that has just as much machismo as boxing."

Umm, WHAT!?!? I don't watch boxing any more; not since Butterbean got too preachy. I'd like to think that it's the most grueling sport in the world, demanding more strength, timing and balls than I'll ever have in my pinky nail. So when some shithead reality show producer tries to sell me a show about pigeon racing, they don't go saying that it "has just as much machismo as boxing" without my bullshit siren going off. First of all, they're fucking flying rats. There is nothing else. That's all the argument I need.

All kidding aside, I'm glad to see Mike doing well. He remains one of our most intriguing figures. It's a god damn miracle he didn't end up committing suicide by S.W.A.T. team years ago. I think it's refreshing to see a guy turn his life around like that, especially since he has a little money and lots of fame. Here's a guy who's been embarrassed by Givens, Holyfield and Lewis, but he still knows how to have a good time, like when he sang a duet with Bobby Brown. I pray to Arturo Gatti's ghost that he doesn't fuck everything up by appearing on Charlie Sheen's little webcast or hooking up with Kendra Baskett.

I didn't watch this show because I was flipping between Daniel Tosh's comedy special and the drinking-tequila-from-a-gun channel. My favorite part is when he said that women weren't equals!

I checked out the videos, and it seems like it's shot pretty creatively. While there are plenty of Jersey and New York accents (both of which annoy the piss out of me), thankfully there aren't any pudgy orange publicity sluts. Will I watch this show? Not unless it features Mike RUINING PEOPLE'S SHIT WITH HIS FISTS. As for the birds, I like them baked, BBQ'd or with funny cartoon voices:

Off-Season Shit List: Spring Edition

2011-02-22T23:17:00.013+09:00

When people say, "spring has sprung," you should hit them in the teeth with a pick axe. Here in central Florida, we get a lot assholes who talk about the weather because they're otherwise boring people from some other state that sucks rhino balls. But it's actually the best time of the year around here: temperate, breezy and gorgeous ... except for the god damned pollen.

Ever since I was a kid, I activated my mucous membranes hourly by chugging chocolate milk or squirting Easy Cheese straight down my gullet. Then, the fine yellow dust that plants give off when they're trying to make more plants drives my sinuses TO THE BRINK OF INSANITY. Every year for about six weeks I look like a stoned shithead who just woke up from a 10-year nap. I'm constantly wary of dripping my snot all over anyone within arm's reach, and every shirt I own has crusty sleeves from the incessant face-wiping. It doesn't help that I work in a fitness center that's more dusty than Cloris Leachman's vag.

So I treat spring just like winter: pretend it's too cold and don't go outside. Everything is covered with the poisonous bukkake of the entire plant world and I will remain in my bubble like a young John Travolta and wait that shit out.

After the Steelers got beat in the Super Bowl, I've been in a sad state of anger and depression. I won't be as happy as I was that night for some time now; frustrated and impatient for some ultraviolence. Kind of like after Big Ben goes home alone after a night of roughing up drunk chicks. After the game, there was a lot of celebrating; mostly because the Black Eyed Peas' show was over. Sadly, I couldn't bring myself to throw Molotov cocktails or overturn cars because I was too drunk in preparation for what I thought would be a Pittsburgh win. In my efforts to numb the pain, I drank something called Hijos de Villa. It's Mexican tequila and it is a fucking horrorshow. You know how really good tequila just eases down your palate and gives you that warm, gentle tug in your stomach? This is nothing like that. It tastes like some gaucho wrung out a 60 year-old Juarez whore's bedsheets after quitting time and bottled that shit.

The cap came off with the protective seal intact, which led me to believe that the quality product was removed and an even shittier, cheaper tequila was funneled in, probably in the back office of the shit-smelling package store that I bought it from. It came with a cardboard stand to display the glass pistol/bottle proudly, and two "caballito" shot glasses, which were promptly shattered by me. It says "The Way the West Was Won," across the top of the box. I can't wait for our National Guard to flatten the entire Northern border of Mexico. That's right! The Yanquis will use Predator drones to win the West back! Then, I'll watch a Speedy Gonzalez marathon and pour this piss out. For my dead homies.

I always need constant entertainment while I drive to keep me from steering into traffic, but now I have to provide my own. I cancelled my Sirius/XM Radio subscription yesterday, without regrets. My favorite neurotic truth-spouter, Howard Stern has pissed me off by being a whiny gash and barely coming in to work any more. Instead, they've had request shows for the last week and a half now. I can't justify paying $18 a month for that disappointment, so I'm left to my own classic CD collection: Limp Bizkit and Korn, anyone? I KNOW Y'ALL BE LOVIN' THIS -ISH RIGHT HERE!

So obviously, I'm listening to the radio a lot. A local classic rock station just changed it's programming to anything north of the 80's, including grunge and hair band stuff. That's okay, but over on the hip hop station, Whiz Khalifa's 'Black and Yellow' is only just now in heavy rotation. This song encapsulates everything that's wrong with hip hop: the lazy four-note hook created on some shitty Casio keyboard, a talentless charisma-free MC and NO SAMPLE. This track makes me want more white rappers in the game: THAT'S how bad it is.

The Daytona 500 was Sunday, and the only reason I know this is because twenty thousand assholes are out on their motorcycles revving their engines and screaming up and down the roads like some teenage fucktards who want girls to notice them. I'm about 200 yards from a busy road, and I slept with one of my ears plugged with silicone, the other down into the pillow AND I WAS STILL AWAKENED.

I live near the airport in Orlando, which means all the assholes who couldn't get a hotel in Daytona stayed here. The only reason I could manage to fall back asleep was remembering the time a guy showed me pictures from a motorcycle accident. Pieces of torso from an unlucky crotch rocket enthusiast littered an otherwise trash-free highway. He had a high-speed encounter with the wire support on a power pole. Sadly, he didn't feel a thing and it was all over too fast.

Summer is coming soon, and that means gas is creeping towards Mad Max prices. Back in January, some Tunisian fruit vendor got pissed off when a policewoman took his scale. So, like any other fruit vendor would have done, he went down to the government office and doused himself in gasoline. What happened next? They cleaned him up with a broom. Tidy people, those Tunisians.

This touched off a firestorm (ahem) of protesting across the Arab world and it's toppling dictators at the rate of one per week. Most of these assholes bribe their subjects to allow them to be ruled, but have corrupted the economy so much that you have to kick back cash to your rock quarry foreman just so you can throw something at the police. The Royal (ruling) family in Bahrain recently pledged $2700 to every citizen, but that wasn't enough to thin out the crowds. They're buggin' the fuck out and the new kids are scrambling for office.

More importantly, I'll personally spit in the face of a Saudi prince if it costs more than $45 to fill up my SUV. See you in June, everyone.

THIS Is How You Talk Trash

2011-01-20T01:05:00.000+09:00

For Sale

2011-01-08T01:48:00.011+09:00

I'm trying to sell a really nice watch. Since Craigslist is dumb, I thought I'd post it here. Besides, I have a helluva lot more traffic here on my amateur sports blog.

[huffs gold paint]

I need money to make payroll. I'm responsible for an entire team of crack reporters and informants that count on me to keep them out of the streets. Without me, they'd be trolling open houses and raiding people's medicine cabinets.

FOR SALE
Tag Heuer Link Tiger Woods Limited Edition

I purchased this fine timepiece from a Turkish merchant in the Iraqi city of Mosul in September of 2005. I was working as a civilian contractor at the time and had more money to spend than I knew what to do with. I couldn't spend it on whores or booze, due to the fact that they were not allowed on a high-security military installation. Something about operational security.

Strangely enough, they allowed shady Turkish criminals to sell stolen watches. I bought two of them for $250 American, fully expecting they were as fake as Howard Stern's nose job. Also, I never was much of a watch-wearing guy. I work in gyms, which tend to have a lot of iron surfaces. These surfaces often break expensive watches. Besides, big ass clocks hang on the walls of almost every room. So I never had much use for a watch, other than completing an illusion of wealth for any gullible female I encountered after returning from a war.

HER: Wow! You were really in a firefight?

ME: Yep. A lot of tough guys pissed themselves that day.
[thousand-yard stare] Some even lost control of their bowels. Not me,
though. I remembered my training.
One night, I spent the night on a tiled bathroom floor and scratched the shit out of the face. Believing it to be fake, I had a jeweler replace it and he insisted the watch was genuine. It's kinetically powered, so I had to set the time every time I put it on. I eventually broke the winder and was told it would take A SHIT TON OF MONEY TO REPAIR IT.

Yeah, so fuck that; I'm selling it instead. On more than one occasion, I've worn it as a piece of heavy jewelery. People won't look at another person's watch for the time, especially if everyone always fidgets with their phone every thirty seconds. The clasp is kinda fucked up too, and it comes undone pretty easily. It may be because I gesture rather wildly when lying about my sexual exploits.

According to the MagBas research department, this model is just like the one worn by Tiger when he hunched a waitress at the Perkins in Windermere. Sorry, I can't simulate the vaginal excretions that were likely crusted inside the wrist band.

Make me an offer and I'll have my people contact you.

Don't F__k With The Ducks

2011-01-07T03:10:00.006+09:00

Here's a clip from Jimmy Fallon's show featuring a very special guest. It's not thrash metal, but I suppose it'll do.

It's about time that mainstream comedy has begun to introduce more topical sports-related material. Maybe it's the bottomless well of ammunition that's finally awakened the writers to our dopey heroes on the field. Last year, we were treated with Britfarr's Penisgate and Rex Ryan's footsie tapes. While the latter will NEVER, EVER get old, I hope to one day see Brett clumsily fondling Erin Andrew's sweet, sweet cans on national television ala the famous KSK incident.

BRETT FAVRE: I wanna text you. [tweaks her nipple]

ERIN ANDREWS: Wha? [swipes his meaty paws away]

BF: I could care less about the team strugg-a-ling. [hiccups]

EA: OK, um ... back to Jim Norton and the guys up in the booth.

Anyway, my favorite is the crotch-chopping Duck. I wonder: could you train a real duck to do that?

That Sebastian Bach sure is hot. She's still performing on Broadway, ya know. It's good to know that women still take care of themselves, staying thin and treating their golden voices like fine instruments.

/checks google

//facepalm

Errors And Omissions

2010-12-21T22:55:00.005+09:00

Last week, I told you how my at fantasy football skills were worse than Juggalo baby funerals, among other things. After losing in the 7th Place Consolation Bowl to Erne and his Merry Men, I left out one thing that I suck more than: THIS FUCKING SONG.

From Wikisuckysong:

Brand New Key is a pop song written by folk singer Melanie, which became a popular hit in 1971-72. Taken from her album Gather Me, it was also known as The Rollerskate Song due to its chorus.

This nightmarish melody is getting some serious playtime during NFL games this season. It's advertising computer printers and it has driven me insane. Just the other day, I hummed it softly as I ran down a family of ducklings.

There has to be a special place in hell for folk singers from the seventies. Thanks to them, scores of America's youth sang along and clapped to twats like this, and believed they could play the guitar just as good as her or better, even though this harpy strums two chords the entire three minutes.

NOTE: I would also like to add that all eleven competitors in the Boozehounds United League are fucking faggots.

Another One In The Books

2010-11-17T09:33:00.021+09:00

This season my fantasy team, the Orlando Shibacle missed the playoffs. SHOCKING, RIGHT?!?! My nightmare season was a roller coaster of dry humps; starting off at 0-4, then easily winning the next three, then giving me blue balls right up until last Sunday, when Todd Heap got hurt in the first quarter and Philip Rivers took a runny, steamy shit on my chest.

I tried to keep my analysis to a minimum, and mostly go with Yahoo's recommendations. My match ups were absolutely garbage, and my picks were even worse. No wonder I got my shit ruined. Here are some of the season's worst performers:

WR Mike Sims-Walker: The only person that has earned the right to hyphenate their name is the magnificent Maurice Jones-Drew. Mysteriously, he was unavailable after I drafted Rivers and Rodgers. Mike, your gold-brickin' ass couldn't carry MJD's fucking jock strap if you had a supercharged forklift. EAT A BAG OF LAVA-MARINATED DICKS.

K John Kasay: He's a kicker. He should suffocate under the rotting corpse of a manatee.

RB Darren Sproles: You were my sentimental pick this year, because I somehow believe you could hit the NFL lottery and run back a few kickoffs, while earning NO RETURN YARDS. But alas, you return kickoffs for the San Diego Chargers, which means you fucking suck. You should be melted in a tank of Velveeta and devoured by horny hippos.

DEF Indianapolis: You got me a net of -1 points in week four. MINUS. ONE. POINT. This reminds me of Less Than Zero, Robert Downey Jr's breakout movie about a pathetic druggie asshole. Speaking of assholes, you should re-create River Phoenix's last night in Hollywood and die alone, face down in a urine-stained gutter.

WR Legadu Naanee: In week six, you were injured again with little or no notice. Kindly position yourself beneath a Mumbai shitter ala Slumdog Millionaire and open your mouth skyward. You will undoubtedly be infested with any number of parasites and die a slow, painful death. Just desserts! I call it nature's fudge.

WR Roy Williams: You play for the Crack Wagon and singlehandedly cost them at least two games. This is bittersweet, because I hate to see them win any way. They're branded "America's Team" by the dumb fuck sports media, and they're the most overexposed, overrated team in the history of football. You will be shot into orbit by Hitler's Supergun and imploded in the cold vacuum of space.

RB Benjarvus Green-Ellis: See above. Also, you play for the gaddam Patriots. Since you didn't get the memo about hyphenated names, you will be crucified the Zulu way. You'll never sit comfortably in hell.

WR Hines Ward: Before you got concussed and started dropping passes, you were barely thrown to by that douchebag of a sexual assaulter, Ben Roethlisberger. Let this be a lesson to you rookie fantasy coaches out there: never trust blasians with thousand dollar smiles. Hines, you will be spit-roasted by two furries (no, I don't mean cooked).

RB Ronnie Brown: I'll never forget how you scored six touchdowns against the Patriots ... whenever the hell that was. Another sentimental pick, The Brown Note had larger contracts on his mind and a one-way ticket out of Miami because he wasn't accepted into the gay community. For that, he will be smothered inside Kathy Bates' withered gash.

QB: Philip Rivers: It's only fitting that this asshole screwed me with a horrible performance at home versus the rudderless Raiders. He got picked twice for touchdowns. TWO PICK SIXES! He is sentenced to solitary confinement, where he will stay until next season, when my dumb ass drafts him again. Have I mentioned I suck at this?

TE Anthony Fasano: You were like a autistic ninja through twelve weeks of the season. You did nothing very quietly, then decided to blow the fuck up while you were on my bench. I think you should have dynamite stuck in every orifice and sprayed with a flamethrower. Just for shits and giggles, I'll play a Ke$ha song at full volume while I do it.

I would never force anyone to read anything further about my fantasy football abortions, so instead I'm going to show you. May I present...

A HASTILY THROWN-TOGETHER PRESENTATION OF THINGS THAT ARE WORSE THAN MY FANTASY FOOTBALL SKILLS.

Moobies! Here's 25 pictures of men with breasts. I could never picture myself with a set of these. Even though I'm the most lazy person I know, feeling the jiggle of fatty, adipose tissue just makes me want to force myself to puke. I can never understand the men that allow this mutation of gluttony to even begin to show. SERIOUSLY ... GET OFF YOUR ASS. Some of these assholes are rich shitheads and they don't have to worry about looking good if they have a car that's more pricey than my house.

Beauty Pageants for Boys. Here's a clip from The Joy Behar show ... I told you it was awful! Adam Corolla seems to think that we'll all be chicks in 50 years. Here's evidence that we'll all be chicks in 15: Mothers are forcing their male children to compete in these freak shows, because they somehow enjoy parading their kids in front of pedophiles. All of the mothers insist that the kids love it, and are doing it voluntarily. Meanwhile, the fathers have packed up their shit and left long ago (and were right to do so). What the mothers won't tell you is that they withhold their attentions to their sons if they don't participate. Hey lady: you are worse than the mothers of suicide bombers.

Whip My Hair. The evil spawn of Will Smith and Jada Pinkett has emerged as a pop music icon and has produced this abomination of music. It's too terrible to post anywhere near my blog, so I invite you to watch Jimmy Fallon and Bruce Springsteen sing it. Fallon is dressed as Neil Young. It's frikkin' awesome.

Rock hockers. It's December, and that means it's the time of year to remind all you men out there to fork over 20% of your yearly salary to put a rock or series of rocks on your special lady friend's body somewhere. "He went to Jared!"

I saw a commercial the other day depicting two daughters hopeful about their father's choice of blood diamond retailers, loudly exclaiming, "of course he went to Jared!" In another spot, the pretty one says, "Goodbye college...In five years I'll be forced into white slavery, but it's a good thing that Dad got those shiny rocks for Mom!"

AND FINALLY, THE ONLY THING THAT IS WORSE THAN MY FANTASY FOOTBALL SKILLS...

Juggalo Baby Funerals. YES, THIS IS REAL. NO, THERE IS NOTHING ELSE WORSE THAN THIS.

See you next year. Enjoy the Super Bowl, fellow Juggalos: PHI 33 NE 28

You've Come A Long Way, Baby

2010-10-21T02:35:00.003+09:00

Womyns' tennis is a favorite sport of mine, especially when there's a football blackout and I'm in the depths of an ether/vicodin binge. So I pretty much have to be paralyzed to keep me from changing the channel or hurling a shoe through the screen. I do love that grunting, though.

I've been a hater of the Williams' sisters for a long time now, ever since their father opened his mouth and spoke English (?). I love to see them fail; and wherever I am, I revel in it loudly and obnoxiously, especially since I get accused of being racist. Then, in a flash I whip out my "Get Out of Racist Jail Free" card and shove it in my accuser's uppity face. My tri-racial girlfriend got it for me: it has a picture of Jada Pinkett-Smith flipping off "the Man."

