The once pushovers pushing back a little harder...

So the ACC championship game is over. It was not pretty, or awe inspiring, by any means. It was pretty nice to see Tech once again go into a shell in the face of adversity. Word from some guy who works for the AJC is that they will not even make the Gator Bowl now, as the Jacksonville guys have been given permission to ignore the rule that prevents them from taking Clemson.

Tech lost this game last week, make no bones about it. Noone will admit this publicly, but they all know it in their hearts. So there you go.


Cannot wait for combines.

Back up, back up...

Step back you dilly stunts, I'm illy more than once a day I'm holding Philly blunts until I'm really a silly dunce.


I fuck with your head like hard liquor.

Tim Brando does not know the mascot of any college team...

As far as he is concerned, every team is the "Fighting [Insert head coach's last name here.]"

On an unrelated note, why would anyone want to go to Tweeter after seeing the commercial they are running these days? Their current slogan is apparently, "Come to Tweeter, where we will send an asshole to your home to demean and belittle whatever current electronics you own."

Uggggghhhhh

Good news: The Bulldogs played with heart, and had a legitimate chance against Florida late in the game (again.)

Bad news: Had they actually played a good, well-executed game from start to finish, they would have won outright.

That is all. I am off to get drunk and arrested.

Should I be surprised?

The Miami Herald has informed me that South Carolina wide reciever O.J. Murdock has been arrested for shoplifting a bunch of gear from his favorite hometown clothery in Tampa.
Should we expect anything less from someone named after two of history's greatest villains?


O.J.


Murdoc

The Sea is Pissed

The ocean is angry, my land-dwelling brothers. It is sending it's first wave of Attack Stingray to take out every man, woman, and nature host foolish enough to approach. We are not safe on boats, even. The stingrays will not sleep, they can't be bargained or reasoned with, and they absolutely will not stop until we are dead.

We need to get Professor Ogden Wernstrom on the case, if we expect to live through this.


Wernstrom!

Dead and Loving It??

I don't know how litigious these people are these days, but I am pretty sure this image came from the only FHM I ever bought about six years ago. Purchased specifically because a younger, broker version of myself noticed this particular image whilst leafing through every magazine my local Barnes & Noble felt fit to stock. Nevertheless, I figure that my people need any goodwill they can get after the previous weekend's debacle, so here is a cute little bit of fluff that I think appeared in a British "lad" magazine near the turn of the century. I am not positive, as it appears in my own possession these days only in the form of a clipping, removed from its superfluous wrapping. If the rightfull owner comes along, holler at me, and I will douse it.


When I die, and SEC season rolls around, my tombstone will play a looped recording of "Six fuckin' devils stepped up playin' brave god, had the fuckin' nerve to try and enter my graveyard."

What Have We Learned Today?!?!?!?!?

Offense can score if they have to.

Joe T. is not some retarded kid with a helmet.

Special Teams: We return kicks good, we do not punt so good.

Defense: Willie Martinez is a piece of a sick human's shit, full of corn and undigested fiber. He sucks the dick of the players the former, good, defensive coordinator recruited. If I were Brian Van Gorder, I would absolutely demand that Willie Martinez teabag me. The sonovabitch is an incompetent fuck and has no business collecting a paycheck from the job he has.

Thank you.

Damn

Just saw a commercial for 300. I have not been this excited for a flick in a long time. Everything about the little trailer was extremely dope, from the Nine Inch Nails song to the lighting and cinematography and whatnot. The fact that it comes from a boss Frank Miller book is icing on the cake. Plus, they totally jacked a line from another great movie, Conan the Barbarian. Crom will not take this shit sitting down.


Fucking Sweet.

Man FUCK Blogger

A man spends the better part of an hour writing a deft hate-speech about the afro-rocking Indian kid from Stanford on "The Real World" from a few years ago, and splices it perfectly with quotes from "Transmetropolitan" by Warren Ellis, and Blogger goes and eats the motherfucking post. Dammit.


Count yourself lucky asshole. You had it coming.

