We'll love you just the way you are

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

Back when I was a despairing teenager on the gloomy and borderline hellish streets of Ohio, I discovered a young Canadian who evidently shared my outlook on life. When I heard Jagged Little Pill for the first time, I couldn't wait to realize my potential, as a woman, activist and arsonist. She sang exactly what I was thinking, except in the song "Ironic." What the hell was that all about, anyway?

To convey my feelings on the New England Patriots and the looming Super Bowl, I channel the immortal Alanis Morissette, in her song "Perfect."

'Sometimes' is never quite enough
If you're flawless, then you'll win my love
Don't forget to win first place
Don't forget to keep that smile on your face

I'll live through you
I'll make you what I never was
If you're the best, then maybe so am I
Compared to him, compared to her
I'm doing this for your own damn good
You'll make up for what I blew
What's the problem ...... why are you crying?

We'll love you just the way you are if you're perfect

I think most Patriots fans will agree. We'll love you just the way you are, New England. If you're perfect. Don't screw it up and force me to call into 850 AM WEEI, bemoaning your inadequacies and threatening the DJ as punishment for rejecting my advances. Everyone is going to hate you if you lose. "Sometimes" is never quite enough.

But enough about the Patriots. Instead, let's talk about their dreamy coach.

The hoodie has long been a staple of dark and mysterious fashion, with such patrons as Death, The Ghost of Christmas Future, warlocks and druids. It's a scintillating look, and it's one of the reasons why Bill Belichick is such a catch.

His morbidly monotone voice and seeming disinterest in all things make him the most endearing pro sports coach out there, and he happens to be very good at what he does. He's like Pantera, a revolutionary and an outcast. God, I miss Dimebag.

He would be perfect for a slasher movie, the character everyone assumes is the killer because of his gleeful standoffishness. Then, you discover he was a red herring, but then after everything seems to have reached resolution, it turns out he was a conspirator in the killings, after all. Then, everyone dies in a fiery explosion.

We can only hope the Super Bowl provides us such an ending.

DeJuan Does Media

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

My mama, the fine Miss Octavia Winston C3P0, once saw me crying in the living room when I was six years old and she asked me what was wrong. I said, "Mama, brother DeCharles has a better bike than I got."

It was true! Shit, do I look like someone who can ride a Huffy around the block and still keep my street cred?

Mama didn't like that I was coveting my neighbor's shit (never understood that, DeCharles slept in the same damn house as me. He wasn't my neighbor), and she got all mad. She spanked me across the backside and said not to be so wanting, to be happy with what you got and all that.

Damn, mama, why'd you ask then, if you were gonna beat my ass?

Dog, this is what it's like on Media Day at the Super Bowl. There are a lot of crazy-ass people here who ask the stupidest questions, then get all crazy about the answers. It's like they're trying to be like my mama, or win the award for television's dumbest journalist.

Too bad they can't win, cuz some foxy lady dressed up as a bride and started asking folks to marry her. Wish I would have had a microphone, cuz brother, I would have said yes. DeJuan's biological clock is ticking!

Anyway, back to my mama. Some cat asked Plaxico Burress for a prediction, and he gave it to them. Nice guy, that Plaxico Burress. Named after a Plexiglas corporation and shit. So he answers the question, and then the media is all a-tizzy, cuz Plaxico is GUARANTEEING A VICTORY.

Bitches, there are no guarantees in life. Except that the Patriots are going to win. My boy Plax was just answering a question. What's a brother supposed to do? Say, "Shit, I think the Patriots are going to win?" Or, "Dog, I would love to answer that question, but let me refer you to my public relations counsel."

God damn.

The man thinks his team is gonna win. That's confidence, bitches. You think I could have gone on a world tour if I wasn't confident that I could pick up Chinese in just two audio cassettes? Or would I have run three-fourths of a leg in the Olympic 200-meter-relay in 2000 if I wasn't confident I could outrun the fatty security guard? Just cuz a man has confidence doesn't mean he's trying to wrong the other guy. It ain't fair that they ask the question, then get all crazy because he answered the question.

Shit, at least they asked a real question. It wasn't like "What is your purpose in life?" or nothing like that. I have been kicked out of no fewer than 29 sporting events for asking those questions. But at Media Day dogs, that's just what you do.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go ask Eli Manning how long he's been a Southern quarterback.