Don't misunderstand me: my anger is really just misplaced frustration. I want to like them. I really do. They're just not hot enough. Venus is awkward and has a name that rhymes with penis. Serena has the femininity of The Incredible Hulk in a short dress. What's that, you say? Womyn's tennis isn't about sex appeal? Turn off your computer right now and go jump into a pit of flaming sewage.

Anyway, back to This instructional video is for the ladies: it gives you a special how-to guide of how to get your man and keep him. Kinda like EVERY ISSUE OF COSMOPOLITAN, except the Internet doesn't charge you $6.00 and make you throw up out of shame for not looking like Gillian Jacobs. Don't hate her because she's beautiful.

Language and guttural moaning is NSFW, unless you work at a porn store or power tool depot.

This piece would've been better with the statuesque and hilarious Aisha Tyler, but UCB Comedy doesn't have the budget for her. That kinda talent would cost roomfuls of cash, like MTV-money.

I Got Nothing

2010-09-28T22:50:00.001+09:00

beat prey shove, originally uploaded by jeffprice767.

GO! GET! ELIMINATED!

2010-07-09T06:27:00.011+09:00

At last, the final World Cup game is upon us. After 1:30 Sunday afternoon (American time), you will no longer be forced to pretend that you enjoy soccer. With all the players egregiously flopping and the referees fucking everyone's shit up (especially ours), I'm about ready for this universally-translated dick joke to end now. But the drama and urgency in each game sure makes the NFL off-season a little easier to survive through.

Speaking of football: is it just me, or are there a lot less NFL stars getting into trouble this summer? Jamarcus Russel notwithstanding, this has been a pretty boring so far. I'm crossing my fingers for a grenade launcher shootout between Matt Hasselbeck and the 49ers D-line.

The Cup's tournament bracket is majestic in it's simplicity. After group play, (which is barely comprehensible by your average American) it goes to single elimination. The winner goes home to a parade of shame; unless you're American, in which case you return to relative obscurity. In comparison, the NCAA bowl selection licks sweaty sloth balls. It takes a frikkin' computer to figure out the ranking system alone! I liken the bowl system to the shady electoral college that picks our President: intentionally made confusing so a few rich assholes can actually select the winner without people rioting in the streets.

So it's the Nether-Regions and The Spanish Inquisition, is it? Awesome. My sources tell me the Orange Crush will edge out the Spain-tards 2-1 in a full-throttle finale. That German octopus that picked Spain to win can go suck itself, and it probably will.

Until those vuvuzelas start blowing, enjoy this clip of bitches getting their shit ruined and eliminated:

Eliminated!

Argentina: Messi took 30 shots and went scoreless for the entire tournament. That's a new record! Know what else is a record? Their crippling poverty!

Brazil: Did you know that in Rio De Janiero the traffic is so bad, that people have to take fucking helicopters to work? That's a weak insult to the Brazilians, but it's hard to hate on them when they have millions of women/godesses that look like this.

Germany: They're playing Uruguay for third place. Where or when this happens does not make a shit of difference.

Ghana: MOTHER FUCK GHANA. Right now, they're slurping on yak blood smoothies, nursing their humiliating loss. Back to the asshole of the world, um ... assholes!

Japan: If they couldn't do karate, they'd be Filipinos. Their one saving grace is that they invented vending machines that sell used panties. Back to your 4' cubicles!

Portugal: Historically speaking, they're Spain's retarded little brothers. Just as nautically gifted, but they have a boring culture and have conquered/eradicated a lot less Indian populations worldwide.

Slovakia: Who cares where this shitty country is? A case of Zima says that they recently ethnically-cleansed themselves.

Uruguay: The name of your country is an insult to homosexuals. That is lazy and it lacks creativity. Try these instead.

Speaking of sailors, I'm feeling very nautical lately, and summertime brings changes in latitudes, accompanied by changes in attitudes. I feel the approaching oil spill will ruin my lifelong vacation spot, the Florida Keys. So, to wash away my worries like so many globs of crude oil, I'm drinking Admiral Nelson's Spiced Rum: $15 for a 1.75 L.

What, you think Captain Morgan had the market cornered on the 'spiced' moniker? Think again, landlubber. Close your sun burnt eyes and drink this swill, and I'll bet you 100 shekels that you can't tell the difference. If you want to be an asshole and pay an 80% markup so you can keep some goateed juicehead in his regional Captain Morgan costume, then be my guest. Besides, AN ADMIRAL OUTRANKS A CAPTAIN. Chain of command, people!

If you say Lebron James, you lose a testicle. Enjoy the game, everyone!

Empires Crumbled, Humanity Doomed

2010-06-28T02:04:00.007+09:00

Every so often, some upstart little twerp with a bug up his ass starts some shit and shows the neighborhood bully a thing or two about guts. In the words of one expert:

I can sum it up in one word: Courage, dedication, daring, pride, pluck, spirit,
grit, mettle and G-U-T-S Guts! Why, Ted Stryker's got more guts in his little
finger than most of us have in our lower intestine. INCLUDING THE COLON!

Here are a few examples. I'll be brief, since I've been slamming little bottles of Hydroxycut Hardcore since first light on Saturday:

The U.S. lost to Ghana. These lightning fast assholes ran circles around us, even when we dominated possession and had close to three times their shots on goal. Ghana has now eliminated us from the last two World Cups. Luckily, we have the outtakes from James Earl Jones' other movies redubbed into the Star Wars movies to show us the humor in toppling tyrants. And no, he doesn't ever say, "this is CNN."

Personally, I blame that sex-starved perv William Jefferson Clinton. After our victory over Algeria, he was photographed in the locker room sharing a Budweiser with Sam's Army. Pretty awesome, until you realize that Bud is not an American company any more. They're owned by the Limeys. How would you feel if you saw Bono drinking a gaddammed Heineken on St. Patrick's Day in Dublin? You want a sidecar of Yaeger with that, you traitorous tit? Get fucked, Mr. President. You're bad luck. Go iron your wife's pantsuit.

From the MMA dept: previously undefeated Russian juggernaut Fedor Emelianenko was defeated in the first round with a triangle choke by this guy:

Somewhere in Moscow, Vladimir Putin is sobbing quietly in the arms of a 9 year-old boy.

En-GUUUHHHH-land!

They have a bit more to be miffed about. Sunday's match proved that their squad of pampered stars really couldn't agree on strategy, or understand their Italian coach's incoherent babblings. Lampard was robbed of a goal that deflected off the crossbar and bounced two yards deep past the line, which would've tied the match at 2-2. Instead, the Germans continued to blitz through the English lines like Rommel on a meth bender and won the match running away at 4-1.

For all the blustering from pompous Europeans about how backward and conservative the United States is, they sure suck at sports officiating. The city of London (that's in England) has over 10,000 closed-circuit television cameras. Sound like a lot? It's bullocks: a study says that 80% of crime there goes unsolved. Meanwhile, American football, tennis, and even fucking HOCKEY gets it right. Hockey, dude.

As much as the South American teams are dominating, I still can't root for them as much because they speak the Spanish. My favorite player thus far for the German squad is Bastian Schweinsteiger. His name means "pig climber." Maybe the Brits should've suited up Tommy and Turkish:

The caffeine and horny goat weed is wearing thin now, as is the lining in my stomach. If you need me, I'll be in my caravan drawing Hitler 'staches on those that have angered or offended me.

Here Are The Latest Losers

2010-06-26T20:19:00.005+09:00

After the Algerian squad was eliminated by the last-minute heroics of Sam's Army, their star striker was approached by a reporter from his home country that he already disliked. Without a word, he struck her with his open hand. That's right, kids: he frikkin slapped a woman, IN THE FACE, in perhaps the most public way imaginable. She hit him back, then he was ushered away by security officers, presumably to be high-fived in private.

Why there is not video of this, I do not know. We she a reporter or not? What do they use to record things in Algeria, dictaphones? Victorolas? We should bomb them into the information age.

To the rest of the world, slapping a woman may seem a touch disrespectful. In Algeria, this is an everyday custom. A man there might assault fifteen women before lunch, sometimes even having to ice down his hand mid-day.

Eliminated

Australia: I was pulling for these underdogs (under'roos?) to scratch their way in, but Back to your crazy brand of American football, where you kick the ball way too much and your refs are dressed like old timey ice cream men.

Denmark: Even after mastering the art of war from countless boyhood Risk gaming sessions, I still find it difficult to distinguish between the countries of Daneland, Norseburg and the Nether Regions. Wherever they're from, it's back to their daily ritual: fingering dykes.

Italy: Defeated. By SLOVAKIA! Their last victory was against the Mongols 1,000 years ago.

New Zealand: Sheep shaggers, the lot of 'em. They're Australia's Alabama.

South Africa: Their team name is Bafana Bafana. I don't care what it means: it's frikkin' dumb. Here's a better double name: Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam.

Switzerland: Barry will be just fine. He's going home to these lovely ladies:

This Cup Recap is Half Empty

2010-06-24T09:02:00.008+09:00

Since I've been gainfully employed for just over two months now, I didn't want to jeopardize my status by calling in tired to work, just so I could get drunk before breakfast and shout obscenities at unfamiliar members of the US squad. Instead, I listened to the game from an outdated mp3 radio with a coat hanger for an antenna, all while 'supervising' 6 to 12 year-olds. In no way was it enjoyable.

As I type this, I am watching the replay of the US/Algeria game on fucking Telemundo because ESPN/the stinky deuce is playing the college baseball world series and a gaddam Mets game. To add piss to my punchbowl, the stereo is cutting in and out. I'm so mad, I've ground my teeth down to tiny shards of off-white pebbles.

To be fair, the broadcasters seem pretty talented, but I can only understand every tenth word. I think there's somebody on our team from a town called Boca Negra. Sounds like an enchanting fishing destination. This seems like a pretty good time to sum things up so far.

*I've just been informed that I'm lazy. I'm not going to give you a wrap-up of all the games so far. I actually work for a living and my time is more valuable than you can imagine. Besides, you can get that somewhere else. But I will comment on this flopping bullshit ...

This is an old sport: almost as old as Larry King. It's been around since the buck-toothed English invented it after one of their shitty tennis nets fell over. For about thirty years now, instant replay has been a mainstay in the sport (for the fans, at least), yet players clutch their ankles, writhing in apparent agony after being barely touched. Why hasn't the attempted manipulation of the referees stopped? Do we hafta send Roger Goodell over to the capital of Europe to straighten shit out?

In September when American football starts, we can show the world how to officiate games. Also, boobs.

Eliminated:

Algeria: This is an Arab state that speaks French. I didn't think it would be possible to suck in the power of two, but somehow these assholes have done it masterfully. Eat our saturated-fat-saturated shit, Algeria.

Cameroon: Your flag looks like we might bomb you someday. Go home and think about that. Also, talk to the flight attendant about getting a seat far from the lady with the live chickens.

France: Their stellar team collapsed under it's own poofyness. After a scathing mutiny and humiliating losses to teams that scrub France's bidets, they're sent home to suck on their own stale baguettes. For your viewing pleasure, here's every one's favorite American bully from a sad Frenchman's YouTube channel.

Greece: These oily shitheads got way too far into qualifying. They got into the tourney before their economy collapsed and all their fellow leeches got ripped from the teat of their cushy entitlements. They are now available to sell gyros to all the bums in line at the employment office.

Honduras: This sounds more like a scooter than a country. I picture some fucking hipster with a fashionable scarf motoring down the street, mangina clutch matching his crinkly hemp shirt ... go ahead ... swerve into the next lane and send him into that big ass tree. No one will know but us.

Ivory Coast: Am I the only guy who imagines beaches there populated by endless deposits of elephant tusks? No? Well ... you suck, Ivory Coast! I watched the game Sunday versus Brazil; they called themselves Cote' d Ivoire'. My research assistants tell me that's French. See above.

Nigeria: the singer Seal a.k.a. Mr. Heidi Klum is originally from Nigeria. They have a reality show in the works where they're hunting for a mansion to settle into. They suck.

North Korea: They have the funniest names in asia. How can anyone take them seriously?

Serbia: Barefoot skiing enthusiast and holocaust franchisee Solobodan Milosovic used to be the head cheese over there. How did that work out for ya? Hey, Serbia: we saved you from ethnic cleansing yourselves. The thank-you line starts back there, behind France, England and Louisiana.

Slovakia: pig rapists.

Finally, I think it's important to note the icy, steely-eyed glare of US coach Bob Bradley. If this guy doesn't look like a Bond villain, then I'll eat my vuvuzela and shit out a French horn. How is it the oft-ridiculed sport of soccer has one of it's most bad ass of men? I would voluntarily and happily splinter both my shins with a rusty pickaxe than be on that guy's shit list.

Not getting the imagery? OK, let's take it to a HO ... NUVA ... LEVEL here: Coach Bob Bradley on a dias of glimmering titanium, stroking a giant hissing komodo dragon. Let's call him Marco.

Sweet dreams, Ghana. See you on the pitch.

Help Make Fantasy Football History!

2010-06-09T20:31:00.023+09:00

After last year's obscenely unmentionable finish (12th of 12), I entered into an purple drank and chocolate eclair binge that would make Dom Deluise roll over in his butter dish. Thankfully, I emerged relatively stable, and I have reluctantly decided to enter the fray again. Barring any unforeseen incarcerations or pesky background checks, I hope to finish in the money this year. Wow, that seems really weird typing that last sentence out. Onward!

This year, the league is called Boozehounds United, probably after some chintzy little soccer club where they all play footsie together in a Roman bath house. The big news is that receivers get .50 points per reception instead of .25. Our commish would never admit it, but this is clearly a half-assed substitute for the scoring that could be created by allowing RBs' points for kickoff and punt return yardage. Alas, my opponents (all 11 of them) fear change, as if they were a conspiracy of Popes harboring horny pedophiles, or worse: eleven preachy John Lithgows forbidding Kevin Bacon to dance.

"But Jeff," you wonder. "Why do you keep enduring the ridicule and torture of losing at the hands of your meagerly qualified, yet clearly luckier friends?"

First of all, fuck you. Second, I was inspired by a wolf spider that I stomped in the garage the other day. After crushing her under my flop, a hundred little baby spiders skittered in all directions, demolishing a Jamarcus Russel tackling dummy, recovering three fumbles and kissing Suzy Kolber on the sideline, all while high-stepping ala Deion Sanders.

Whoa, I thought to myself. If those little bastards can do that, then my sorry ass squad of XFL taint-suckers can WIN THIS BITCH!

And so begins my search for a name that my champions will be known as. I've been slowly saving up images and names and settled on a few that I hope you, gentle reader can help me decide on.

THAT'S RIGHT, YOU MAGNIFICENT BASTARDS! You get to help pick the name of my team that will get smashed to oblivion by my opponents: the eleven barely conscious gastropods slobbering in front of their laptops. If you do any exercise today, let it be exercising your right to vote. This is America, after all, where anyone can be President, as long as they're woefully inexperienced and don't give one squirt of pelican piss about the Gulf states.

I've listed only the favorites, and I'm opening up the comments for new suggestions. And before you ask: NO. I will not share my winnings with you if you vote on or pick my team's eventual name. I need the money for a new liver, and those Bangladeshi customs agents don't come cheap.

THE HUMAN CENTIPEDES: From the movie of the same name. Easily the most moving film of the year. A feel-good story about three star-crossed friends who get lost in the woods. Go see it with your grandma. Bring napkins.

EPIC BEARD MOON: This guy kicked so much ass, his name should be ASS-MATIC. Once upon a time, Epic Beard Man beat the shit out of some drunk that talked out of turn on a bus. All while wearing a baby blue t-shirt that read, "I AM A MOTHERFUCKER." His image was later added to a wolf t-shirt meme by an unknown artistic genius. Worthy of a team name, mascot and maybe even a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

Indeed. Call the 'bam'bulance. We's about to WRECK. SHOP.

THE ANAL EWOKS: No description needed.

ORLANDO PREDOBEARS: Since I'm a huge Predator fan, and enjoy a good Polanski flick every now and then, this is a touching tribute to both genres. GET IT?!?! TOUCHING!!!1 Anyone else remember the AFL's Orlando Predators? Me neither.

CENTRAL FLORIDA CHOKE-'BATERS: I'm also a big fan of David Carradine's. His performance in Kill Bill vol. III was breathtaking. This also describes perfectly my time spent in the off-season.

RANDPAULSTILTSKIN: Assuming this twit stays relevant by stealing headlines from Mel Gibson, this might actually bring home the money for daddy. I would hate to pay taxes on it, which is why I'm backing Rand Paul and his Libertarian Party values. Stay out of my gambling, big government! I'd like to get back to clinging to my guns and religion, please. [cocks shotgun]

THE VELOUR FOG: This summer brings back Futurama on Comedy Central, and Zap Brannigan is back in command of the show, where he should be. In my favorite vintage episode, Zap seduces Leela and refers to himself as the Velour Fog. I'm not sure what velour is, but it sounds pretty boss. Fog is also my third favorite form of condensation. Know what else is awesome? Someone who rules made a montage of the dirty deed set to Rammstein. Like I always say, anything is better with Rammstein.

RICK TO ASTLEY: I saw a music video of the trailer for Human Centipede set to Rick Astley's Never Gonna Give You Up. A clever turn of phrase, to be sure. As a bonus, the team comes with it's own theme song! But I'm not sure I want to be reminded of HC's plot line or grotesque imagery, especially when I'm eventually defeated by 110 points. Might leave a bad taste in my mouth.