Mort Motherfuckers

I don't mean to blow my own big-ass horn, which the Vikings used to use to summon their chariots, but I called this shit. After the Falcons' game Sunday, I discussed with my friend the jackassery of the field goal unit. Koenen is a fine punter, and handles kickoffs well. Field goals are a whole nother matter. I explained to said friend that there must be dozens of elderly kickers sitting at home, waiting by the phone. Clearly, Morten is the best choice, both because he has already shown himself to be solid in old age, and because he is a former fan favorite for the home team. Gary Anderson, and many others however, must be in similar situations. If your kicker sucks, don't go through the growing pains of making him good, just sign a cheap veteran. Driving kids to soccer practice for a few years is probably good for the hamstrings anyways.


What is the Danish word for "kickass"?

Crazier Than a Bag of Dust

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

There is a player on the Bulldogs named Andrew "Gully"

Sweet.

Everything did not go according to plan, man.

All my underhanded shenanigans went for naught. The fighting Starkville Maroondogs (word to Brad Farmer) could not come away with a victory. In retrospect, I suppose I should have known that the Carolina players I bribed were going turncoat on me when they knocked that poor heavyset Caucasian fellow out of the game with a broken collarbone. Alas, the Georgia boys will have to do the deed themselves next weekend. In the meantime, I have some welshers to work over.


A reenactment of me taking my money out of Blake Mitchell's hide. Blake Mitchell apparently played by a pre-tragedy Doctor Otto Octavius. Myself possibly played by Namor the Submariner.

Beluga/Man Hybrid Makes Fairly Good Football Coach

Scrolling bottom line thing on espn has informed me that Mark Mangino has gotten a 5 year extension at Kansas. Is anyone willing to say that they think he will live long enough to see the end of this contract?


The food is not love Mark. Only love is love.

Best Rappers With Speech Impediments

The patron saint looks on.


There is something about the genre of hip hop that makes it accommodating to people who do not really talk correctly. These are not the type of gentlemen to be on the receiving end of a Chris Rock “He speaks so well.” I don’t know why rap music is so cool with hare-lips and stutters, but I do know that Lynyrd Skynyrd would never have gone anywhere if Ronnie Van Zant sang “gummey tree stups, gummey tree stups muster.” Anyways, without further adoodoo.


Not as dangerous as your mother probably thinks.

6. 50 Cent
This guy can rap. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. He just chooses not to. Whether he is a closet Pharoahe Monch fan, singing terrible soul music in the shower, or if he honestly doesn’t give a fuck about music and is in it solely to see how much money he can make, the dude seems to prefer sing-songy choruses over lyrics. Blame that shit on getting shot in the face if you want. I don’t know what it feels like to have a bullet in my cheek, but Bushwick took one in the eye, and it didn’t seem to fuck up his flow any.


Slight brain damage? Or that's emotion, and you'se a bitch?

5. RZA
RZA is not in the upper echelon of MC’s in the Clan. If you only count the regular nine of them, dude probably doesn’t make the top half. He was a good MC, however, and he did craft the most apocalyptic beats this side of an audio tape of Chernobyl going off. Couple his slurring, stuttering verses from the Clan, his Gravediggaz work, his love of the onomatopoeia (blaghh!, waaghh!), and his absolutely lunatic Bobby Digital solo stuff, and the man earns a solid number five ranking on this blogger’s list.


Half man, half cartoon. Hideous wife.

4. Ice T
Hilarious. Ice T is a real hard dude. Supposedly a legitimate pimp back in the day, not the cool movie kind with velvet shirts and shit. The real world kind who sliced hamstrings so a bitch couldn’t run and beat the ever-loving Jesus out of 15 year old girls for one dollar. Nevertheless, he parlayed this into a role as the least intimidating TV cop in the history of recorded black guy TV cops. I literally laughed out loud when I heard the phrase “I want to shoot you so bad my dick is hard.” Still, that Body Count shit is okay, and he made a pretty good kangaroo.


Make's the alcoholic supervillain cool again.