Undercover and between the sheets

By Donald Winchester
Private Eye

It's been a crazy few weeks -- Al Davis' birthday party-crazy -- since I went undercover again. See, life is that way when you choose the path I've chosen, and all I can do is soldier on. Poor Cheryl thinks I'm on a business trip to the East Coast, and I even hired a kid to shout something about clam chowdah in the background every time I call my lovely wife. His accent is thick -- thick as chowdah -- and I'm pretty sure Cheryl doesn't suspect.

These are the things that have to be done when you're Donald Winchester, Private Eye.

It wasn't so long ago that I was in Mexico, following around the great Tony Romeo on assignment from the greater Jerry Jones. The plot has gotten more complicated -- the rules to Magic: The Gathering-complicated -- since then. For now I am tracking the greatest celebrity on the face of the planet, Thomas Edward Patrick Brady. They call him Mr. Perfect. The facts are these:

Ever since the Patriots sealed their ticket to the Super Bowl, becoming the first 18-0 team ever to walk the earth, the paparazzi has been on Brady like huffing addicts to cans of Glade. To distract them, the clever Brady -- Dennis Hopper in "Speed" clever -- took a stroll down the block with a walking boot and has missed the first few team practices. People think he's hurt. But I know better. A man who called himself Willy B came into my office and told me to follow Mr. Perfect, to discover the truth behind his sudden disappearance. Willy B hid behind a hoodie and looked ominous -- Ghost of Christmas Future-ominous -- and I feared what would happen if I did not comply.

I've traced Mr. Perfect to his old stomping grounds in San Mateo, California, and I found him sight-seeing with a lovely woman. From afar, I fully expected it to be his faux-French fox, Gisele. She's hot -- chicken broaster-hot -- and I wouldn't have blamed Mr. Perfect for taking a field trip with his mademoiselle. But then, I got closer.

You see, Mr. Perfect is caught in a web of lies and deceit. For his new arm candy is none other than the siren Jessica Simpson, the same temptress who ruined Tony Romeo's aim for success. After following the happy couple to a bistro, I saw them temporarily part ways, as he went to buy her a gift at a jewelry store and she perused an adjacent shop, looking for new shoes. Who do you think I discovered in that same shoe shop with the evil-seeking Simpson? I think you know. But let me tell you.

His face was still red from last weekend's game in Green Bay -- Clifford the Dog-red -- and he still wore that colorful hat. Fit right in with the San Francisco locals. It was Tom Coughlin, of course, Simpson's co-conspirator. There was foul play afoot, and Donald Winchester had seen it all before.

I saw them cavort and share a laugh, and then Coughlin returned to the shadows and Simpson returned to Mr. Perfect. He gave her a necklace and she squealed with delight -- Ron Hunter after IUPUI made the NCAA tournament delight -- but I knew it was all for show. The fix was in.

I was about to radio in my findings to my new employer -- the dark and mysterious Willy B -- but I was apprehended by Michael Strahan and Osi Umenyora. They're terrifying -- Tobin Bell in the Saw series-terrifying -- and I was thrown into the back of a van, never to be seen again.

And so I'm locked in a room somewhere on the West Coast, hoping this message reaches Willy B in time. Someday, Donald Winchester, Private Eye, will be free to tell his story, but when? And how? Will it be too late?

Marv's Super Bowl Extravaganza

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

Are you all excited for Super Bowl XLII?

Well, whatever. I'm not.

All this hype and anticipation that leads up to the Super Bowl generally winds up being a big flop. And that's if the game actually has some initial promise. This game? This game is going to feel a tit. By halftime the Patriots will be up 42-0, you'll be looking for other things to do with your night, and Tom Brady will already be having a celebratory foursome in the locker room with Gisele, Karolina Kurkova and Wes Welker.

Meanwhile, Tom Coughlin will have stroked out and Eli Manning will be ready to go back home for some antique-shopping with his mother.

Did you think that I was just making that antique thing up? No, I wasn't. Read the article; Eli goes antique shopping with his mother.

There's been some discussion about whether or not Eli is the worst Super Bowl quarterback of all-time. He's probably not, but he's clearly the gayest.

Oh, you don't think he's gay because he's engaged to some girl? Big whoop. People get engaged for all sorts of reasons.

Even I was engaged once. Back in 1968, during the era of free love and Daryle Lamonica, I met a girl named Betsy. We went on a few dates and I fell for her. She was a strong, strapping woman, just the way I like them. Despite her broad shoulders and somewhat large head, she was soft and smelled wonderful.

After about six weeks, I decided I wanted to settle down in my life. A bit of a rush, you say? Not for me. I was ready to spend my life with Betsy.

One night, after a quiet dinner in a secluded spot near a forest, I bent to one knee and, after some brief cunnilingus, asked Betsy to be my wife. She accepted and we decided to get married two weeks later.