ORLANDO SHIBACLE: This term was coined by one of my least favorite players (FSU alum), but most favorite broadcasters (NFL Network). He was talking about the Eagles trading McNabb to the Redskins, a team IN THEIR OWN FUCKING DIVISION. Also, Orlando is a city in central Florida and my home town.

The Shibacle's mascot is nunchuk enthusiast and part-time Chuck Norris hair model Sheila. She suffers from something called TAR syndrome, but I suffer from uncontrollable laughter every time I see her photo. Here's a thought: does she cut the sleeves off her gi and make the seam herself?

MULTIPLE SCORGASMS: Kind of juvenile compared to most of these, huh? It's also somewhat of a stretch to consider my talents capable of much more than a clumsy dry hump in the back of a Bronco and an awkwardly silent ride back home. It happens to lots of guys, right?

THE FLORIDA FLESHLIGHTS: These devices are molded from the actual orifices of adult film stars. They are named so because they resemble the shape of a flashlight. Need more description? NO SIR! I'm a sophisticated journalist, and my scruples prevent me from owning the Tera Patrick model. I will reveal that they also come in vampire form, featuring a mouth with vampire teeth. Watch out! They bite.

DISMISSIVE WANKING MOTION: This refers to something that has drawn a lot of attention, yet garnered no results. Naturally, it could fit any one of my pathetic teams. I first came across the term on FilmDrunk, my favorite movie blog. You may remember this blog for featuring a post analyzing a Twilight fan's creation of felt replica of Bella's unborn child. Yeah, it really exists.

Like the man says: VOTE EARLY, AND VOTE OFTEN! The poll widgets aren't working, so vote on the FB link comment section or Blogger comments. Also, I neglected to mention another reason for competing this year ... an actual trophy! It was my idea to steal the idea from the hilarious comedy The League, and introduce a tangible prize for all of us assholes to covet. My goal is to win this bitch, gloat in the most desultory of ways, then defile the trophy in such an inhuman fashion, so that all subsequent winners will be deprived of it's virgin glory.

A Right Kerfluffle

2010-06-08T00:51:00.006+09:00

This clip for British TV features Ricky Gervais, the funniest man in um, Europe (?) introducing his writing partner with Warwick "I'm a Leprechaun!" Davis playing England's star striker duo Peter Crouch and Wayne Rooney.

Did you understand that? Something about a height difference, I dunno. The 'English' spoken here needs more subtitles than Dennis Rodman on Celebrity Rehab. To me, little people are like Sarah Palin: seeing them talk just creeps me out. Midgets entertain me much more than she does, but I'd much rather see them thrown across a bar, dressed up in costumes, violating hookers or a combination of the three.

Hug the Mountain

2010-05-12T23:23:00.006+09:00

It was reported this week that bodies of 179 climbers lie near the summit of Mount Everest, making it the deadliest mountain since the volcano that co-starred in Tom Hanks' hit movie Joe Versus The Volcano. Their remains are mostly unrecoverable because they rest in a places that are somewhat difficult to get to. I suppose the survivors could carry back the frozen husks of their friends, but why? All they have to do is roll that bitch over the side with a GPS device taped to him and scoop him up later.

CLIMBER #1: Ray is frozen solid. He won't be joining us for breakfast.

CLIMBER #2: Nice! More cold jerky for us!

CLIMBER #3: He was kind of an asshole anyway. Who's going to push him over the side?

CLIMBER #1: NOT IT!

CLIMBER #2: NOT IT!

CLIMBER #3: NOT IT!

ANONYMOUS SHERPA: Shit.

Climbing the beast also known as Mother Nature's Frozen Tit can cost anywhere from $35,000 to $75,000. Compare that to the average cost of a funeral, which will set your estate back a measly five grand or so. Plus, at the funeral, there is only one layer of clothing required and it smells like flowers instead of yak shit.

This 'sport' confuses and angers me, except for the fact that it kills many of the idiots who attempt it. That part is pretty sweet. But if you were to ask any avid climber/adventurer/jackass why he climbs mountains, they might tell you, "because it's there."

That's some heavy stuff there, chief. You mind standing still while I plunge this ice axe into your forehead? THWAK! There. I just saved you from a becoming a frozen dinner to the next batch of brave shitheads that underestimate their food supply.

As for me ... I'll be here at base camp. I've got my flannel shirt and a karaoke machine. Hit it:

Thanks, Japan Part 3,112

2010-04-20T23:04:00.008+09:00

The tiny island nation of Japan once again delights us with a wonderful sporting breakthrough. The last time MagBas correspondents covered Japanese sports, they came back with a suitcase full of Godzilla porn, a sweaty panda helmet and some shards of fluorescent light bulbs in their hair. It took us a week to get the variety of odors out of the office chairs.

This is Kosho. At first, it seems like some sort of adult version of Quidditch cosplay, what with all the robes and gloves. I guess they're broomsticks are in the shop ...

This is actually a clip from the 1967 television series The Prisoner; something that apparently existed, yet I've never heard of. In this episode, entitled "It's Your Funeral," two adversaries in Spaceballs-esque helmets dual on a pair of trampolines with a dunk tank in the middle. The first one to get wet is the loser, and is summarily executed via snow monkey rape. You can't spell funeral without fun! Ahem. Moving on ...

A few notes on this strange custom:

Isn't it a little unsafe to keep the lockers in such close proximity to the trampolines? Oh, I guess that's what the helmets are for.

What's with that pink tuxedo-wearing perv that lingers? Is he a sexually confused watchmaker? Alert the authorities immediately.

The foley artists went a little overboard on this one. Everyone knows that trampolines are mostly quiet, if you don't include the haunting screams of pain that accompany their use. And not ONCE did they show a dude get double bounced. The fuck? A strong double bounce could hyper extend your opponents' knees, essentially crippling him for life; or better yet, send him hurtling into the rafters, where he would remain until rescued by firemen.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I must continue my training. Sensei Rex is not one to wait.

MagBas Off-Topic: The United States of Badass-ery

2010-04-16T02:38:00.008+09:00

Soon, it will be election time again, when all non-felons support this Great Experiment by casting a vote for some jackass who doesn't give a shit about them. You remember when network TV and cable news outlets started the whole red state/blue state thing? This map is like that, except it's totally metal and it won't bore you to slow-motion suicide. This is a map of North America, THE BEST AMERICA ... showing references on Google to pizza, guns and strip clubs.

A few observations:
FLO-RIDA: Take it from a lifelong Florida native: this represents the sunshine state quite accurately. Your ass might get shot for your Domino's coupons or wrinkled up Washingtons.
REPUBLIC of TEXAS: Nice spattering of gats n' twats. I'm scheduling my next 'fact-finding mission' to Laredo. Pack your passport! We're going on a taco run!
KINGDOM of LAS VEGAS: At the airport, you are greeted with a complimentary bottle of hand sanitizer with glitter in it.
CANADA: Hey America, Junior! You're our healthier, more frigid neighbor to the north and you still can't join our fun? Did the makers of this map forget to hit the 'translate' button? What's Canadian for pizza, any way?*
EMPIRE OF HAWAII: Apparently, they need to protect their pineapple crops from pelicans or some shit.
ALASKA: So, we won't be seeing any Tina Fey impersonators up on stage? I hope for that to change.

*Note: it's bacon.

Thanks to reader: Cap for sending this in.

Babe-ality!

2010-04-05T09:43:00.005+09:00

This is a fruity little montage of the intros a fighter does in the K-1 kickboxing organization in Japan. You remember K-1, right?

It's a real tragedy that this little sissy will get pounded mercilessly in the ... wait, what? My research staff has just handed me this ... his record is actually 15-3 and he recently won his weight class at a tournament. Mind. Officially. Blown.

This is something called cosplay, when people dress up as their favorite cartoon, comic book or otherwise nerdy hero and parade around looking like a fairy. Like this. Some people might call this Halloween, but it gives these freaks an excuse to dust off the old stripper heels and prance around in night gowns wielding battle axes.

This approaches the level of stupidity of when fighter comes out as the entertainment before they become the actual entertainment, like when Roy Jones spat a few verses before pummeling the shit out of some listless tomato can. Add a dress, giant bow ties and fifty backup dancers, and you've got ... this.

Looking at this year's batch of bad asses from Spike's The Ultimate Fighter, you have to wonder just what the hell is going on over there in Japan. It actually makes Foot Bagging appealing.

It's More Like A Bag

2010-03-31T04:35:00.004+09:00

If there's one thing I love more than tiny bean bags, it's tiny tennis shorts. Not only are they good for juggling balls, they're good for showing them off, too! Have ya ever seen a chicken heart, boy?

I can't believe they expected this skeevy activity to take off. When I was a kid, the skateboarding industry was spreading on the East coast, and I was too busy building ramps out of waterlogged plywood to give a shit about kicking around a little bag. Besides, I got my ass kicked enough already because I wore the long shorts/short pants hybrid known as 'jamz.' The 'Z' is because they're extreeeeeme!

I have to admit that I'm jealous of the dudes' handlebar mustache. Do they hand them out at the Foot Bag Championships? Because mine would never grow in on the sides. Think of all the Pringles flavor I could save with that thing!

Now I'm not a big-time producer of fringe sport promotional videos, but I know that splicing slow-motion scenes from Warren Miller skiing movies does nothing to further Foot Bagging. If anything, it sets Foot Bagging back ten years. They also need a better spokesman; one that can really capture kids' imaginations. Maybe that hipster Dave Hasselhoff or cool dude Pauly Shores.

It's About GD Time

2010-03-10T23:00:00.014+09:00

I've been a customer with Netflix for over two years now, and every day I'm delighted by a new treasure. Recently, they started streaming some older movies and straight-to-dvd releases over XBOX Live. Often, I just breeze by the new releases, preferring instead to revisit my old favorites. I have a seemingly endless queue of movies I'll never watch unless I become disabled and/or unemployed (more so than I already am). Like any video store, most titles are complete dog shit.

You can imagine my boundless glee when I came across Midgets vs. Mascots, a reality-based contest pitting lovable, furry losers against nature's leftover dingle berries: little people. My imagination was sparked. I hadn't been so excited since Cannonball Run 2 came out on Blue ray. Oooh, lookie! It says in the description it's like Borat meets Jackass! Honey! Put on some popcorn!

The film opens with a cliche that's NEVER been used before: an old patriarch dies and leaves his fortune to his awful family, on one condition: they compete in a contest! In this case, it's a midget named Big Red Bush. He's was a legend in the entertainment industry, you see. He has a regular-sized douche of a son and a hot ex-waitress of a wife. Later, they have various versions of hot monkey sex. Sorry, did I spoil it for you?

All of this will be recorded and judged by a very lazily-stereotyped Asian guy that's his adopted son. Remember Long Duck Dong in Sixteen Candles? It's like that dude, only worse, and they call him Chinese. Everybody got that? Good, because in the OH MY GOD, TITTIES! THERE'S TITS IN THIS MOVIE! NOW WE'RE TALKIN'!

A cozy, poolside interview scene with Ron 'the Hedgehog' Jeremy completes the scuzzy setting and sets the tone for the kind of hijinx you can expect from the director who's credits include serving as a field producer of the 2005 ESPY awards.

Let's pause to address the obvious match up problems that come up here. Mascots have bulky, but otherwise lightweight costumes and hindered vision. Midgets don't even come up to your fucking waist and have enormous heads disproportionate to their bodies. I'm told they also get fungal infections where the skin on their bodies overlaps. The chafing has gotta be more painful than a steamy wool suit, even on the hottest days. It's obvious that these little bastards don't have a chance in hell, but with $10 million on the line to split amongst the whole litter, they're going to give it their all. They might even die trying.

Do think midgets have little coffins, or are they just cremated and put into pepper shakers at carnival snack tents? Discuss.

The mascot team is set after a brief tryout. There's a pansie-ass Easter Bunny, an obnoxious foam Taco, a fat Spartan with an exposed gut, and a strangely silent and Burger King-esque Sheriff Grand Canyon tags along in his own car, because his head's too big to board the bus. My early favorite is the "Gatorz" mascot. Strangely, he does not follow the pious path of Tim Tebow. To date, he is 13-7 vs. unconscious homeless men. "Do somethin'! What!?!?"

Did you see the velocity of that t-shirt cannon? I MUST POSSESS THIS. I will carve a notch in it every time I bean a child, midget or homeless man.

The midget squad totally blows up the spot, with the incomparable Gary Coleman, known as "the Shaquille O'Neal of little people." There's also something called "Bridget the Midget," a porn star that's introduced during Ron Jeremy's piece. She was on break shooting a scene in an alley, standing next to a dumpster to show scale. Thankfully, that is all I saw of her. There's also the guy who had a pretty big (small) role in the Colin Farrell hit In Bruges. Another female dwarf tugs at your heartstrings: you know, the one you feel most sorry for. Then, you forget about her and go back to eating your soggy turkey pot pie.

Enough talk! Let's get on to the senseless violence! The events feature it prominently, delivering bone-shattering hits to mannequins at a rodeo, stinging slaps to the face while standing on bar stools, and vicious kicks to the soccer shin pads of embarrassed co-stars. I found myself rooting for the little guys, because they seemed to be enduring the most pain: physically and financially. As one midget put it, "Pain is temporary ... but a million dollars can last forever (record scratch) ... unless you're Gary Coleman."

It also has an unhealthy dose of toilet humor. There's the gallon of milk chug challenge, the drinking game events, and the 'artistic' portion of the competition where the teams have to produce the hottest porno trailer. I'll spare you the highlights. During the rodeo scene, Western-themed Gary Coleman waits in line at the urinal behind the Gator, and he rips one right in his face. "You just shit in my mouth," he claims. Indeed.

What can you say about Gary Coleman that hasn't already been said by hack comedians for twenty years? The endless Willis references, the short jokes, the racist taunts ... all of them are so dear to our hearts. I wanted another Gary ... of the Busey variety! Imagine Gary Busey in a Chief Osceola costume, adorned from head to toe in a feathery headdress, leathery tunic and bad ass gold moccasins. Then, imagine him hatcheting a freshly-scalped midget dressed as a pilgrim. Now back away from your keyboard, because your mind has been officially blown. BOOSH!

The making of this film made real news! As reported at Deadspin in January, Scottie Pippen was assaulted in a hotel room by the midget squad after they fail to recruit him to their team. He wears the still bloody, armless Gator suit after the guy who wore it decided to wrestle a real gator. Needless to say, the picture and clip is AWESOME. If you're into that whole fake wrestling thing.

Did I mention there's boobs featured? Don't forget the visit the website, where you can buy midget condoms (they're short! Get it?!) and the unrated version of the movie. Halfway through this beautiful disaster, I figured that the soundtrack budget must have eclipsed production, being second only to Mr. Coleman's salary. Pretty rockin' ... and by rockin' I mean drunken karaoke night at the Thirsty Whale Saloon. All things considered, I give Midgets vs. Mascots two and a half foam fingers out of five. It lost a half a finger for not having any Asian chicks.

I Got Nothing

2010-03-05T23:47:00.002+09:00

Extreme Makeover: Garage Edition

2010-02-14T23:14:00.011+09:00

Since they're currently between gigs while Paddy's Pub is closed for renovations/fumigation, MagBas has invited the gang to showcase some dream garages.

Dennis: OK, first thing's first, we gotta get rid of that piece of shit car you got in there.

Mac: Just park it outside from now on. Your kid will be old enough to drive soon anyway, right? He'll be bangin' chicks in no time!

Charlie: Could you fit a foldout couch in the back of that wagon?

Frank: What about bunk beds?

Dennis: Pipe down you two! We're here to show these fine folks how to turn their extra space into a dream cave! What do we have first?

Dennis: OK, here we have a classic hot rod heaven garage, complete with vintage gas pumps, glossy linoleum flooring and, what is that ... a pole?

Mac: Stripper pole! Score!

Dee: I really think that's there for support ... you know, so the ceiling doesn't come crashing down.

Frank: Shut up, Deandra.

Dennis: Thank you, Frank. It's clear that it should be brass and swivel at the bottom.

Mac: Don't forget the lotion towel!

Dennis: Right, Mac! There's gotta be a place to hold the towel to wipe off the pole between dancers. I think that's part of the building code.

Charlie: It's all very technical. What's next?

Dennis: What we've got here is a hockey masterpiece. It has a plasma TV scoreboard, pool table and slate flooring that looks like ice.

Frank: Nice digs!

Dennis: Don't get excited, Frank. It's obviously bullshit. The ceiling is like 900 feet tall. This is some one's big mansion, not Joe the Plumber's man cave. There's a bay window, for Christ's sake!

Mac: Yeah, and they don't even have any Eagles stuff in there. What an asshole. What do we have next?

Mac: Holy shit, dude!

Dennis: Pretty bad ass, right? This is a WWII weapon museum. It's like Patton's personal locker room in there! I think I see Rommel's dick and balls in a jar on the shelf!

Charlie: Dibs on the flame thrower!

Mac: There's two of them, dude. Oooh! We can have a duel!

OK, slackers! Get to work on my garage! After all, I've earned it. Sure, I may not have a sob story or personal journey that unfolds for America to shed a tear over, but I deserve it! Yesterday, the batteries in my remote died, and I had to watch a whole hour of Two and A Half Men! A WHOLE HOUR! I know, right?

Be sure to include all of the following:
a urinal
trash taken to curb by robot
concealed pen to hold midgets that cut my lawn (include air holes this time)
Don't forget the taco bed:

He's Handi-Capable!

2010-02-14T22:52:00.009+09:00

This off-season, we here at MagBas will strive to bring you the best in gaming and sport, be it those in the physical realm or the virtual. Today, I offer this peek at Dead Rising 2, one of many zombie-slaying games available this year.