3. MF Doom
Call him whatever you want to, Daniel Dumile is a fancy lyricist. His live shows leave something wanting, but on tape, the dude is aces. Doom’s speech impediment is bemusing, in that he did not have it early in his career. Check the KMD catalog, and he just brings the 17 year old kid NYC flavor to his tracks. Six or however many years later, he sounds like Shane MacGowan does lately. Supposed legends of the man being homeless for lengths of time, accompanied by his constant spitting about alcohol consumption, have led me to believe him to have fucked up his motor skills. He is still brilliant; I just wouldn’t trust him to put a house of cards together. Early on, he told us he “never OD’d on his diet of codeine and OE.” I call bullshit.


Too fat to beat your wife is too fat period. We need more murals of this gastropod.

2. Big Punisher
I don’t know if you would call what Pun had an actual speech impediment. He was just fat. Fat as all fuck. Fatter than I can ever imagine getting in my most insane nightmares. So fat that on a DVD I bought called ”Still Not a Player,” Pun’s wife runs up a flight of stairs to escape being beaten by him. He is too fat to climb after her. What Pun did is basically spit ¾ of a verse, then take a huge, grotesque, phlegmy breath that sounded like a DC-10 getting ready for takeoff. If you listen for it, on later tracks his voice also sounds wetter or something, as if he actually has huge amounts of saliva pooling in his mouth, and he is just waiting for a chance to take one of his gargantuan breaths so he can swallow some of it.


Talk's about murdering you so beautifully that you are totally cool with it.

1. Kool G. Rap
The dude who made lisping cool. G. Rap’s staccato rhymes are the stuff of mythology. Listen to him blaze his way through Fast Life, Ill Street Blues, or Men at Work, and tell me it would be half as dope if he pronounced his S’s correctly. I think not.


Feel free to add in comments, if anybody's reading this.

Wanna piss a female off?

Do not call her a bitch. That shit is passé as fuck. Girls call their best friends bitches all the time. Both to their faces and behind their backs.

You may ask me, "Should I try 'cunt?'" Nay, young padawan, for that is too harsh a word, and the lass in question will simply dismiss you as a crude longshoreman, unworthy of her concern.

To properly upset a woman with namecalling, one must be subtle, but blunt enough to get your point across. My personal favorite is to call a woman "hooker." Maybe yell it at them. Do not ruin the effect by saying something akin to "you act like a hooker," or "you could be a hooker the way you do my friends." Your goal is to be short and to the point. "You fucking hooker!!" is a good one. Also simply try screaming the noun as fiercely as you can right in her face. I am not responsible for your injuries if you fuck this up.



Not this guy.

The Street's Cursed, the First Amendment's Culturally Biased?

Mmmmm, incapacitating.

Like a child, who wanders into the middle of a movie, with no frame of reference, I come to bring content to the deaf, dumb, and blind. Or the deaf and dumb, at the very least.

I read something recently at EDSBS.com, which is probably the best website around, which made me think.

Essentially, a thread deteriorated to the point that people were talking about tasers. This reminded me of my own tangential experience with the taser. Or, as it is known colloquially, the "finger of Mephistopheles."

On my lone unfortunate trip to Jacksonville, FL, I encountered the very worst of redneck cop-dom out for quick money. Because many people who are arrested during "Georgia/Florida Weekend" are not from the greater Duval County area, they can be held impudently because said people have no real hope of beating their case.

My specific situation, for instance, involved a young man who came from Athens, GA, to enjoy a football game. Said fan met his friends and left his vehicle in Jesup, GA, on the way to Jacksonville. He checked into a horrible motel room, Friday night, as is the tradition.

It is here our friend's story takes a turn for the worse. Said gentleman lost his mates at the mass of humanity called The Landing. His ex-girlfriend called him soon thereafter, necessitating him to become enraged and heave his phone against the side of a bank building in downtown Jacksonville.

Unable to reach his friends by telecommunication, the young man was forced to spend the evening sleeping in a bush in a hedgerow nearby some offices in downtown Jacksonville. The next day was equally unforgiving, as his team lost, he was arrested, and taken to jail.