Unfortunately, during that time in my life, I had developed a habit of ingesting between 900 and 1,500 milligrams of mescaline each day. Turns out that Betsy wasn't really a woman. She was an American black bear. Due to my constant hallucinogenic state, I was unable to tell the difference. I always thought it was weird that while I would bring bologna sandwiches to dinner, she would eat skunk cabbage, raw crayfish and tree bark.

Naturally, I was devastated that I was not to be betrothed to an actual woman. I told Betsy that I had to break things off. With a large roar, she cried out in pain and retreated to her cave. She was upset, but I think she understood.

So, my point is, I was once engaged to a black bear. So it doesn't mean a damn thing that Eli Manning is engaged to a real, live woman.

Possible activity once the game gets boring: If you get bored with the slaughter, consider practicing one Grey Reugamer's favorite activites: biting the testicles off a lamb with your teeth.

Super Bowl recipe idea: Here's one of my all-time favorites. I call it the Marv-Vat, and I plan on having one or two of these while I sit down to watch the game.

Ingredients:
1 head of iceburg lettuce, finely chopped
1 styrofoam container of KFC gravy
8 slices of pastrami
6 slices of corned beef
2 hot dogs, cooked
1 summer sausage
6 slices of Wonderbread
1 pound of ground beef
1 jar of nacho cheese
2 cups sour cream
1 teaspoon chives
12 strips of bacon
1 Cinnabon, heated
4 cups heavy whipping cream
4 cups of water
3 cups barbecue sauce
10 Jalapeno peppers

Combine all ingredients into a large, plastic bowl. Smash the shit out of it with your fists until it forms a thick paste. Eat it with a spoon.

This is your NFC Champion: From MSNBC: "Coughlin thinks the stiff tests -- like beating the Miami Dolphins in London, like winning in Detroit when the Lions were 6-3 -- hardened his group."

The measure of a good team: One that takes pride in beating a 1-15 team in a foreign country.

What are you doing after the game?: Because this right here is what Tom Brady is doing after the game.

No, not the horse.

The ideal birthday

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

Honey, I want my 35th birthday to be the most special one yet.

Remember when you turned 35 last year, and I bought you two tickets to see The Police in concert? I was pretty proud of my gift-giving, and you told me how great of a night that was for you. It felt really good to make you so happy, but now I sort of want you to return the favor.

I want you to take me out to someplace really nice. I know you like Applebee's and Friday's, but I want this to be nicer. Maybe with some candles and champaign, if they have some. There's a new French restaurant that just opened across town -- the Trocadero. Let's go there. Maybe you can learn a nice French phrase or two. I love the way that accent sounds.

Afterwards, if you're up to it, do you think I could have a foot massage? I just loved the one you gave me after I was on my feet all day for that PTA convention. God, my feet hurt so bad, and your magic hands made them feel so good again. I feel embarrassed to ask, actually, but I've wanted another massage like that ever since.

Let's rent a movie, too. There really isn't anything I want to see in theaters, but I kind of want to see the Nanny Diaries again. I know, I know, I dragged you to that when it opened at the Cineplex, and I know you hate watching movies twice. But it's my birthday, you know? We could stop at Blockbuster on our way home from dinner.

After that, we can sit in the hot tub for a little bit. Maybe if you treat me right, and get me a nice gift, we can make love. Maybe. I get headaches sometimes, you know. It's not that I don't want to, it's just that it will have been a long day at that point, and I just ... I just might take a rain check, if that's all right.

The kids can spend the night at my mother's, and we'll have a nice quiet evening to ourselves. No television, no distractions, just a nice birthday. I love you, sweetie.

Don't forget, my birthday is Sunday! Sunday, Feb. 3. Let's leave for dinner around 5 p.m.

Brain-to-mouth syndrome

By The Brain
Running the Show

I am the human brain.

There are lots of things I think about all day long. Lots of things because, my god, can you imagine how much thinking a person does in one day? Well, I sure can. I do all of that thinking. There's lots to think about -- what to do, what to say, what to wear, how to smile, what to laugh at, who to proposition, etc. That is how I roll, I'm the brain, that's the way it goes.

Every now and then I think something that's probably not appropriate. I'm sorry, it's not my fault, it's just the first thing that comes to mind. I'm not really censored or shit like that. Whoops, didn't mean to swear; good thing I didn't send that message to the mouth. The mouth and I work very closely together, we're good friends and, sometimes, I send messages too quickly.