In it, you kill zombies in interesting ways ... sort of like Thunderdome, if Bartertown was infected with an un-deadly virus. This little buggie is called The Hawking, after science's most beloved physicist and noted drooler Steven Hawking. It features a giant exploding gift-wrapped box that disappears when activated. Plus:

* 12 programmable trash-talking taunts like, "Taste hot lead, hot
lead-tasters!" and "die, honkey!"
* 2-hour battery life for those marathon campaigns
* sippy cup holder
* hand sanitizer dispenser
* anti-slip tires available in most areas

Some other weapons of note:

Candle Cannon: A fireworks launcher. You know, for special celebrations.
10 lb. Sledge: You have two choices ... sing Peter Gabriel's theme or visualize yourself as Gallagher. Both are equally METAL.
The Cletus: A pitchfork with a shotgun affixed to the business end, for those close encounters of the sharp kind. Hay not included.

The Bullwinkle: a fucking stuffed moose head helmet. Those horns are like bony clubs of DOOM!

Whitewater Logger: Two chainsaws duct-taped to each end of a kayak paddle. This is what the Angel of Death would use to navigate the Colorado if he ever took a vacation. Don't ask how or why it works; just get to sawin'!

The Highlander: A Scottish claymore. Make hagus from their eviscerated bodies!

The Hawking gets my vote for best fictional character who makes the most of their disability, just edging out Rose McGowan's character in Planet Terror. You think she has a tough time at airport security? ZING!

Troy Polamalu As Troy Polamalu

2010-02-10T01:49:00.004+09:00

I know I told you that I wouldn't be discussing the Super Bowl commercials, but this is just too badass to pass up, for so many reasons:

First, it means six more weeks of football: TruTV (the cable channel formerly known as CourtTV) is airing behind-the-scenes footage of cool shit like this spot.

Next, it has Troy Palamalu in a Green Man costume. Gotta hand it to that guy. He's like a slightly-tanned heavy metal version of Peyton Manning, except funnier and he wins.

And a midget who calls himself "Puppet the Psycho Dwarf." My day is now complete.

Big shouts out to Commishioner Roger "The Ginger Hammer" Goodell for executing one of the most memorable and entertaining seasons in recent times. Swansea!

What Does This Video Need?

2010-02-07T03:18:00.005+09:00

I've composed a list for your enjoyment:

1. An embeddable version NOT on David Archuleta's YouTube channel
2. Black guy
3. Less moobs
4. Off-camera hand sanitizer station
5. Less of Kim Kardashian's clothing
6. Finman Finhead

Enjoy the Super Bowl, everyone! I'll be drinking and/or peeing during the commercials, so please don't try to discuss them at any time. Ever.

Rubbin's Racin'

2010-02-04T02:18:00.002+09:00

Probably My Last Golf Post

2010-02-01T02:04:00.004+09:00

This is Hammer Golf, coming to a dark alley near you! It features a really boss woody wagon, three 18-34 demographites, and a bag of brand new Craftsman hammers.

I love it when these wreckless hipsters pay homage to human waste dumpster and professional widow Courtney Love's breakthrough band: Hole.

Here's a topic to discuss over drinks/meth at the 19th hole: Is it called a 'ball pin' hammer or a 'ball peen' hammer? The latter sounds more natural to me, although I'm sure 'peen' isn't really a word.

Update: Daniel Webster, author of some big ass wordy book says it's both:

peen n [prob. of Scand origin; akin to Norw penn peen] (1683): a usu. hemispherical or wedge-shaped end of the head of a hammer that is opposite the face and is used esp. for bending, shaping or cutting the material struck

Enough of This Already

2010-01-29T19:13:00.014+09:00

Here in Orlando, Tiger Woods has cemented his long-standing celebrity long ago, and his ultimate clubhouse shit-talking session has more legs than Stacy Keibler. Every shooter girl and bikini drink cart attendant eagerly awaits his return from Sex Camp in Mississippi. Golf fans can only imagine what his comeback will be like after abstaining from masturbation for six weeks. Until then, life will somehow go on here in central Florida. Thank God we have trade shows!

At the 2010 PGA Show, one booth kept this insipid shit storm going strong by unveiling golf balls with the faces of the waitresses, hostesses and adult film actresses he nailed painted on them. They're called Tail of the Tiger Golf Balls.

Michael Caldwell, cheesy proprietor and golf nerd extraordinaire was featured on the news last night hocking these hastily-painted heirlooms of shame. Since the local media whores have no pictures, accounts or video of Tiger "on the inside," (ahem) these pricks will air anything that reminds the vacuous celebrity-hungry public about some dude that ran around on his wife who happens to be pretty good at a sport.

I must admit, this is better than the local news giving airtime to every blue-haired shithead on the links giving us a snide comment about Tiger "learning his lesson." I was tortured by that shit for about four solid weeks after this thing started. I call it 'hour zero of shit I care nothing about.'

The website has a wordy, unnecessarily defensive introduction where he clumsily defends the owner's exploitation of a dozen fame-slurping guttersnipes:

Unlike other contemporary professional athletes, Tiger Woods hasn't physically
abused or hurt anybody. Tiger just had a wandering eye.

My integrity requires that I correct Mr. Caldwell here: I once heard a commentary by some twit breaking down his swing. "If I hit a ball like hard, my crotch would fly off," said an admirer, alluding to his core strength and lower body power. So isn't it safe to assume that Tiger actually did hurt these women in their lady parts? Text messages suggest just that:

I THINK I JUST SHIT OUT MY OVARIES. LOL ;-)

Also, I'd like to defend my gender and state for the record that checking out the server at Blue Martini might be construed as a wandering eye. Banging out nearly twenty women is some dirty dog shit. Caldwell repeatedly tells us that he's here to comfort us through these trying times:

Tail of the Tiger Golf Balls are designed to lift the spirits of golfers around
the world who are saddened by this loss on so many levels - from those who
make a living at the game to companies that sell products, to the fans who just
love to watch a master practice his craft.

Excuse me, saddened by this loss? Oh, Mike! Thank you so much for holding me! How will I ever watch a man hit a tiny ball and fucking walk!?!?! All I've had to comfort me is men's tennis! Care to join me in the steam bath for some fetal spooning? Afterwards, we can admire my collection of Arnold Palmer commemorative dinner plates.

It's been a long time since I've last seen a somewhat comical product with a sales pitch completely devoid of humor. Don't watch the video clip, or you will lose a part of your soul that you need to have fun ... FOREVER. Tell you what, fellas: either this guy is a retired accountant or I'll buy the round for the next hole. Has anyone seen my Mindy?

Personally, I think we should get back to what's important: how to make each other more rich. That means you gotta network, baby. Wanna know the secrets of my success?

Upright Citizens Brigade

Ass Pennies

http://www.comedycentral.com/

Joke of the Day

Stand-Up Comedy

Free Online Games

OK, So This Exists Now

2010-01-27T23:12:00.002+09:00

I'm always on the lookout for some new distraction featuring hulking, hormone-injected beasts pummeling each other until they have to be gently cradled by a doctor. Since the NFL has only one game left (two if you count the Pro Bowl, which I don't), crippling depression will soon follow until the preseason starts again in August. So why not enjoy a bit of the ultraviolence?

This is XArm, brought to you by one of the creators of the mixed martial arts' smash hit, the Ultimate Fighting Championship. The 'X' is for ... you guessed it: EX-TREEEEEEEEME! It's featured on some on-demand channel called RipeTV. They also offer an occasional scantily-clad woman.

In XArm, there is "nowhere to run," because it's combatants are locked into a climbing harness that is attached to an arm wrestling platform. Also, their hands are bound together. You know, so the sport of arm wrestling's heritage remains pure. OK, XArm: you have my attention. I might watch this for like, five minutes.

Round 1: Arm wrestling. Try to pin the other dude's arm, or shatter both of your wrists in the process.

Round 2: Punch the shit out of each other. It's like fighting in a phone booth, if two rabid apes tried to use a phone booth at the same time.

Round 3: Kick the shit out of each other. Ever tried to kick someone in the head while clipped into a harness? Me neither, but my bum hip aches just thinking about it. You can actually punch or kick, but my sensei thinks you should kick.

Remember when it was tough for the UFC to get permits in some states? When politicians had important things to do, like protecting our innocent eyes from human cockfighting? But I guess our elected officials too busy debating on the hazards of texting while driving to notice XArm's violent influence on our youth. I ask you, sports fans: who will protect our kids from images of men wearing spandex?

To brighten up this post a little, I offer some of my favorite quotes from Sylvester Stallone's masterpiece Over The Top:

Harry Bosco: My whole body is an engine. This is a fireplug [makes fist] ... and I'm gonna light him up.

Bob 'Bull' Hurley: I drive truck, break arms and arm wrestle. It's what I love to do, it's what I do best.

Lincoln Hawk: I always wanted to be a milkshake.

Sexy? Da.

2010-01-23T01:58:00.006+09:00

The Belarussian SuperGirl

The Borscht-Boy stance

How Darko Milicic was conceived

Nice hooves

Her bulges are confusing/arousing me

These Russian cheerleaders are compliments of English Russia, because "every day something interesting happens in the countries occupying 1/6 of the planet." Catchy motto.

For more, click here.

It's good to see the rest of the civilized world is finally catching on to this whole cheerleading craze. As an added bonus, those wacky Reds have added fishnets! Are you like me? Do you believe trashy leggings could make a tax auditor's convention sexy? Talk amongst yourselves.

Even the Commie Chinese have gotten into the act. The Russians are truly Czars of sporting entertainment. Some of these shots are dreadful. Some of them are funny. ALL OF THEM ARE AWESOME.

K-1 ... TFO

2010-01-15T00:52:00.005+09:00

This is part 1 of a series of 3 knockout highlight reels released by K-1 Impact! For those of you who don't know, K-1 Impact! (the exclamation mark is for extreeeeeeme!) is like kickboxing, if it were held in the land of giants, where they take giant-sized steroids. After watching this shit, watching Lilliputian Asians fight seems like kid stuff. They don't produce the same power and impact as someone like, say Bob Sapp. Here he is lifting two Japanese women in sacks, as is the custom there:

I remember when ESPN2 practically looped this shit for a week. I worked on the floor as a trainer in a suburban YMCA and witnessed suckas getting destroyed all day long, to the horror of the 'family-first' managers and members. Every once in a while, someone who is cool would exclaim with glee at the utter carnage and remind me to look up from my duties and watch the replay. "OOOOOH LOOKITHAT! HE'S PROBABLY DEAD! HAHAHAHA!"

This is a non-stop parade of ultraviolence, to be sure. It reminds me of the way sports on TV used to be: with commercial-free highlights and little or no announcers ruining it. Check out the 2:08 minute mark, when Ernest "Funny, He Doesn't Look Danish" Hoost wipes his foot on the canvas after wetting it on his opponents' chest, then goes all Lil' Mac on his chin. The poor, chubby twit does a twirl on the way down, crumpling in his own unconscious defeat. Then, Hoost does a little twirl of his own. What was that? His interpretation of Daman Wayan's Wanda from In Living Color?
The 10:00 minute mark features a particularly cracking, slapping facial reconstruction kick delivered by express mail. I like to use this stuff in small doses until football is completely hibernating, but I'm glad I came across this. You're welcome.

So THAT'S What A Clutch Is

2010-01-13T01:40:00.006+09:00

With the off season now looking a bit longer than some (lookin' at YOU, TOM BRADY), we turn to the second-most talked about topic in men's circles: I'm talking about fashion, of course.

This video from the Today Show. If you can stomach the soundtrack, check out the ensemble cast of sports personalities. Jesus, I just typed the word 'ensemble.' This video gave me the gay gene!

Click here for the video.

Tiki Barber, aka the metro D'hani Jones. He looks like he can barely keep from laughing for this piece when describing how 'hip' and 'with it' murses are.

Jack Bauer, gold medal winner in the Terrorist Torture Olympics. See his medal round win here.

Rev. Al Sharpton, Second Runner-up at the '81 Affirmative Action Games marathon. The European carry-all helps distract people from his glittery hair extensions.

Tom Brady, first round playoff loser and retarded giraffe. As part of their 'agreement,' wifey Gisele has him promote her line of men's purses in exchange for her beard duties.

David Gregory, hair model and last minute Russert fill-in. He would have us believe that he carries his 'research' in his bag. POPPYCOCK! Everyone knows he doesn't do research: he works for NBC! KA-ZING!

Ron Duguay (pronounced du-gay), former New York Rangers center. He's featured in something called The Battle of the Blades, where hockey players compete in figure skating. Yep. Looks like a butch David Bowie.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I've always wanted to be a model in a fashion show, featuring the latest in clutch looks, strutting my stuff to JT's Sexy Back. However, I'm embarrassed to admit that I used to carry Al Roker's "Real Man Bag." I bought it in 1999 and was incessantly ridiculed for it. Although it was a rugged Nike design and manufactured by Indonesian toddlers, I overestimated it's capacity so much that it hurt my shoulder and wrinkled my shirt. So if you take away anything from my confession here, remember that I HAD IT BEFORE IT WAS METRO. Also, I always made sure my shoes matched.

Thanks to Dianne for the tip!

Tyler Perry Introduces Autotuned Coaches

2010-01-08T22:25:00.003+09:00

This is all I can do to celebrate the playoffs this weekend. That, and straight bourbon. Enjoy the games, everybody.

Whither The Thumbs Up?

2010-01-04T22:23:00.008+09:00

Yesterday during the Dolphins' scheduled execution at the hands of a desperate squad of Steelers, Pat White, our wildcat QB suffered a helmet-to-earhole collision that left him instantly unconscious and no doubt inching towards the light.

The moment his crumpled body hit the Steelers' sideline, the players nearby emphatically motioned for help. Pat White lay there, face-down and arms beside his body like he was shot. I first believed him ill-prepared for the hit, not readying his posture for a sideline impact, but after seeing the replay, he did in fact get as low as possible.

Queue the ballet of trainers, medics, stretchers and golf carts. Miami's training staff are undoubtedly among the best in any medical field: just ask Marc Bouniconti. I stared in vain, searching for some sign that Pat was OK. He was moving his limbs, albeit slowly. As he was carted off, I was extremely disappointed that he didn't throw up the universal sign for hope: the thumbs up.

Meanwhile, here's a related observation that I thought interesting: the same haters that were disgusted by Tim Tebow's post-game thanks to God were strangely silent when the players in this game gathered in circles to send out prayers for their fallen comrade. I'll admit that I made lame jokes about White's misfortune, commenting rather crudely on the violence; attempting to cope with the possible paralyzing of a player on my favorite team in a way not unlike a policeman might joke about an unlucky jaywalker. But they ridiculed the Florida captain, as if Tebow was the first athlete ever to thank his Deity after winning. The exchange went something like this:

Douche #1: "Did you see Tim Tebow's speech after he singlehandedly beat the shit out of the Bearcats?"

Douche #2: "Yep."

Douche #1: "Tsk. Are you a religious guy?"

Douche #2: "Nope. Why?"

Douche #1: "It's just that, I don't think God cares who wins a football game."

Douche #2: "Yeah, right? Hail Satan!"

[ devil horns high-five ]

To me, this is the equivalency of someone disqualifying their bigotries before uttering a racial slur. We've all heard them at parties or at work: "I'm not racist, but...," followed by a cautious glance around the room and a hackneyed comment that would make the cast of Hee Haw blush.

Simple twats, the lot of them. What they may not realize is that when athletes thank God and/or their personal Savior, they are doing it because they are perhaps more fortunate than others. Winning competitors have lives that rival kings: women, money, respect and power. Hell, even Ryan Leaf got some top shelf tail before he even won a pro game. Joe six pack just has next Saturday to look forward to. What's wrong with taking a moment to thank the big guy upstairs?

Anyways, back to the thumbs up: Evel Knievel did it. Macho Man Randy Savage did it. Hell, even Twiglegs Theisman threw up the old "A-OK digit." I think they should review the requirements for team physicians from now on to include how to successfully get a thumbs up from your patient in situations like these. Granted White was probably scared shitless, getting his neck immobilized and his body strapped to a board, then whisked off the field to a dark tunnel full of prodding technicians. But, next time (if there IS a next time, GIVE US THE THUMBS UP, MAN!

Get well soon, you Magnificent Bastard.

Your Bowl Game Referee Signal Guide

2010-01-01T03:46:00.002+09:00

Yesterday, while I was combining the contents of two file cabinets, I came across my program for last year's BCS National Championship game, which I proudly attended. It features a scoring breakdown from each game of both Oklahoma and Florida. The rest was shitty ads and merchandizing for dipshits that don't buy their memoribilia at the game. The last glossy page features this sloppily-arranged guide for people who happen to give a shit about the signals the referees give. You know, before they announce it over the loudspeaker.

I can't think of a more antiquated system of communicating rules than this. Why don't you just tell us, you striped fairies? No need for the wild Fonda-esque moves. Also, those pants make you look like a painter that put his outfit in the dryer too long.

Click here for more. Enjoy the games, everyone. Have a safe and happy New Year.

Thank You, Japan

2009-12-31T06:57:00.006+09:00

This is probably no more prevalent than say, flipping over to any Saturday night WCW no-holds-barred cage match, except that:
A) It's in Japan
B) It's frikkin' AWESOME

What's that, you say? Wrestling is fake? Not a sport? Shut it, shitfist. I just got back from Scotty's going-out-of-business sale, and I've got a truck full of giant, sharp pixie sticks that will blow your fucking shit up.

This is Japanese Fluorescent Bulb Fighting. It has recently eclipsed international viewership of both indoor competitive curling AND women's topless archery (not pictured). My friends, there are few things in life more satisfying than the explosive pop of an enormous gas-filled bulb when hurled or swung against something. I can only dream of one day smashing a bundle of them over an obese Asian man's bald head (single tear).