It is here the doors come off this tale of woe. While in the drunk tank with the other poor souls whose only crime was to look at a cop crookedly on the worst weekend of the year, he got to know some of the other inmates. Ninety percent were simply gentlemen who had been enjoying the "World's Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party" (that is a lot of adjectives,) and been taken in for ridiculous purposes.

Two individuals in particular struck his attention. Both Georgia fans, one had on a pair of "Space Jam" Jordan XI. When the two were led out of the drunk tank to deposit their belongings into ziplock bags, one made a break for it. At this point, a man who appeared to be Bill Duke, character actor known for playing Mack in the first Predator movie, tazed the shit out of him. One guard had tried to taze him at first, but the guy with the Jordans had managed to turn to the side quickly and let the hooks fly by him. Bill Dukes had better aim. I watched the poor sack through the window, afflictedly spasming like a retarded kid having a reaction to too much Cinnamon Life Cereal. I vowed never to pee on myself in public. There is much more to this ridiculous story, but that is best left to another day.

How do I become a booster?

Ho money's slow money but it's sho' money.

Not a forthwith booster for my own team, sending money each year to my alma mater in an envelope to guarantee myself seats 95 rows from the field. I know how to do that. How do I become one of the crooked boosters who ends up on the news?

I suppose I should explain myself. I am a Georgia fan, who has for the last year and a half, lived in Columbia, SC. Against my will. My newspaper tells me more daily about the Lexington County soccer team than the Atlanta Braves. I can tell you the offensive linemen for Richland 2 this coming fall, because we have far more local coverage of them than we do of any college football, save the indefatigable Gamecocks or the infallible Tigers.

My goal is simple: to pay enough Carolina players enough money to guarantee a loss to Mississippi State August 31. I will have moved to (hopefully) more hospitable climes in Charlotte by then, but the gloat factor will make my investment worthwhile. I will gloat at my former neighbors. I will gloat at my former mailman. I will gloat at the people I formerly saw at the grocery store and tried not to make eye contact with.

I am not a wealthy man, but I am willing to pay upwards of a few hundred dollars for a loss here. I do not want to shake anyone's hand, so send me dropbox addresses or whatnot. I want to make this work! I eagerly await a letter from Mike Slive informing me of the necessary paperwork.

No local yokel's gonna shut me down.

I have huge hopes that the Auburn situation blows up to SMU situations. For selfish reasons: I have close family that attended and cheers for the Tigers, and this close loss nonsense does not sell that well at Christmastime, even with conference titles to back it up.

Look, I love Georgia football as much as anybody, but it is handled much better by others. Much, much better. Anything a person such as myself could add would be outstandlingly superfluous, like a third nipple. Or the word outstandingly in the previous sentence.

I will give my one reader this however. The reas-on-ably new Ren & Stimpy DVD should be bought. I stand by this statement, until It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia comes out on DVD. IASIP, as it is known by the youth, is easily the funniest show to come out in the last two years, HBO included. Also, what is up with restaurants that make you pay $30 for the same food you get elsewhere for $14. Atmosphere means fuckall to me, and it should not be significantly more important than fuckall to any female that wants to spend multiple nights in my company. My apologies for the assholery.

We're gonna get our asses kicked! We didn't have a breakfast.

24 explains the facts of life to 21.


End transmission.

In love with death? Death of love?

As heterosexually as possible, I say this is an attractive man.

My Italian is not so good, lest one semester of C- freshman level college fool you. Nevertheless, "Cemetery Man" is finally out on DVD, and I suggest you all pick it up. If you like horror movies, gorgeous Italian broads with ridonkulous racks, or both of those things, it should be for you. Also, it is essentially a dark comedy. Not so much in the vein of Evil Dead or Dead Alive; it is a little more subversive than those films. It takes itself more seriously as well. Enough with the bullshit, it is a great movie and probably pretty cheap at your local BestTargMart. Grab it.

Ed. Note: I did not put up a pic of Anna Falchi, she of the huge nipples, but said pics are not hard to come by.