When I send those messages too fast, that's when I get in (ooh, is that chicken marsala I smell? Oh my god I'm so hungry, really want chicken marsala) trouble. Sometimes I use naughty words that mean bad things and whoops I was just talking and dirty Jew! Oh dear. I can't believe I thought that, good thing I didn't say it out loud. I was watching South Park last night and sometimes that happens. Cocksucker. Whoa. I didn't say that, but after my third episode of The Sopranos, sometimes it slips. I'm sorry I'm the brain. Blame television.

Chicken. marsala. With mashed potatoes.

Do you know Kelly Tilghman? She's kind of hot, very hot, golf analyst and used a naughty word because her brain and mouth communicated too quickly and whoops that happens. It's more common than you think. It's just the way the brain works and it happens and you know what? It's super duper stupid to keep talking about it forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and thinking about it. It's over. All done now. It's not her fault she thinks so many things. You're allowed to think things. Do you know how many things run through everyone's mind? All the time? We're lucky that the mouth is so good at stopping most things or we'd all be in prison or dead.

I'd like a nice glass of wine with my chicken marsala. For the antioxidants. And the alcohol that makes me feel so good and warm.

Anyway, these thoughts might be pretty much harmless, and the only reason people don't think it's harmless is if you say them. (remember that one time I accidentally said that dress made my wife look fat? that was so bad she wouldn't let me sleep in the same bed for weeks). (::quick visual flash of makeup sex::). Yes. Where were we?

So if brain and mouth communicate too quickly, it's not my fault. It's not an ideal system we have here, but it's all we have. People move on. Can't make a big deal about it, move on, live your lives, eat your food. Eat your chicken marsala.

Can't wait for the big game

By David Harrison
Avid Sports Fan

I tell you, nothing gets me more fired up than college football. I love the way that the players play for the sheer love of the game; I love the school spirit and the thousands of screaming students; I love the way snare drums rattle around the stadium on Saturdays. Everything about college football just gets me going.

To me, it's a far superior sport to the NFL. The NFL is polluted with corrupt management, angry coaches and players who misbehave more often than they score touchdowns. The purity is gone, and that's what I truly enjoy about the college game. You can color me a huge, huge fan.

I can also say that I am eagerly anticipating the BCS Championship Game, between Ohio State and LSU. I can't wait to see how the Buckeyes respond to having a long layoff, and I'm really excited to see how Les Miles plans to unleash his high-powered offense. If I was forced to choose who would win, boy, I don't even know if I could do it. Both teams play such quality football, and they're a joy to see as they take the field.

Hey, that reminds me, when is the national championship game?

I haven't heard much about it lately, and none of my friends seem to know what's going on with it, either. Now that it's coming up on February, I feel like the game should have already been played. They didn't already play it, did they? No way. A rabid sports guy like myself would never miss a barnburner like this.

Every day, I check the TV listings to see when the game is going to be televised, and I don't find anything. None of my frequently-visited websites seem to mention it, either. This is all very baffling.

If anyone can tell me when Ohio State and LSU are going to play in the National Championship game, please do. This is going to be something I don't want to miss.

I can't wait.

The Jetsam 1.23.08

What is the sports equivalent of this? Neifi Perez saying that Nick Punto is a great hitter?

Here's a video from Gawker of Tom Cruise talking about Scientology. I don't even have to comment.

Even though I'm not quite over Green Bay's loss last weekend, I don't particularly mind Lawrence Tynes, since he gave the Packers three freaking chances to win. I also appreciate when an athlete can laugh at his damn self. I suppose it's funnier because they won, but it's still cool.

We. are. almost. there.

Project Runway update: The designers go all-denim, and relatively boring Victorya and Jillian end up in the crosshairs. Victorya ultimately gets the boot, while disappointing Ricky has the best outfit of the day. Sweet-P made my favorite, but I don't expect her to be in the final three. Heidi Klum: still hot.

Black Tuesdays

By Brenda McDonald
High School Socialite

I really hate Tuesdays. Cheerleading practice is always so stupid on Tuesdays, because we have like, team bonding exercises. Last week, we had to do trustfalls, and then our coach got all mad because none of us caught Cindy Rappaport. Honestly, after she forgot to wear the matching outfit to last week’s game, I don’t know how anyone can expect us to catch her.

But yesterday was by far the worst Tuesday. Erica and Mandy were both sick, and I totally had NOBODY to sit with at lunch. And there was lots of other terrible stuff. It was Black Tuesday for several obvious reasons.