Have you ever chucked an armful of them into an empty dumpster? It's pretty boss because you won't get hit by as many microscopic shards of glass or inhale as much of the poisonous cloud that's released. Imagine if Frosty the Snowman was a mass murderer and he had Chipotle Mexican Grill for lunch. Sometimes, the pieces don't break the way you wanted, so you have to climb in the dumpster and try again. Totally worth it. Screw you, OSHA!

So imagine my glee when I found this little gem. For a full gallery click here. Sadly, they are no more gory than the fat bastard pictured above. For a list of rules, don't click anywhere. THERE ARE NO RULES! BWAA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

I now invite you to my more civilized, Western version. To keep the Asian theme going, it features the frail but wily George Tekei as the ringmaster from Beyond Thunderdome:

Listen all! This is the truth of it. Fighting gets to killing, and killing
gets to warring. And that was damn near the death of us all. Look at us now! All
busted up, and everyone talking about hard rain! But we've learned, by the dust
of them all ... Bartertown learned. Now, when men get to fighting, it happens
here! And it finishes here! Two men enter; one man leaves.

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls ... dyin' time's here.

"Unless you've got POWER!"

2009-12-23T22:10:00.004+09:00

This is from the "WHERE THE HELL ARE THE FLYING CARS" department. I found a status report on my desk the other day: December 23, 2009 ... STILL NO FRIKKIN' FLYING CARS. What the hell, scientists? Didn't you see the Jetsons?

Are you bored? Are you Canadian? Then we have the extreme sport for you! Mattrax (catchy name ... did you take the blue pill?) is here! This is a line of tank track systems that can be made to fit on many vehicles, including a snowboard-like platform. Living in Florida, I have no idea why anyone would need this except for slinging mud everywhere. The website claims the Mattracks has a "unique patented design, sophistication in engineering and simplicity in function." I'm not sure what that means. The Canadians have bastardized our precious American language to suit their primitive culture.

See the video here. If you listen to the golden-voiced narrator around the :08 second mark, you'll notice him pointing out that thrill-seeking Canucks can't always make it to the slopes BECAUSE THEY'RE SNOWED IN. Alas, theirs is an icy hell I'll never know.

On the brighter side, I now offer this example of how America (F__K YEAH!) is always ten years ahead of Canada in all respects, including power-assisted extreme sports vehicles. Take it away, Biff's gang of futuristic ruffians:

Your Ping Pong Is Strong

2009-12-17T06:18:00.012+09:00

Metal on Metal "BASTARD" from The Glue Society on Vimeo.

This is a music video. You remember those, right? Once upon a time, they used to give awards out to artists who had good songs and videos. They were played on a channel that cable subscribers payed money to see.

It's brought to you by {insert European waif's name here}. It features some of my favorite things in the whole wide world:

Fist-pumpin' tecno music: When I'm not watching MTV's Jersey Shore, I'm blasting the soundtrack while I TOTALLY WAIL ON MY PECS YEAAAAAAAAAAHH!!! I listen to the slow stuff when I tan.

*For an alternative veiwing experience, mute this garbage and try the new track
by Ill Nino.

Sporty asian women: Michelle Wie, Kristi Yamaguchi, hell, even the WWE's Gail Kim could teach all you drama queens a thing or two about classy sportsmanship. And math. Lookin' at you, Williams sisters.

A Butler: He should have white gloves and a jacket with tails, but when you're handling live munitions, who's gonna split hairs?

Dangerously thin blast shield: I watch Mythbusters pretty often, and those freaky little gnomes hide behind some serious plastic; even when they're testing the surface tension of bleach. Hey, Hyman-man! Do you really expect this shit to stop supersonic schrapnel? One minute you're cheering for the hot chick to win, fist-bumping total strangers, then BAM! You take a sliver of iron to the temple. Game over. You didn't even finish your complimentary pork pot stickers.

MAU! MAU! DIDI MAU! Any day that you can quote a memorable line from The Deer Hunter is a good day. When I typed up this entry, I basically started there and worked backwards.

Slow-mo: Everything is better in hi-def. Ever seen that show Time Warp? Do it now. Then, imagine if the director had ACTUALLY INCLUDED the moment where the ugly one loses at this game of Championship Russian Roullette Ping Pong. Seriously? All that tease for a split-second money shot with no payoff!?!? What is this, prime time on the Disney Channel?

I Got Nothing

2009-11-18T02:57:00.002+09:00

Mayne Finds The Funny Again With Pey-Pey

2009-10-26T09:31:00.003+09:00

Every game day, Sunday NFL Countdown is a can't-miss program, showcasing the best that ESPN has to offer. By that I mean Tom Jackson. Everybody else gets on my nerves, like a pebble in my Crocs during a long walk to the local Wal-Mart.

Kenny Mayne, the silver-haired ESPN alum who somehow managed to avoid off-air breakdowns or embarrasing sex scandals, was always one of my favorites: with wit as dry as Betty White's dusty snatch with exceptional timing. Back in the day, I often skipped Olberman and Patrick's "Big Show" so I could stay up to watch the highlights anew, with Mayne at the reigns.

For a few years now, he's been doing light-hearted humor pieces right before kickoff, entitled "The Mayne Event." It features NFL athletes and their local celebrity counterparts awkwardly reading lines and blindly following some hokey script. They obviously cater to the Disney-esque family crowd because they positively drip with Mickey Mouse puns and gags. I fully expect to one day see Kurt Warner clean a locker room with a magic broom, ala Fanatasia. Needless to say, they fucking suck. Most times, they fail to get more than a snicker from Countdown's hosts before they go to break. I'd rather watch another metro caveman sketch than endear another one of those turds.

But Sunday, I caught one by accident. Mayne brought in the NFL's version of Charlie Chaplain: Peyton Manning. No other modern athlete has brought more chuckles than the down-home comical stylings of the future Hall of Famer, except maybe Joe Namath. Ha! It's funny 'cuz he's shit-faced!

This video has it all; including several of my favorite things:

1) Traditional Irish music

2) Ass humor

3) Gay jokes

4) Taco! Taco! Taco!

5) Flimsy pracitice structures

Cheers to you Mayne, even though you probably didn't do jack shit during the production of this video. Peyton probably just strolled in, spread his team of writers out in a wide formation, and let the funny roll in.

Kenny Mayne recently wrote a book. In it, he no doubt chronicles how he used to work as a sanitation worker. That's right, kids: a garbage man. I always dreamed about being a garbage man; if only for a day. I'd love to find out if those grimey bastards actually enjoy shuttling warm, wet trash from smelly streetcorners to even smellier landfills, or if they just can't get any other job. But since I rarely read print media, (except the occaisional Cat Fancy or JUGS magazine) I thought I would pick out some of my favorite KM quotes from the good old internets.

"Their whole thing was that every state was going to be as unique as possible. I'm from Seattle and for Washington they did ultimate frisbee.”

“I'm not trying to make fun of everyone, and not everyone is supposed to get that kind of humor. But the people here seemed to like it. The guy really wanted to tell me what kind of tree he would be.”

"He was traded for a player to be named later. Right now no one knows his name, they just say 'What's up big guy?'"

"We show you this to see how women 18-34 feel about the play."

"Portions of this game were taped for training purposes..."

"But we all know that games aren't played on paper...they're played by little men inside our TV sets."

"We're gonna show it again, 'cause we have editing equipment."

I Reckon So

2009-10-19T19:48:00.010+09:00

If you've ever had the misfortune to watch television with me at the controls, then you'd know it can be difficult. With my miniscule attention span and general distaste for most things broadcast, I have been known to change the channel quite often. Some have likened it to staring at a strobelight.

But last night, I was glued to the screen as the Falcons scraped out a victory against Jay Cutler and the Bears: until I noticed that The Outlaw Josie Wales was on. Clint Eastwood's 1976 opus is probably my favorite Western, and no game, especially not one starring Cutlerfucker will keep me from savoring the good parts.

If you missed the game, allow my journalistic talents to enlighten you. But being the lazy blogger that I am, I present to you some copies and pastes from NFL.com, cleverly juxtaposed to quotes from TOJW. That's how lazy I am: I just abbrieviated it.

Now remember, things look bad and it looks like you're not gonna make it, then you gotta get mean. I mean plumb, mad-dog mean. 'Cause if you lose your head and you give up then you neither live nor win. That's just the way it is.

Falcons DT Jonathan Babineaux forced a crucial fumble at the goal line that was recovered by teammate Coy Wire to keep the Bears scoreless in the third quarter. The fifth-year veteran also had three tackles and half a sack.

I think we as a society don't use the word 'plumb' enough. How is it that people use fairy words like very or extremely but don't use the word plumb? If we all talked a little more like Josey Wales, we would all be badass. Also, we might chew tobacky.

Are you gonna pull those pistols or whistle Dixie?

The Bears entered the red zone four times, but scored just once. Besides the final drive, which ended on downs, the other possessions ended with a fumble and an interception.

Josey Wales uttered that line right before he swiss cheesed up four mouth-breathing Union soldiers. Seriously: how dumb are these shitheads? And what good is a reputation for badassery if no one realizes that you're badass? I guess it helps if you travel with a crusty old Indian with a loaded revolver:

To hell with them fellas. Buzzards gotta eat, same as worms.

Bears QB Jay Cutler's pass on fourth-and-6 at Atlanta's 10-yard line fell incomplete with 29 seconds left.

On NFL.com, this was posted under the heading, "It was over when..." I love how they reduce a primetime game with innumerable twists and turns down to water cooler talk. It affords me more time to devote to cruising around in my sweet Neverending Story van.

Dyin' aint much of a livin', boy.

Johnny Knox had a touchdown for the fourth straight game and joins Walter Payton as the only Bears rookies to have a TD in four straight contests. The Falcons are off to a 4-1 start for the first time since 2004. Atlanta is 15-1 under coach Mike Smith when leading at halftime.

Who the crap is Mike Smith, anyway? I wouldn't know him if he had a Mike Smith Collection shirt on, with a big ass sandwich board that said "I'm Mike Smith. Head Coach of the Atlanta Falcons."

Where were the shots of Urlacher itching his arm under his cast with a coat hanger? Oh yeah: I was watching a movie.

Everybody Dance Now

2009-09-26T04:03:00.004+09:00

Ever wondered what C&C Music Factory's "Everybody Dance Now" would sound like on a 8-bit video game? Neither have I.

I'm kind of a B-52's kinda guy.

Enjoy the games, everybody: I've already moved on from last year's drama.

Hello Japan > Hi Mom!

2009-08-18T23:27:00.004+09:00

This is a fight video brought to you by the fine people at FailBlog. It features a Japanese fighter in Stryper-inspired spandex pants defeating some stupid Westerner.

Matt "The Terrah" Sera does not approve. In fact, he thinks you're a clamhead! This is an example of what not to do when you make your MMA debut in a foreign country. Sure, it may be an exotic, life-changing event accompanied by curious, fully grown women dressed like Pokemon characters, but you might just get choked the fuck out by a tiny man in terribly tight pantaloons.

Girl (?) Fight Tonight!

2009-08-15T21:43:00.003+09:00

This is a training video featuring Cris Cyborg, an indestructable mutant from Brazil. She is scheduled to fight the more popular and slightly less manly Gina Carano, known as a technician with a lot of heart. In these days of economic hardship, it's not difficult to see where the smart money is at.

This woman frightens me more than Kathy Griffin ever did, even after her plastic surgery. Do you remember when you were a baby and your junk was inside your body? Neither do I, but this is what Cris Cyborg makes me feel like. I think she crawled out of the same slimy vat as Crystl Bustos, the softball slugger and part-time 400lb. gorilla. Yes, she is available for bar mitzvas and used car sales.

The other day, it was announced that women's (ahem - womyn's) boxing will be added to the Olympics. Michael Wilbon predictably harumphed at the idea, calling it 'brutal,' and adding "what is this junk?" just for good measure. Typical snooty Wilbon. If you saw as many shitty sports in the Olympics as I did, I think you would have a similiar opinion. Trampoline? REALLY?!?!

Anywhoo, back to the video. Worth watching for the soundtrack alone. Near the end, when she shoots in and picks up her husband/catcher, I peed in my pants a little. Coupla gay moments, though:

* What's with the fan/bike (or is it bike/fan?)

* Throwing around big ropes confuses and angers me. So she can play double dutch with the fat kids ... but can she play chopsticks on the piano?

* Rolling credits at the end really isn't necessary. This ain't Cannes and you ain't Micheal Bay.

Who Made Steve Guttenberg A Star?

2009-08-07T04:18:00.000+09:00

We didn't. It was this dolphin.

E-I-E-I-Yoga Is Coming To A Farm Near You

2009-08-04T00:33:00.014+09:00

Most of you hapless victims of my posts already know that I'm a big fan of Everything Is Terrible. You might remember their hits like Sensitivity Training For Cops and Gary Busey Stars as 'BulletProof!' Well, the hits just keep on coming with this little gem, dug up from the vaults of some obscure video production company now in hell's vacant strip mall.

This video had me simultaneously bursting into tears from laughter and shaking my head in confusion. First off, I don't know what happened to Peter Fonda, but I want the number to his stylist and/or fashion consultant. Those Barack Obama jeans are frikkin' sweet! This granola-tweeker's appearance upsets me deeply, but his name (Yogi Okie Dokie) actually kind of fits him. But when I see him working with children, I'm afraid to watch more. It's like some sort of twisted perverted roller coaster that towers over a massive 50-car pileup, you just can't look away. Onward!

Rasta, the Jamaican Jerk Chicken is on loan from the local Sheriff's department. As part of his community service, he must take time out of his busy anti-drug pep rallys to ... wait for it ... teach yoga to aspiring child actors on TV! So this is where Hermes started off before he became an intergalactic bureauocrat for PlanetExpress. Hard-working and industrious people, those Jamaicans.

The cow is gay. Her name is How N' Now. Fuck the cow.

Do you feel that wind? It reminds me to breathe! It's important that kids breathe, mostly because their brains need oxygen, but also when unyielding bouts of humiliation overcomes their fragile minds while on the set of barnyard yoga.

Did you see Arron? He's the kid in the red leotard ( heh ... tard ). He resembles a young Corey Glover from Living Colour. I was waiting to see him strike a fierce tractor pose and shout I AM THE CULT OF ... I AM THE CULT OF ... PERSONALI-TEEE YUH! I guess he has yet to earn his rock stripes.

Right before the big imitating-a-blackbird number, a chorus of 'vegetable!' begins, as Yogi Okie Dokie harmonizes with Rasta. Is it greedy of me that I want to hear that remixed with a death metal track? Something by Lamb of God or Hatebreed maybe? Oh, how the internet has spoiled me.

The big finish is what I can only assume is a standing cobra pose, accompanied by the children/victims shrieking like feral cats. It pretty much sums up how I feel about this clip. Coincidentally, this is what I did last Tuesday after Fox's More To Love debuted. In both instances, I laughed hysterically and wet my leotard.

I triple downward-dog dare you to watch this three times. Then, I want you to think about all the fun you've had here today; moving and breathing. Remember to breathe!

This Dolphin Will Swallow Your Soul

2009-07-16T21:19:00.007+09:00

This unleaded fuel for your daymares is brought to you by something called NorthFur, a Canadian firm specializing in mascot performances and commercials.

I find this insulting to my sense of realism. Any dolphin costume without a working blowhole is not worth the investment. At least, not in American dollars.

Surprisingly, the Miami Dolphins have expressed no interest in employing the services of NorthFur, ever since Poochie the Rockin' Dog got fired after humping the leg of new part-owner Gloria Estephan.

It's a slow day here at MagBas ... I fired the entire staff yesterday and the offices are kinda quiet. Actually, they're absolutely desolate. I clicked on their site out of sheer curiosity. It takes creepyness to a HO ... NUVA ... LEVEL. Something about thier portfolio makes me think that it's just a pair of Canadian fuckknuckles that have seen too many horror movies. Naturally, they decided to play dress-up when they got thirsty:

JASON: Hey hoser... we're out of beer.

MARK: Shit! Who's turn is it to get a job?

JASON: Yours. I sold all of our beaver pelts last week.

[picks nose]

MARK: Damnit! Hey, you remember watching Hellraiser for the fourth time?

JASON: Yeah.

[eats it]

MARK: We should do that, man. We could do special effects and make-up and shit! Rent oursleves out to kids' parties and corporate meetings! We'll be thousandaires!

JASON: drawdrawdrawdrawdrawdrawdrawdrawdrawdraw

MARK: THAT'S AWESOME! WHERE'D YOU LEARN TO DRAW, EH? But what about the rest of the mouse and horse bodies? How are we gonna make them?

JASON: Just wear your Rage shirt. I'll put on my Metallica one. They'll get the idea.

RIP, You Magnificent Bastards

2009-07-15T04:22:00.009+09:00

When I was a kid, my Mom told me that I could be anything I wanted to be when I grew up. She was quick to add, "As long as you work for it."

I never heard that second part. I had already skipped away at full speed, throwing shurikens at the neighbor's cats while making helicopter sounds. The training regimen of young ninja are quite demanding, it seems.

Throughout my youth and adulthood, I've aspired to be many things: a fighter pilot, a bear trap manufacturer, or even a ketchup packet sales executive. When I saw Arturo Gatti smash the shit out of someone, while in turn get the shit smashed out of him, I dreamt of being a fighter. Maybe it was the otherwise stale, sad state of boxing (even then), the cutting staccato of Jim Lampley's commentary as he called the fights, or Gatti himself: a wild pugilist with a God's heart. Watch Joey Gamache's destruction at the hands of the man they called Thunder and tell me why he had to die that way.