Fistfull of Lincolns, piss full of drinkin'

A post from Michael over at Braves and Birds reminded me of an anecdote from my life that may support retelling. As a youth, recently become a man, I acquired tickets to the playoff games of '99 featuring your Atlanta Braves versus the somewhat looked down upon New York Mets. These halcyon days of a pre-cinema DMX bore witness to a pretty good series. My indelible memory was scarred however, not by what I saw on the field, but in the stands. In the early goings, I was merely bemused by the overzealous Mets fan seated in the next section. I was further entertained when he decided to spend innings 4 through 7 unconscious. My young mind was forever imprinted though, when he rose groggily to his feet late in the game. The gentleman looked around him bewilderedly, seemingly surprised to find himself at a baseball game. He then undid his pants, pulled out his dick, and proceeded to pee on the understandably upset citizen in front of him. Mets fan was quickly led out by security, while urine-drenched fan rained blows down upon him. I never saw anything like that before or since, but I bet that guy didn't feel a single punch he was hit with.

Hilton Head is a stupid name for an island.

I went to The Heritage golf tournament over the weekend. I was also kicked out of bed still drunk at a ridiculous hour to go to an Easter sunrise service. This is meaningful for two reasons. One, Aaron Baddeley, the guy who ended up winning, spoke at the service, and it was good to see a young guy get his first win after hearing him talk about his self doubt. The second reason this was memorable is the preacher who gave the sermon seemed to be channelling Ric Flair at his most outrageous. He dragged out every syllable as if he meant to intimidate the entire gathered mass into heaven. It was definitely something to behold, as I sat shivering, bleary-eyed and whiskey-mouthed.

The Augusta National is overated

To all those who have never been to The Masters, it ain't that cool. I go most years because I have family that works there. Here is the truth: the pimento cheese sandwiches are just that, pimento fucking cheese sandwiches. Nothing more, nothing less. If you go after it rains, the course will smell like rotting dog shit, and you will bust your hairy ass in mud. You also will probably throw your shoes away when you get home. The beer is scientifically proven to turn hot the instant you pick it up. But by all means, make the trip this year. And be sure to enjoy your sixty dollar umbrella.

Comparison of cleaning products reveals...

If you need to clean your shower, sink, or whatnot, go with the harsh abrasive. Comet, or some off brand of that type of thing. You want it to be grainy and full of bleach. That is the only way you are going to get a decent job done. Fuck the sissy little Scrubbing Bubbles. Motherfuck them. I cannot stress this enough.


The hot shit.

Keep John Hughes' name out your mouth

Around the intranets, there has lately been a lot of criticism of some of the writers of Page 2 on espn.com. This is with good reason, many of them are unbearable. I don't feel like it is something that continues to need to be harped on, though. In the interest of everyone moving on to bigger and better things, I provide these pocket sized criticisms, in hopes that they can be the final word, or at least useful in a pinch.

Bill Simmons is a Michael J. Fox obsessed, petulant, New England-centric old man with a gambling problem. He refuses to shut up about his friends or their terrible nicknames.

Scoop Jackson is an educated African American writer who takes on the persona of an ign'nant hustler when he vomits out his occasional column. He does it badly, Paul Barman sounds more street.

Dan Shanoff is a middle aged virgin with an obsessive hard-on for underdogs. Any underdog, anytime. Just give him upsets, dammit. Please.

You are now free to return to your regularly scheduled whatever the hell else you were doing.

Don't drink the milk, the shit's spoiled.

Perhaps as you idle away your time in the great big intranets, the voyeur in you wonders what type of trash the people whose blogs you don't read stack up. As a community service, I will relate what I found in my bedroom garbage can as I emptied it today. I'll leave it up to you, the reader to decide if it's vaguely interesting or not. I have faith in you like that.

Empty McDonald's french fry container: 1
The State newspaper, sports section, dated March 17
Empty bottle of grape Slice:1
Five week old, recently devoured Valentine's candy
Banana peel:1
Apple core:1 (Cause I'm healthy fool)
Empty Cinnamon Toast Crunch box, Net Weight 1lb 10oz:1
Coathangers: Bout a hundred

That is all.