Lately, some of the strongest men have been brought down by crazy women when they are their most defenseless: while they were unconcious. On July 4th, three-time ProBowl NFL quarterback Steve McNair was shot four times and killed (presumably while he slept) by some crazy skank who then offed herself. On July 12, legendary fighter Arturo Gatti was found dead, apparently strangled with a purse strap. His wife, a Brazilian-national and stripper is held as the only suspect.

I found out yesterday that I will never play professional football (on any level). Try to contain your surprise; it turns out I have flat feet. Also, my vagina bleeds when it is concussed by contact over 1.3G's. Sad, really: I wanted to be Dan Marino, but Steve McNair was one of those guys who made me want to play football. Why is he dead and Doug Flutie still walking this Earth?

Shit is all backwards. Up is down, fast forward is rewind. Pause still works because I tried it out last night while watching Dance Your Ass Off. All week, I'll be doing some fetal spooning with my couch pillows. If you want to reach me, send a singing clown to my apartment. Maybe he'll tell me why Thunder and Air are fucking dead.

Programming Note

2009-07-03T01:57:00.005+09:00

Sadly, Fred Durst and his breakthrough band Limp Bizkit will not be performing at MMAExpo next weekend, as part of the UFC 100 extravaganza. Their plane was shot down over Montreal. There were no survivors.

At the scene, a single fitted red baseball cap was recovered. It had minor burns, but will survive.

My memories of Limp Bizkit are numerous and colorful, to say the least. I recall them playing at Woodstock '99 and seeing Fred Durst crowd surf on a big ass piece of plywood. After years of therapy and gallons of bathtub brew, recollections of the entire festival is finally gone forever. A shame, really; I heard Rage Against the Machine frikkin rocked.

And remember that one time when their plane was shot down? That was cool too.

The Summer Spin, Kick and Fall Down Championships

2009-07-02T23:31:00.004+09:00

I caught this on UniqueDaily today. The caption reads:

Footage of the SpewSpinner 5000 in action. This was a device created to
entertain us during the slow moments of the Bathurst 1000 this year.

Normally, I wouldn't post this nonsensical garbage, but I had another football dream last night, and it left me with a nasty taste in my mouth acompanied by the usual longing for the great sport of AMERICAN FOOTBALL. This happens about every week, for the last month or so. For all those concerned, I am now seeking help for it. By help, I mean drinking and fetal-spooning a bottle of grain alcohol thrice daily. To the analysis!

At first glance, methinks his was a bunch of dumbass drunk Canadian greasemonkeys. They apparently took a racing harness and welded it to a retired carnival ride. Note the dingy yellow stain on the headrest. Did Big Bird run 500 miles on it?

It seems our friends north of the border have long since cut their mullets off, but kept the cool things that came with it: jorts and rugby balls. Later, the only audible voice I heard was that of an Australian. Stange; I could have sworn this was filmed behind a bacon processing plant. The Bathurst 1000 sounds kinda Australian, but then again I don't speak the language. A savage and backwards people, the lot of 'em.

Luckily, Metallica is a universal language. My favorite competitor (or athlete?) is William 'Comic Book Guy' Cook taking a header into the grass after failing to hurdle over the fertilizer pile, splashing beer all over his shit.

I Got Nothing

2009-07-01T23:16:00.004+09:00

"I Have Something To Say!"

2009-06-29T22:07:00.010+09:00

Greetings, gentle readers! If you're like me, during the offseason you silently cry alone in the garage every night and contemplate piercing your skull with a hot soldering iron just to end the suffering. What suffering, you ask? No, I'm not patiently awaiting Speidi's return to stardom; I'm talking about waiting for FOOTBALL.

This weekend, I did a few things that remind me of everybody's favorite pastime, if just to whet my unyielding appetite for our great sport. I had medium-rare lamb chops (blood, violence etc.), watched the Transformers movie (Megan Fox is nice substitute for gratuitus cheerleader shots) and saw a great comedy: Strangers With Candy (laughing at Jeff Garcia).

Anyway, I thought I might give you fair warning of an impending disaster: The Fan Expo at UFC 100 is next weekend. Sure, there's some great matchups...but if you or any loved one is within a 10-mile radius of the Mandalay Bay Events Center in Las Vegas, you could become contaminated with douche. Normally a harmless feminine cleansing agent, douche can be lethal in large doses or when delivered by males aged 18-35 years.

Tens of thousands of UFC® and MMA fans from around the globe are expected to attend the premier, must-see event of the year—UFC® Fan Expo™ 2009–so they can celebrate their passion through the experience of exhibitions, fan-inspired special events and competitions, autograph signings, meet and greets with elite fighters, and demos of various fighting techniques – all held in conjunction with the UFC® 100 fighter weigh-ins and the UFC®100 live event.

We all know that mixed martial arts is an intense and worthy distraction from football. DO NOT DROP YOUR GUARD! These creatures come in may shapes and sizes, and knowing their traits and characteristics could help you avoid deadly contamination. Be on the lookout for gaudy Ed Hardy clothing, spiraling tribal tattoos and colorful belt selections.

His douchefist of Power is mighty and strong

And who will lead the mass of Axe Body Sprayed, gel-soaked jackasses in song? The answer may not surprise you:

Limp Bizkit's original lineup will make its first North American concert
appearance in eight years July 10 at House of Blues in Mandalay Bay
Resort in Las Vegas. The concert--which will help kick-off the festivities
surrounding the Ultimate Fighting Championship 100 Expo weekend--will be the
band's only performance in the US during its "Unicorns N' Rainbows" tour,
according to a press release.

Their first and only North American performance, huh? I thought for sure they would be playing to hundreds of bacon-y Canadians and Mexicans hopped up on model airplane glue, saving their pincer move of douche for the lower 48. Thank God for that. The press release also said they'd be signing autographs later that afternoon. No punchline needed.

Seriously, I havn't seen a more irrelevant act since Bob Hope performed at the Gator Growl. Sure, Chocolate Doughnuts And HotDog-Flavored Water was a great follow-up to their debut (sarcasm), but they havn't recorded anything since. I guess there is justice in this world! Recently, Fred Durst posted a picture of himself in full Michael Jackson regalia and commented on the shocking death of MJ. I'll spare you the pic because I love you, and I don't want to hurt you. Instead here's another pic of a hot chick with some douchebags courtesy of, (you guessed it) hotchickswithdouchebags.com.

The Four Horsemen of the Douchepocalypse

Author's Note: Like what you see? Want to see more? Want to contribute? Email me and we'll have a power lunch at Zaxby's on your tab (sorry - my expense account is tapped).

Throw Hands In Air; Wave Them As If You Don't Care

2009-06-23T03:22:00.002+09:00

In case you don't own a radio in your car, AutoTuning is taking the media by storm. God, I hate it so. It recently took over the #3 spot previously held by Scrubs. Now, the lazy hip-hop melodies that assault our ears have now invaded the news and sports worlds.

But this is actually quite entertaining. The footage stays on rythym, and features the studly and clumsy Joe Namath. I would pay anything to smell his breath at that moment. Maybe Sweet Suzy K. will write a book about it one day.

This Should Be A Sport

2009-06-11T00:16:00.007+09:00

This is a gameplay walkthrough by the head designer of Just Cause 2. Even though he's a whispy European poof, he knows badassery like I know asshattery. Don't think so? He might just stick some C4 to the roof of your truck and blow your shit up.

"But, Jeff!" You complain. "This is a video game. Isn't MagBas a sports blog?"

Of course it is, you silly goose! BASE jumping is a sport because I first saw it over a decade ago on MTV Sports with Dan Cortes. I miss him. Anyway, now that baseball is finally (and rightfully) being ignored and the Magic are Dead and buried, the sporting community is in hibernation. A dreary hiatus of suck that we may never recover from...until August. Now I know what Buffalo is like 12 months out of the year.

Directions for use:
1) Click on 'play.' It's the triangular button.
2) Click on 'full screen.' It's the rectangular button.
3) Prepare to have your mind officially blown. Nice knowin' ya, chief.

Seriously, this is some serious Bruce Willis-type shit. That grappling hook trick was SICK! When he tethered the humvee to the bridge and totally blew up the bad guy's spot, it made me feel kind of funny 'down there.' I'm pitching a t-shirt to this designer: NOW I HAVE A GRAPPLING HOOK HO HO HO

Curling IS SO METAL

2009-05-20T00:45:00.002+09:00

Everyone knows who this is: IT'S HAMMERFALL! This is their hit (?), "Hearts On Fire," re-cut and re-shot to feature the Swedish national curling team.

Sweep the Knee!

2009-04-28T22:54:00.005+09:00

I first saw this dude (the short guy) on RealSports with Bryant Gumbel. He was featured as one of those inspirational pieces that tugged at the heartstrings. Kyle Maynard also tugs at your shoestrings, shown here in his first professional MMA fight.

Sadly, Kyle was not victorious. On RealSports, I seem to recall some pencil-necked geek actually losing to this dude on the wrestling mat. A teammate said something like, "he's deceptively strong" or "that fucker will do whatever it takes to win; up to and including sticking his nub in your eye." Here, his opponent appears to be either a) too affraid to lose to him during the first 1:30, or b) too nice of a guy to pummel someone with no arms or legs until he cries.

My favorite is at 2:15 when someone shouted, "Boo! You're a bitch!" followed by someone laughing. Who was he talking to? Maybe the referee. Clearly there are no bitches here; only 2.5 men. I keep picturing a sleazy promoter, lurking in the shadows and presenting a contract to sign, smiling through a toothy grin.
EMBED-Kyle Maynard, First Amputee MMA Fighter - Watch more free videos

I Got Nothing

2009-04-10T00:28:00.000+09:00

Kurt Warner Hands The Ball Off Like A Champion

2009-03-11T12:50:00.005+09:00

Yesterday, I recieved my first copy of Sports Illustrated. For those of you who know me, you might be wondering, "that cheap sonofabitch got SI?" Of course not, silly goose! Dianne had some leftover credit card points after transferring some meager funds to a Liberian gentleman that she met online. I also got Garden & Gun and WIRED. Good toilet reading all around, I'd say.

This week is the baseball preview issue, with CC Sebathia on the cover (whomever that is; sounds like some sort of Greek plumbing tool). I must admit I was eager to read the funny snippits, inciteful stories and thought-provoking commentaries that have been a part of SI's long tradition of printed quality. Yeah.

As it turns out, I left the house disgusted, in hopes of finding a new parrot so I could line it's cage with this waste of paper. I returned with nothing, remembering that I had no money with which to buy said parrot. Too bad. I would have named her Lady Ariana Huffington.

After eight more bourbons, I settled down on the couch to play a few rounds of Team Deathmatch on Call of Duty: World at War. These Japs aren't going to kill themselves! Wait...maybe they might. To my surprise and anger, I remembered that I lent out my XBOX to my nephew! Is this how my kindness is rewarded? I thought to myself. OH, WHAT A CRUEL FATE!

With my copy of The Zombie Survival Guide thoroughly memorized and dog-eared, my only choice was to finish the SI. I bitterly perused the Point After by Phil Taylor about some dicknozzle coach who put up a 100-0 score in a girls' basketball game. Later, after some quiet sobbing and fetal spooning with my sweaty couch pillows, the only relief I found was that I hadn't come across the story on my beloved DeadSpin. You see, I need new shit; not some re-hashed, week-old rendering of games that some college-educated crustacean scribbled notes about on paper. So I'm done. From porn to politics, print media has permenently lost me to the vast, far reaches of Al Gore's internet universe. In the following paragraphs, I offer another example as to why I'm divorcing the ancient moveable type.

I've waited all year for it. First, I started training my pancreas in hopes of tackling the ominous fried pastries and assorted meat/bread combos without slipping into a dizzying diabetic coma. Then, I walked (well, more like moseyed) 5 miles a week preparation for the slow, measured browsing of games and cheap shit for sale. Finally, the day had arrived: The Osceola County Fair was here!

We went on a Sunday: the only day it was free. I won't bore you with the details; I suspect you can already sense my sarcastic tone. Highlights include, but are not limited to:

~The bright yellow Scientology tent/compound. Complete with a comfortable table and chair with a sign reading "free stress test." Shackles and tranquilizer dart not shown.

~A dude making chainsaw sculptures inside a chicken wire booth. His leather chaps were quite thick and manacing.

~A little girl carrying her prize won from a carnival game: A framed Chris Brown photo. Words cannot describe.

~Carnies fucking harassing me to try their sheisty games...muttering, "What are ya, too cheap to get yer girlfriend a teddy bear?" You want me to knock that Kool menthol out of your toothless maw, you apron-wearing jerkoff? Havn't you died of AIDS yet?

~Several legitimate churches set up booths inside. They caught my attention with shiny paper things that some people call books. The person behind the table smiled and gleefully informed me that everything was free.

This one caught my attention and I grabbed it. It features known choke artist Kurt Warner in an outdated uniform taking a snap while facing the wrong way. Or pitching it back to his RB. Either way, it sucks. I'd never read anything that had religion and sports converging, and I remembered that I had to visit the Ornage County Tag & Title office the next day anyway. Why not kill some time? It's not like I had a choice.

The tag office sucked anteater balls. The computers were offline, I was flanked by a cadre of white trash moms, and I would end up trapped there for a total of four hours! Also, the book blew except for the outdated passages about sports personalities and their relationships with God. At first, I was apprehensive. I thought, Listen, you silly-ass book...I'm right with the Lord, and I don't need some shitstained jock who gets hit in the dome for a living to tell me how to be a better Christain. I'm in church every Easter and Christmas! I'd rather hear it from this cocksock:

Bengals mascot Brent Claiborne understands the change that comes to someone who has accepted God's love. 'When I'm not wearing the mascot suit, when it's just
me in my street clothes, my efforts to encourage people or make them smile don't
accomplish anything. On its own, without me in it, the suit is just a pile of
furry material sitting on a cement floor in the stadium.

Hozannah in the highest! What a revealing look inside the mysterious world of Evangelical Mascots! No wonder the Bengals are such pillars of exemplary behavior! They have Brent "the Bible" leading the sideline chants. Ya know, Brent: without a port-a-potty, my shit is just a pile of brown slop sitting on a cement floor in the stadium. He continues:

But with a living person inside it, the suit becomes alive. This is how I feel
after asking Christ to become a part of my life. He's living inside me, giving
me a new life.

Amen! Know what would give you a new life? If you quit being a closeted gay cheerleader in a cheap, poorly-ventilated tiger costume. You'd be better suited to my field: the lucrative ketchup packet sales industry, where you can make some serious cash and not be ridiculed for your deviant lifestyle. Seriously, Brent: is this where you wanna be when Jesus comes back, man?

Between the full-color inserts, they have their disjointed interpretations of Bible verses printed on pseudo-tissue paper; you know, like in the actual Bible. I actually gotta give props to old Kurt Warner, though: he doesn't give a shit what people say about him. But at times, he seems a little Holier-than-thou (ahem) when he goes on about being a spiritual leader of men:

Standing up for my beliefs, no matter what, is one more way I define being
a person of integrity.

Just one more way? This phrase suggests that your integrity is defined in more ways than one! Slow down there, Kurt! We all know that OUR ONE AND TRUE SAVIOR IS TIM TEBOW. We can't have a grey-goateed usurper like you snatching up all the souls to save. At least, not until you've actually won anything. Oh yeah...you have won.

Never mind.

On Balls

2009-02-24T06:09:00.004+09:00

If you're like me, you get pissed when you watch sports. I'm not suggesting I get mad enough to throw the nearest heavy object at my television or anything (egads no!) But if I have to endure one more second of the mindless strategies, pathetic speeds and dikey coaches with starched pantsuits, some shit's gonna go down.

Sadly, the latest judge's injunction forbids me to carry firearms over .22 caliber into public places. Lousy Brady bill.

There exists a myriad of other activities that I would rather be watching. More importantly, I want to address the problem personally.
What happened to you, ESPN? You used to have Dan Patrick. You used to have a decent fucking halftime show. Now, as if to piss on me after you've kicked me in the balls, you shove women's fucking basketball down my throat. That's like the scene from A Clockwork Orange where poor, innocent Alex is forced to watch his beloved ultraviolence while blasting Beethoven. JUST WRONG.

It's assumed that we all agree that Women's Beach Volleyball belong in the sports hall of fame. I'm pretty sure that sport is the sole driven force behind me getting through puberty without the need for rooms full of pornographic material. That shit takes the idea of watching sports in your underwear to a WHOLE NUVA LEVEL.

I'm not even going to touch the women dunking thing. Enough drivel: here's a list of sports that are better than the WNBA. What about women's college basketball, you ask? Fuck that, too.

Fishing
Upon reading this, you might think to yourself, "He's fucking with us. No one likes to watch fishing on TV." True. That's why I follow professional fishing from one, AND ONLY ONE magazine publication: GAFF. Yes, magazines! The glossy, wordy paper thingies that people over 40 keep in a rack beside their crappers. I need only mention that it features more pictures of scantily-clad women than fish, for Crissakes. Most of them are even holding fish. Very skillfully, I might add.

Field Hockey

I was first introduced to this shit when I was looking for boxing during the Beijing Olympics. It features women pushing around a ball with midget hockey sticks.

On a big ass field.
Of grass.

"This fucking sucks," you might say to yourself. I know I did. Upon closer inspection, the uniforms featured sleeveless shirts and a skirt/bloomer combo that would make any cheerleader feel comfortable. Upon EVEN CLOSER INSPECTION, the women were hot! Hotter than soccer players of the fairer sex, if I remember correctly. That takes them up to an average of about 7.

Let that be a lesson to all you ladies out there, floundering in a painfully obscure sport: get a tan and a $100 hairdo. Lip gloss wouldn't hurt either, honey.

NASCAR

I'm ashamed to admit it, but when I was 16, I got into NASCAR. Maybe if I'd had a roomful of smut, then my teen years would've been different; but I digress. This was about the same time that FOX started their coverage, and they pulled out all the stops. After all the Married...With Children reruns were worn out, FOX was anxious to snatch viewers. The bumpkin color men in the booth, flashy graphics and country/rock fusion music all made my first NASCAR experience so full of wonder. FOX were already well-known for theatrics: after all, they had introduced the world to the magic puck thingy that revolutionized hockey on TV(for you younger readers out there, this was before HD). Bear with me: I'm fighting the urge to use all caps to indicate sarcasm, here.

It was really all about the cameras. They really captured the speed and power of the machines, and with the release of Days of Thunder filling in the gaps between fantasy and reality, the experience was complete for me.

Then I realized that it was 42 dudes driving in fucking circles. The End.

Oh well. Still better than women's basketball.

Bocci Ball

Earlier this year, I was sequestered in my stateroom while on a cruise. Predictably, I got fucking sick from some grubby Indonesian preparing my slop at the ship's communal trough. I had a fever that would make Satan himself wipe his horny brow.

After screening Matthew McCaughnehey in Fool's Gold four times, I stopped by ESPN International, lulled into watching by the hypnotic, familiar tones of sportscasters announcing a contest between steely-eyed competitors.

Then I discovered that I was watching octogenarian bowling. After the fits of uncontrollable rage and drooling unconciousness subsided, I discovered the passion of bocci ball. Hold on tight, people! If you think saying the term bocci ball is fun, wait till you watch it!

Teams of two men dressed in matching track suits roll softball-sized spheres down a 50-foot sidewalk. There rest these unassuming concentric circles, the players scoring points while their opponents use their turns for either offense or defense. It's kinda like horseshoes for slightly more athletic competitors. Yeah, I know: pretty shitty, right? Now imagine a 640 year-old analyst calling the game and you've got a marathon suckfest of TV sports torture. I think I lost my soul that day.

Still, marginally better than the aforementioned.

The Blue Man Group

While driving to Applebee's yesterday, I scoured my meth-addled brain to come up with some obscure, crap sports that are better than women's basketball. Then my head hurt so bad, that I had to run down a few senior citizens to feel better. After cleaning off my grill, I heard a radio spot for these fuckhead freaks of nature. I had found my sport!

I hear you out there: "Blue Man Group is not a sport!" No shit, Einstein. Before you go editing my blog, remember that I didn't earn 20 hours of community college credits just so I could have my overeducated friends and family talk down to me. I know it's not a sport, but I like a nice, round number and an excuse to pick on the rejects who didn't make the cut in the movie Drumline. What are you here for, anyway? To look at pictures of chicks holding phallic symbols?

Since these chinzy azure twits don't say dick, allow me to translate some of their website content:

Blue Man Group is a creative organization dedicated to creating exciting and
innovative work in a wide variety of media.

~We charge you $90 to imprison you while we bang on different kinds of pipes.

The blissful party atmosphere created at their live events has become the
trademark of a Blue Man Group experience.

~Nobody else will look as fucked up as us on stage. Also, we like to use the term 'creative' a lot. It gives us permission to act like classy street performers.

Blue Man Group has also ventured into toy development with their Keyboard
Experience and Percussion Tubes, produced by ToyQuest...

~If you're too broke to come to our shitty shows, buy our equally overpriced crap for your crumbsnatching brats!

Thanks to Tobias Funke for the pic. I got your headshots and the glitter was a nice touch!

The Ghost of Tim Russert Reveals His Pick For BCS Champion

2009-01-08T23:47:00.001+09:00

RIP My Sweet Hobo Sodomites

2008-11-27T03:46:00.007+09:00

Last weekend, I watched in horrified disbelief as my precious Hobo Sodomites were crushed by Trey's 'Cuts Extra Baggage.' My backup Golden Boy, Matt Cassel delivered a perfectly-shaped turd and earned my team LESS THAN ZERO POINTS. That was some weak ass shit.

That shit cost me $50. All that money to give me an excuse to enjoy all the games, instead of the ones that I was lucky enough to see every other Sunday. Here is a list of some other shit that costs that much:

33 BRATZ dolls, accessories not included

22 fake beards, fuzzy

4.5 trenchcoats, Scotchguarded

relaxing 'massage' at the neighborhood Hug 'N Tug

Thai police bribe, generous

Perhaps if I had only chose a more fitting and permanent mascot to represent my team's underachieving potential and bring some luck to my flacid squad. Instead each week, as my icon/avatar, I displayed a myriad of images in an attempt to distract from the utter suckfest that was my team's performance. But they're gone now, and the proper arrangements must be made. Like the dude said from the Metallica One video: "Death has a dignity all it's own." It is my honor to introduce Torgo, my team's mascot:

Goodbye, sweet princes. Rest in peace. Off to that big dumpster in the sky for you. Don't forget your rag bundle tied to your stick. Awful jackasses.

Not Funny 'Ha Ha,' Funny 'Queer'

2008-11-20T23:25:00.006+09:00

No, this is not the latest dispatch from Kenny Loggins Beard Trends Headquarters in Bangor, Maine. This would be funny if it wasn't funny. Just look at this six minute sodomy joke...it's got everything!

Imagine the guy who had to line these meatheads up and get them to dance. I picture a whisper-thin poof with a yellow beret and an ascot; waving his hands wildy and shouting, "NO! NO! NO! MORE HIPS!"

Fake playing a saxophone is actually one of my childhood dreams. I will not ridicule anyone for it.

I love the lone hick lineman who wouldn't dance with his teammates, and instead raps with a Southern twang. Dat shit's tha real dirty south, son. WEST FUCKIN' VIRGINIA!

One more observation before I go off to manscape my neck hair:
These guys are tiny. Is it all the coke they were doing or the absence of good steroids? I guess it really was a different era...

Daunte Culpepper Gets Him Some Tail

2008-11-03T21:33:00.001+09:00

Week 7 Death Blossom!

2008-10-26T01:42:00.004+09:00

So Death Blossom is a little late...call my editor and log a complaint. He will come to your house and put out his cigar on your tongue, you hasty asshole.
Last Sunday, I chased hydrocodone with Lynchburg Lemonade wine coolers to numb the pain of John McCain's eventual humiliation on election day by moronic sheeple in love with a big-eared twatface named after a Mortal Kombat character. Pretty standard day, actually. But, with me being a bright-side kind of guy, I like to look at the positive aspect of things:

I had a wet dream! It was awesome. This chick with a long, wide neck looked up at me and called me Alex Rogan and said she loved me. She was the kind of down-ass bitch that I would like to spend my life with after a comet destroys the world. Maybe even father some crumbsnatching kids with, who knows?

Last week, I emerged victorious after defeating Blake's Empire. You've, uh got a little humiliation on your empire there, fella. Matt Cassel rose from the dead and somehow threw 2 touchdowns to Randy Moss, doubling up my score and sending Blake's Empire tumbling into chaos and ruin. You will rue the day you ever matched up against The Hobo Sodomites! Well, what are you waiting for?!?! Go ahead, RUE THE DAY! RUE IT!

This week's victim is San Diego Chargers backup running back Darren Sproles. MJD was on hiatus in a Philipino whorehouse all weekend, so I got stuck with this asshat, hoping for a returned kick, a 1-yard punch TD or a good 35-yard scramble. Hell, I would have been happy with a fumble recovery! Useless prick. Go back to riding the pine while your knees slowly age. Better yet...

First, I'm going to grab your hands and force them into a rusty meat grinder. Then, politely congratulate you on the numerous NFL records that you hold while I mince your phalanges into filling for sausages that I will eventually feed to your girlfriend's Shi Tzu.

Next, I'm going to rip your hands out of the meat grinder and kick you square in the balls. After you're on the floor, clutching your marbles in agony, I'll step on your windpipe until you suffocate, staring into your eyes as your soul flows downward into hell.

There, your useless carcass will be roasted in the flames of a thousand suns, forever and ever. Good night and good luck, you silly fuck.

Fall Training Camp Debriefing

2008-10-19T21:01:00.004+09:00

SOMEWHERE NEAR THE SYRIA-IRAQ BORDER

Good morning, courageous warriors for Allah! For those of you who are new, my name is Ali and I'm your camp counselor for the fall session. I know some of you new guys are tired. The midnight camel-raping hazing thing we always do ran a little late last night. That's why you guys got the little inflatable pillow thingies in your chairs this morning...compliments of the Saudi Wahabi theocracy!

I know all of you are dying to watch the Comedy Central Roast of William Shatner. I am sorry to announce that Yusef taped over it. The elimination round of Dancing With The Stars was apparently more important than making us laugh out here in the cold, dusty shitstorm of a training camp. I think I speak for all of us when I say FUCK YOU, YUSEF. I HOPE YOU BURN IN HELL, YOU INFIDEL-LOVING DOG.

But, I have good news! I downloaded the transcript this morning and here is my favorite part:

As usual, Lisa Lampanelli closed the roast with her usual style and grace. She is easily the funniest uncovered female infidel comedian. She continued the jibes aimed at Andy Dick and took a few more rips at the other filthy homosexual at the roast: "When Elton John heard Bill Shatner's version of Rocket Man, he spit George Tekei's dick out of his mouth."

I HAVE A SURPRISE! Gather 'round my laptop, everyone! I also found this clip of Shatner singing Rocketman!

Well, that was a lovely distraction. I wish that we could be watching this in a comfy, air-conditioned luxury home instead of shitting in a hole out here in the mountians. Oh well! Allah works in mysterious ways!

On to the first order of business: CELEBRATING THE SUCCESS OF OUR TRAITOR INSIDE THE GREAT SATAN, BARACK OBAMA! The American media is overwhelmingly predicting a victory for the Democratic party, and the hapless, idiotic voters are actually believing them! Also, the entire entertainment industry is showing what elitist, snobbish pricks they actually are and have continued spouting hateful, ageist slander against Obama's opponent, the terrifying killer superhero known as Senator John McCain.

We will feast on lamb tonight and celebrate Barack's victory over the American infidels! I know that we will...

[rumbling sound]

The fuck?

[M1 tank crushes entire camp]

Week 6 Death Blossom!

2008-10-14T20:34:00.012+09:00

I love it when people say 'I'm so anal.' Almost every day, I encounter some fuckwad that prattles on and on about themselves, relating everyday happenings to some of their more annoying habits and qwerks. Luckily, most of these twits are women, and when I hear the word anal uttered by an undersexed, bored suburbanite, it just makes me giggle. Even happy sometimes! Imagine Glenda: 40-something loyal viewer of Desperate Housewives telling me all about her phobias in gyms, reluctant to touch anything for fear of infection. Wait for it...

"I'm so anal...I mean er, picky about germs," she stutters. Jackpot. You just got a handsome, condescending personal trainer to think about your withered, fuzzy anus.

Transverseley (big word alert!), I FUCKING HATE IT when some shit-nose says IT IS WHAT IT IS. You know folks, the English language is one of the most eloquent, poetic tongues on the face of the Earth, even when it's bastardized by that uppity pseudo-messiah Barack Obama. I know what you're thinking: "Jeff...chill the fuck out. It's just an expression." To paraphrase Bender the robot: bite my shiny metal ass. Something as idiotic as 'it is what it is' really chaps my balls. If you're going to open your filthy food hole and spit something out, put some thought into it first. Whay can't you just tilt your empty head, shrug your shoulders and sit there like the human hemorrhoid that you are? YOU JUST WASTED MY AIR, YOU SCRODUM SWALLOWER!

Last night at my compound, I got trashed on Natural Light and loaded my collection of 19th-century revolvers. After I finished the second twelve pack, I shot out five of my televisions while watching the final presidential debate. Sometime during John McCain's wrapup, I lost conciousness and saw my little brown friend again...and he brought pictures of his family!

"This, is my Wife-oid, and twelve thousand little grig-lets."

I'm actually starting to like that dude. And his Grig-lets. This week, I eeked out a sloppy win over another fellow shitty team, Steamer. I can only assume this refers to every gay man's favorite meeting place for anonymous homosexual encounters. Nice name, Tom. Was Glory Hole Depot already taken? Get a writer already.

Each week here at Magnificent Bastards, I present Death Blossom. I will pick one of my Hobo Sodomites and describe for you, in gory detail how I will kill that player. Winning and losing does not concern me. What concerns me is the unyielding suffering and eventual death of a player, in which I have a personal interest in succeeding. I thank you in advance for your words of encouragement and humorous singing telegrams during my lengthy stay at my compound on house arrest. A membership in a pie-of-the-month club would also be a nice gesture.

This week's Death Blossom victim is New England Patriots quarterback Matt Cassel. Everyone knows that I've been struggling at the QB position, especially after I traded the legendary Derek 'Horse Balls' Anderson for a thrid-tier reciever and some Sizzler coupons. This prick is making it even more difficult for me because I scooped him up after ten minutes after Brady went down in glorious, writhing agony. What a cruel universe this is!

Since he is such a shitty backup to great athletes, I'm going to drive over to his crib in my rented Chevrolet Cavelier in reverse. Then, I'm going to ring the doorbell. No answer. He's probably in the garage arranging his Cabbage Patch Dolls in compromising positions. Nope! He's just under his Mazda pickup, changing the fuel filter. Who knew that Matt Cassel does his own preventative maintenance? How convenient...

Next, I'll pull him halfway out from underneath his truck. A few swift kicks to his jackstands and his truck will come crashing down on his chest, pinning him under a ton and a half of miniature utility vehicle. After dousing him in hi-test gasoline, I step on his nuts and twist my foot until he begs me to stop. I have no idea that he even used them! Reaching into the cab of his vehicle, I steal his toll money from his drink holder and leave the pennies. Then, taking a queue from my man Bruce Willis in Die Hard 3, I light a roadside flare and toss that shit into his modest garage. Mmmmcrispy backup quarterback.

Week 5 Death Blossom!

2008-10-08T05:07:00.005+09:00

Once upon a time, in a tourist trap of a town far, far away, I lost a bet to this freaky chick and had to watch Brokeback Mountain with her. Far be it from me to welch on a bet...and besides...I heard the music was especially tranquil. Ang Lee created sweeping landscape shots and finely crafted scenes in the first few moments of the film. What followed was something that would scar my psyche forever and I refuse to sully the pages of this fine blog with anything further. This weekend, I was toasting another win by my gay sharks (Miami Dolphins) and another loss by my Hobo Sodomites (shitty fantasy team #4). I was drinking what I refer to as my gay cowboy drink: Lord Calvert and cream soda. It's similiarities are twofold:

1) Lord Calvert is what rednecks drink (see: plastic bottle, rustic label)

2) cream soda is for pillow biters

As I celebrated another score by the 'Phins, I jumped so high that I slammed my head into a low-hanging eyelet for a sex swing mounted clandistinely on Ross' cieling. He really needs to get some therapy.

My vision was blurry, but I could just make out a terd with a helmet as he appeared appeared before me, shouting, "SHOOT, ALEX, SHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!"

For the love of fuck's cunt that guy is annoying. If I were Alex Rogan, I would have ejected that uppity co-pilot into the cold vacuum of space the second he whipped out the pictures of his 5,000 little 'Grig-lets."
Each week here at Magnificent Bastards, I present Death Blossom. I will pick one of my Hobo Sodomites and describe for you, in gory detail how I will kill that player. Winning and losing does not concern me. What concerns me is the unyielding suffering and eventual death of a player, in which I have a personal interest in succeeding. I thank you in advance for your words of encouragement and heartfelt text messages during my lengthy stay in a Federal prison.

This week, my victim is Matt Schaub. I traded Brian some unlucky asshole for this cuntfaced pussy. He captains the offense for the winless Houson Texans. He decided that his little T-Rex throwing arm was aching and decided to fucking sit out of the game. WHAT. A. BITCH.

First, I'm going to gather all my credentials and head on down to the heavy equipment rental place, wherever the fuck that is. Then, I'm going to rent my huge piece of fucking shit steamroller and put that shit into high gear. I would surely be able to outrun that immobile douchefuck injured pussyflap of a benchwarmer, Matt "Big Schaub." Finally, I run over that sandbagging son of a whore up to his neck, leaving him barely alive to I can crank up the 10,000 watt stereo I had specially installed on the steamroller. In case you were wondering, it cost an extra $25.99, plus insurance. Ladies and gentlemen, here's DethKlok singing their hit, Bloodrocuted!

Matt Schaub's eardrums burst just before I squash that useless noodle-armed fish stick into the pavement. The End.

I STILL Got Nothing

2008-10-03T03:06:00.001+09:00

I Got Nothing

2008-10-02T00:23:00.000+09:00

Week 4 Death Blossom!

2008-10-01T02:59:00.003+09:00

Lately, I've been playing a lot of Call of Duty 4. That shit is badass. Last Sunday, I no-scoped Abdul751 while falling out of a three-story window. During my post-snipe celebration, I slipped on a beer bottle and fell, hitting my head on the coffee table. Through a deep haze of ominous theme music and cough syrup mixed with codine, I experienced a vision:

"Death is a primitive concept; I prefer to think of them as battling evil, in another dimension!"

This confused and angered me. What is this scaly prick doing in my house? Why does he talk like Yoda, except in complete sentences? More importantly, does he know about the bank job? I had to take action. Right after I picked up the shotgun I keep stashed under the couch, I searched the condo in for the intruder. No scaly prick. Oh well.

This week, I miraculously defeated chronic masturbator and known pedophile Ryan in a hard-fought battle for the history books. His band of obese stupor heroes, known collectively as Fat Spiderman, crawled back to their parent's basements and quietly maturbated to Kirsten Dunst's paparrazi photo collage. DIE. CUNTS.