I told her to shut up, but I said it under my breath 'cause I didn't want to start anything...

I guess it's considered timely to look back at what was happening at the beginning of our current little skirmish out in the Middle East. Firstly, I am not going to opine on whether the war in Iraq is good or bad. That's not what this shit is about. Now is the time for reminiscing and pointless nostalgia.

That night in 2003, I can remember driving after work to the house of Hogan, a young whippersnapper that I toiled away in the salt mines with. I had a Nalgene bottle full of Bacardi and Diet Mountain Dew, and that was all that concerned me in the world. I show up at his house, on Evergreen Terrace of all places. If I would have had a hacksaw that street sign would have come home with me.

But back to the lecture at hand. I go inside and Hogan is with his roommate smoking and watching the news. Night vision shots of rubble and the anchorlady trying to explain what a "daisy cutter" is. I got lit and watched that shit for hours, no clue what would go down over the next few years. I need to be more aware of my surroundings I think.

For Best Results, Play "Everybody Hurts" While Reading

There are times in everybody's life I suppose where they wonder if the prospect of waking up every day to go somewhere they hate so that they can buy things that they don't need or in some cases even want is something to be so cheerful about.
What is the point of slogging through one more episode of Everybody Loves Raymond?
A man I used to know apparently shot himself recently. The next time my alarm clock goes off before I want it to, I am afraid I will think he might have had a decent idea.

It's been a long time, I shouldn't have left you

Word on the street is our illustrious football coach caught himself a ticket at a speed trap in Arcade, Ga recently. I thought this might present itself with an inelegant segue into the tale of the first time I went to prison, due in fact to a speeding ticket.

On one of my occasional trips from Athens to Macon while I was an undergrad, I was pulled over doing 70-something in a 55 near the thriving metropolis of Eatonton. After I called and got paperwork on everything, I found out that I could either pay the $195 ticket or do 24 hours in jail. Being a college student at the time, I clearly thought it better to be locked up. Formalities were involved, as I was forced to wait for a certain time period to run out, and then drive to Eatonton and be booked there. When I arrived at the prison, I was told that it was good that I had come when I did, as they would have issued a warrant and come after me had I waited any longer. As I was being fingerprinted, one of the cops (deputies? I don't know) went to look for somebody high enough up on the chain of command to formally book me. I then was told to hose down in the shower and given my standard issue greens, (with bonus missing top button, Awesome!). A word of advice to any aspiring inmates: wear a plain white undershirt, with nothing on it, and you can keep it. Not so my faded white David Allan Coe tee. Actual jail was not bad on this occasion. I spent a little time playing chess with pieces carved from bars of soap, and a little more time watching others fight over watching wrestling or Monday Night Football. I had little fear of rape despite my inviting open collar and bare chest becase Eatonton's jail was not crowded, and I received a cell to myself for the night. Sure enough, about 11 AM the next day I was called to the door of the general population room and let out. The guys my age or near that were cops and wardens were cool enough about what I was doing, but the old guys who looked like they polished off a fifth of Evan an evening gave me the wholehearted bad cop Bull treatment. It was all in all not a terrible experience, though incredibly boring. Easily the best of the three times I have been locked up, and it sure beat paying $195.

Snakes 'n Beans?

A husband and wife apparently found a piece of a snik'em in their french cut green beans outside of Atlanta. They have appropriately overreacted. The company that produced the beans in question offered $200 to pay them off, but the couple deemed this insufficient. Many is the time I have found some screwed up shit in my food, be it hair, insect part, rubber band, etc. I never was enough of a dick about it to report things to the FDA. Appropriate conduct is to remove the offending particle, as well as whatever food was directly touching it, and go about your business. Shit, in Asia, people pay good money for booze with an entire cobra in it. In the wake of the Wendy's finger fiasco, I openly invite all people who find disturbing stuff in their food to shut the fuck up and move on with their lives.