Each week here at Magnificent Bastards, I present Death Blossom. I will pick one of my Hobo Sodomites and describe for you, in gory detail how I will kill that player. Winning and losing does not concern me. What concerns me is the unyielding suffering and eventual death of a player that has failed me, in which I have a personal interest in succeeding. I thank you in advance for your letters and files baked into cakes during my lengthy stay in a Federal prison.
This week, my victim is Ryan Grant. He fucking fumbled, crawled for less than 50 yards and basically got issued his fucking extra light loafers to walk in the gay pride parade. This twat still has not found the endzone this season. That's why his fucking card has been pulled.

First, I have to finish my beer.

There, all done. Next, I text my good friend, Xenia Zirgavna Onotop. She tells me she's just finished squeezing the life out of some fatass general with her thighs of steel. Then she flew his prized experimental helicopter the fuck out of that bitch. Oh, that Xenia! What a minx! I wire her the usual payment: $100,000 euros and a few free carwash tickets and the Spit 'N Shine.

[int. Packers' steam room]

[Xenia enters wearing only a towel]

XENIA: (takes off towel) Oops.

RYAN GRANT: (looks up from GQ magazine) You're not Manuel!

XENIA: Are you as strong as you are observant, comrade?

RYAN GRANT: huh? What the? Get off me, bitch!

XENIA: (squeezing him around the head with her legs) MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!

Ryan Grant's head is crushed, filling the steam room with an audible crunch sound. Xenia uses his sweaty towel to clean his useless, inbred brain matter off herself and giggles at Tom Brady's picture on the cover of the bloodstained GQ magazine. Far, far away, I nervously pinch the ends of my new mustache, plotting my next moves to conquer 11th place...

Week 3 Death Blossom!

2008-09-24T21:16:00.005+09:00

Sunday was a jumble of fucking fuck. Ronnie Brown RULED the Patriots singlehandedly and totally fucked their shit up. Fucked it waaaay up. Travis Barker fucked up. That's how fucked up their shit is. Still, I made a run at Jere's shitty band of derelicts: the Fackin' Dahkies. Almost winning is worse than getting your ass handed to you. Ask Hillary Clinton. Their shitstained starters made me a grand total of -4 points.

Each week here at Magnificent Bastards, I present Death Blossom. I will pick one of my Hobo Sodomites and describe for you, in gory detail how I will kill that player. Winning and losing does not concern me. What concerns me is the unyielding suffering and eventual death of a player that has failed me, in which I have a personal interest in succeeding. I thank you in advance for your tax dollars that will pay for my court costs and lengthy stay in prison. This week's Death Blossom victim is the entire defensive squad for the New England Patriots.

First, I pick up the phone. I call up my boy Tawmee from Quinsee. I offer him $100 and a forged coupon to pokerstars.net to make contact with the squad at their practice facility.

[door flies open]

Tawmee: WHAT THA FAAAAAACK! WHY ARE YOUUUUU FACKUS DOOOIN' NIS? YOU LET OWAH ENTIYAH CITY DOWN! YOU COULDN'T STOP THAT STOOPID DAHKIE RONNIE BROWN?

Tedy Brusci: (massaging his tumor) Who the fuck is that asshole?

Tawmee: WHO AM I? I'M DA GUY THAT'S GAWNUH FACK YOU UP!

[opens trenchcoat, brandishes shotgun]

Tawmee: EAT LEAD YOU LAZY MUDDAH FACKAZ!

[click]

Richard Seymour: (scratching his balls) The hell did that cracka say? Fack?

Brandon Meriweahter: THE SAFETY'S ON! WHOOP DAT TRICK!

[entire New England Patriots defensive squad crushes him]

[Bill Bellichick enters, floating two feet above the floor]

Bill Bellichick: Who is this intruder?

Tedy Brusci: He says his name is Tommy. He's from...where the fuck are you from, asshole?

Tawmee: KINSEE, FUCKAH! QUINSEE!

Bill Bellichick: YOU WILL PAY FOR YOUR ARROGANCE, FOOLISH BOY!

[raises thumb and forefinger, makes little crushing movement]

Tawmee: GASP! IRK!

[dies]

As I listen via the wireless listening device that was cleverly attached to his Ford Taurus keychain, I gleefully press the button on the detonator. The entire New England region is decimated by a huge fireball of radioactive fallout and destruction. Let's hope that Bellichick doesn't rise from the ashes and become even more powerful than before.

Matt Serra's Definately Not Gay MMA Techniques

2008-09-17T16:05:00.007+09:00

What's up there, fruitcake. I'm Matt 'The Terrah' Serra. You may remembah me from such medical crime dramas like CSI: Long Island and gymnasium viral awareness videos like HPV: Just Use Soap. Everyone here knows that my baldheaded ass doesn't roll outta bed for less than $100, so you douches are lucky dat I'm even awake. I had a rough night; Joe Rogan came ovah with dees stupid broads he met at some fuckin' comedy club and we were slammin' yaygah bombs till five in tha mornin'. YAAAAYGAH BOMBS! WOOOOO! What'd you do, twinkle toes? Fire off some knuckle children on ya sister's laptop? Queeyah.

Today's lesson is one of Joe's favorites. It's called tha Chinese Fingah Cuffs. Theyah's two tings that Joe Rogan does best: bombin' onstage and slidin' his Italian meat hammah into some tight asian ass. I've seen him walk up ta dees two Vietnamese hotties in Little Saigon and have dem each lickin' one of his balls out in Dana White's van inside twenty minutes. That guy is a real pro! 'Course, da roofies help. The pec implants too, I guess. But dey say a man should always go aftah his passion, you know? If you don't like that shit, then go play 'tummy sticks' with that skinny goth girl in Wedding Crashas.

Anyway, this is a finishing move when your opponent gives you his back. First, reach ovah and pull on one of his cheeks with your other hand. Fishook the shit out of him! Really get in there! I want you to know what he had for breakfast, ya Nancy! Make sure that fucker doesn't bite you...you'll need your hand in one piece to finger-bang his old lady after he taps out. Dat's the ultimate hahtbreakah there. Then, stick your thumb up his ass. I got it on my first try, chief. Think you can do bettah than me?

I didn't bring an instructional video today. Actually, I'm not even sure this move is recorded on tape. You might be able to get a tape from Chester. He hangs around on 34th street in the city. Nice guy. Don't get too close, though. Dat fucker has a weird twitch. Instead, I got a clip of one of my first students. Dr. Robert Rey has come a long way in tha fight world. He used to have the belt at 185, but he went back tah California and stahted rebuilding labias or some shit. Anyway, I'm going next door to get a Red Bull smoothie. Practice this shit for an hour, then turn off the lights and lock up. Remember to shower afterwards, ya filthy mooks.

Week 2 Death Blossom!

2008-09-17T00:57:00.004+09:00

This week, my precious Hobo Sodomites were smited by my nephew Brian's Cougar Hunters. Who would have predicted that a ragtag group of cocktasters that are named after a grainy porn site would defeat my mighty band of homeless warriors? Do you know how sad and pathetic it is to hang your hopes of winning on a goddamn kicker on Monday night? Pretty fucking sad. Bruce Jenner sad.

Each week here at Magnificent Bastards, I present Death Blossom. I will pick one of my Hobo Sodomites and describe for you, in gory detail how I will kill that player. Winning and losing does not concern me. What concerns me is the unyielding suffering and eventual death of a player that has failed me, in which I have a personal interest in succeeding. I thank you in advance for your tax dollars that will pay for my court costs and lengthy stay in prison.
This week, my victim is Antwaan Randle El.

Antwaan Randle El fucking sucks. He may have made a crucial drive-saving catch, but he didn't even break four points for my Hobos. And what's with your stupid ass name? The nurse must have been cockslapped when she was filling out your birth certificate and she misplaced his first, middle and last names. What the fuck is a Randle El? Is he Ron Mexico's sidekick? GO. GET. FUCKED.

First, I'm going to catch the redeye to DC. Then I'll take a taxi and sit quietly, wringing my gritty, sweaty hands like any great supervillian. When I arrive at his estate, I'll kick the cabbie's ass, GTA-style and run over him four or five times. Then, I'll take out the tire iron and pummel his crushed remains with it until I break a sweat. After all, the cabbie is a Redskins fan and he was spouting some gibberish about Antwaan's 'coming out party'. Hey jackoff! I've got a coming out party for ya: blood is coming out of your ear!

After I crash through the gate with the taxi, I ram that fucker into his foyer and kick his guard dogs to death with my steel-toed Sketchers. When Antwaan comes running out dressed in his My Little Pony pajamas, I'll just stand there and calmly take the remote control out of my flourescent green fanny pack.

Flipping the power switch on, I'll start laughing manaically, like the Indian dude in Predator when he laughed at Poncho's shitty jokes. Then, I'll gently grasp the controls with the tips of my fingers, making dainty little movements while dancing a jig.

The remote control commands an Apache-D helicopter, armed with a single 20mm cannon, eight high-exposive hellfire missles and a huge fucking circular flying wing of death on top of it.

Antwaan will just stand there, drool hanging off his chin while I hum a few bars from C&C Music Factory's Gonna Make You Sweat. A full ten minutes later, the Apache will crash through the cieling in a cavalcade of rubble, war machine and bath oils from the upstairs bathroom. The wreckage comes to rest within inches of us and I'll remain perfectly still as Antwaan uncovers his eyes and sees his wet, pee-stained crotch. Just as Antwaan begins to rejoice in his apparent survival, The police burst through the window and beat him to death with their nightsticks.

"Good job, boys," I say in my best Police Chief Wiggum voice. "Let's go home."

Week 1 Death Blossom!

2008-09-10T00:13:00.004+09:00

There are few things in this world that I commit more time and effort to than my fantasy football team, The Hobo Sodomites. I spend virtually twenty minutes each week to meticulously calculate my starters and sitters, weighing my options as to the best possible combination of points and matchups. Then, I masturbate four times, ejaculating into a old Smucker's jar. Finally, I set my teams and pray to my heathen God that She will grant me victory over my foes, culminating in an elaborate ceremony involving live piglets and medieval pole arms.

Sadly, I lost to my brother Trey on opening weekend. Ben Roethlisberger and Hines Ward, the NFL's version to Harold and Kumar, rode me hard and put me to bed bloody around four o'clock on Sunday. I'm still walking with a limp. During the initial stages of my excruciatingly painful recovery, while in a deep haze of barbituates and whiskey, I experienced a vision:

Right after I picked up the flyswatter I keep at my bedside for just such occaisions, the vision spoke to me! It said, "Remember, Death Blossom delivers only one massive volley at close range... theoretically."

Each week here at Magnificent Bastards, I present Death Blossom. I will pick one of my Hobo Sodomites and describe for you, in gory detail how I will kill that player. Winning and losing does not concern me. What concerns me is the unyielding suffering and eventual death of a player that has failed me, in which I have a personal interest in succeeding. I thank you in advance for your tax dollars that will pay for my court costs and lengthy stay in prison.

This week, my victim is Donte' Stallworth. It's easy to hate this asshole, because he used to be a New England Patriot. But you know what really grinds my gears? The shitbreath injured himself DURING PRE-GAME WARMUPS. Zero points. ZERO.

I'm going to fly to Cleveland and harpoon that doucheknuckle. And on that harpoon will be affixed a sturdy iron chain. That chain will in turn be steadfastly affixed to the rear bumper of a 1999 Ford Expedition. That Ford Expedition will be at the bottom of a lake of fucking lava. And in that lake of lava will be hungry bears with lava-proof SCUBA suits that have specially adapted mouthpieces so they can fucking gnaw on him, starting with his genitals. Next, the bears will shred his throat and eat his useless hands. Then, the bears will shit out the charred, partially-digested body parts. It won't take long for the laxatives to work their magic, especially in such harsh environs. Finally, the bears will force-feed his burnt, shitty dick and hands back to Donte' Stallworth, while they laugh and laugh. One of the bears will be homosexual.

Ricky's Rough Ridaz Remix

2008-09-02T23:13:00.004+09:00

Recently, it was announced that Miami Dolphins running back Ricky Wiliams is attending night school. Guess what he's studying? If you guessed some gay shit, you'd be right. It's basically glorified massage therapy, sprinkled with bits of herbal prozac and sitar solos.
I can see him now, on the bottom of a huge pile of defenders, asking them in calm, soothing tones why they have so much tension in their heart chokras. What a bitch.
The Magnificent Bastard investigative reporting team found out another little tidbit: He also serves as the schools' A/V club treasurer. Here's the rough cut of his final project:

Hey Little Buddy!

2008-08-28T21:13:00.006+09:00

MIAMI, FL - H. Wayne Huizinga announced at a press conference attended by a total of 4 reporters that the Dolphins will have a new mascot and model for the new logo this season. In an attempt to toughen up the floundering 'Phins' image, Huizinga hopes that the new addition can bring success to a franchise that seems lost at sea.

Gilligan, a yet unidentified creature from the Mariana trench offers considerably more bite than Snowflake, the last dophin mascot. Snowflake was introduced in 1990 to modest reviews. He managed to get himself kidnapped by transsexual ex-kicker and police detective Ray Finkel the day before Super Bowl XXVIII. He was rescued before the Dolphin's historic victory over the Eagles, thanks to the heroics of one Ace Ventura and Magnificent Bastard Dan Marino.
After being dismissed that summer, Snowflake returned to his home in Billings, Montana to a modest barber shop and shoe repair store. He has two apprentices.

Let the Gilligan era begin!

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

Is It Sunday Yet?

2008-08-28T00:08:00.003+09:00

This is ABC's Wipeout.

It sucks.

I'm referring only to the timing of the show: the show itself is pretty funny. It features Jon Henson, the old host of Talk Soup accompanied by one of the more entertaining anchors on ESPN, whatshisdouche.

This show makes a triumphant debut, only because football isn't filling the empty void that is the summer season. The timing makes it even more difficult for me to wait until opening day of the NFL. I'd rather gouge out my eyes with AIDS-infested icicles than wait another weekend for my pro football fix.

Kill me. Now.

Cartoon Phelps kinda resembles a caucasian Barack Obama

2008-08-22T04:58:00.000+09:00

Matt Serra's Definatley Not Gay MMA Techniques

2008-08-22T03:00:00.004+09:00

Hey kids! I'm Matt 'The Terrah' Serra. You may remembah me from such underground scat films like Trowel of Shit III and special celebrity presentah at the 2006 MTV Movie Awards. But when I'm not plowin' spokesmodels or slammin' yaygah bombs at Club Gold, you can catch me down at the Orlando Convention Centah at the 2008 MMACon. I got a fuckin' booth set up there. Pamphlets too.

My parole officah says I need to teach your panzy ass some new moves, so here I am, ya mook. Today, I'm gonna show you the clavicle grab. I call it tha Hellraisah. It's named after my favorite horrah movie 'cuz that's some shit Pinhead would do to someone. It's a great way to get your opponent to bitch out and cry like a queeyah. It might even put him out of commision for a few months. I tried this on Randy Couture and put him in the infirmary. They had to stop shooting over on the set of The Scorpion King II. You should see him in that little girly Egyptian skirt they make him wear. Big-headed freak looks like Shrek...if Shrek wore a dress!

Pay attention, numbnuts. This maneuvah is applied from tha mounted position, just like da Ray Charles. I've also done it on unlucky bastids when I was against the cage. I'm unstoppable in that shit. I'm crazy like that. First, yous hook your ankles around his waist and get a nice, tight grip with yah thighs. Then, twist one of his arms under him. If ya wanna really freak him out, tell him that you used ta fuck guys like him in prison, like the bad guy said to Patrick Swayze in Road House. I love that movie. It gets little Matty hard just thinkin' about it...

Anyone can get a stoppage on someone when you've got the full mount on them, but doing tha Hellraisah will make 'em go cryin' all the way back ta Iowa. After you put your weight on him, you reach out with your strong hand and grab that fucker's clavicle bone and try to rip that shit out of his little sizzle-chest! He won't be able to continue, you can bet your ass on that. Here's a copy of some fancy x-ray that was used in my last trial. Pin that on ya fridge, ya Nancy.

Joust: Tom Brady vs. Tim Tebow

2008-08-22T00:55:00.003+09:00

Welcome to the first episode of Joust! I'm your host, Pat Sajak. Each week, we'll be matching up some of today's most dynamic performers from the sports and entertainment worlds. For your amusement, two competitors meet on the lava-filled caverns of a faraway planet to do battle on ostriches and storks.
Ahem. Ladies and gentlemen! Meet your fighters!

Thomas Roderick Brady

Nickname: The New England Clam Digger

Armor: Mirrored Shield of Reflection +3, Belichick's Chain Mail Hoodie of Homelessness

Weapon: Bastard sword of Model Smiting +4

Mount: ChiChi, the Jazzy Ostrich

Strengths: HAPPENS TO BE TOM FUCKING BRADY, entire offensive line, wears ring of protection from EPIC FAIL

Weaknesses: Brazilian supermodels, paternity tests, one or both of his feet

Battle Cry: Yoikes!...And away!

Tim DeWayne Tebow

Nickname: The Blue Hammer

Armor: Rock hard abs, Heisman ring of bling +2

Weapon: Jaw bone of jutting +3, lengthy catalog of Chuck Norris references

Mount: FloZell the BloodStork, Harbinger of Doom and Sorrow

Strengths: Circumcision, Baptism of newborn asians, can kill with one strand of hair

Weaknesses: Gorgeous SEC poon

Battle Cry: Excelsior!

Here they go, sports fans! Luck versus ability. Who will win? Only God can decide that. I'm calling my agent.

(bright flash of light)

Oh, FUCK! It appears as though the universe is imploding from the colision of these two mammoth forces of nature! This is like when the Ghostbusters crossed the streams! Oh, well. This is Pat Sajak saying, "see ya on the other side, assholes!"