First of all, Heath Ledger is dead! I remember the time I heard Anna Nicole Smith died and I totally cried! Who is going to take care of that baby? And Heath Ledger was a way more powerful moment for me than that. He was soooooo hot. Oh my God, did you SEE him in Ten Things I Hate About You? Someone once told me that was, like, a Shakespeare story or something, so he was obviously like, scholarly. And British! Seriously, I didn’t know British people could overdose.

This was not nearly as bad as seeing Tom Brady in a walking boot. Like, everyone is making fun of the fact that TMZ got those pictures, but hello! It’s kind of a big deal! If Tom Brady did not play in the Super Bowl, there is like, no way I would watch. Ugh, gross. Brady is super, super hot, possibly the hottest player ever to play a professional sport, and Matt Cassel looks like a space alien by comparison.

Then, Kentucky beat Tennessee in basketball. Alright, Bruce Pearl is totally sweaty and gross all the time and hello! Orange hasn’t been in since like, the Renaissance. But I have to admit, there’s something about him that kind of excites me. He’s arrogant – kind of like Charlie Padgett on the football team – but it’s one of those “I’m arrogant and can back it up” things. And also, he just got divorced, which means he’s probably playing the field. That’s kind of tantalizing. I’m so going to Tennessee next fall, if I get accepted.

Also, someone said the stock market went way down. Seriously, that has like no bearing on my life. Who the hell is Dow Jones?

The Jetsam 1.22.08

One must love Kenny Williams and the funny things he does. Two years, 11 million dollars would be a steal for someone of Octavio Dotel's caliber, if this were 2003. Much-ballyhooed statistic: Dotel has thrown 56 innings in the last three years, with a 5.14 ERA. Pitchers who exceeded the 56-inning mark last year with a better ERA include Matt Thornton, Yusmeiro Petit, Jason Frasor, Tom Mastny, Kevin Cameron, Scott Downs, Frank Francisco, Brian Tallet, and Brandon Morrow.

Oh my God, Heath Ledger died. Here's to hoping his posthumous movie finale, the new Batman movie, will be way better than Aaliyah's going away party, "Queen of the Damned." Hollywood still owes me 8 bucks for that one.

Also, Jonathan Brandis, Brad Renfro and now Ledger? What the hell is happening to our late-90s kid stars? Someone keep an eye on Jonathan Taylor-Thomas.

The Packers might have lost the game (damn you, Al Harris!), but they're gaining some new respect, one bikini top at a time.

My inner geek starts showing when I read over articles about where baseball talent is coming from, but it's still interesting stuff. Especially where in the country the talent is coming from.

Bitches, there will be blood

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Those damn writers and their greedy guard dogs are plotting in some treacherous lair right now, wondering how they're going to ruin one of the year's best damn nights -- the Academy Awards. Bitches, the Oscars! Dog, nothing is finer than watching Hollywood's hotties decked out in their sexiest evening wear, with glitz and glamor and all that shit. Those four hours on the couch with Billy Crystal and several small golden bald dudes fly by like my boy Shani Davis on ice skates.

Those bitchy writers have their scissors to cut up the red carpet, their picket signs to block out the lovely and slightly bipolar Melissa Rivers as she interviews celebrities, and probably a plan to kidnap Billy Crystal. I swear to God, if that shit goes down, I'm gonna go all Karate Kid on some union members. Dog, Karate Kid should have won Best Picture. Mr. Miyagi!

I have a confession to make -- I haven't heard of any of these damn movies nominated this year. Usually I know the nominees front and back, having scanned plot synopses and cast lists, so I can figure out which fine lady extras might be looking for a mysterious stranger posing as a representative from a talent firm at the post-Oscars gala. But shit, I been busy this year, and I haven't seen a film since Ratatouille (four fucking stars!).

But I recognize, my loyal bitches, that you expect some comments about the year's best films from DeJuan C3P0, and so I will give you what I got.

"Atonement." This documentary, narrated by that dude from NFL films (cue the slo-mo cameras!), follows the life and times of a slightly retarded-looking white boy from Mississippi, who moves to the Big Apple and gets hated all over the place before throwing a bunch of touchdown passes at the end of the season and leading his team to the Super Bowl. James McAvoy is fucking spectacular as Eli Manning. Jon Voight stars as Archie, and there's this bad ass scene where Eli goes, "I, don't want, your life!" And then, my bitches, there is the whipped cream bikini. I give it three out of four DeJuans.

"Juno." This is a profile of that Olympic sport that's kind of like karate, except different or something. You know how I feel about the Olympics, ever since they kicked me out of the Grand Turismo a couple winters ago. Bitches. One out of four DeJuans. Mr. Miyagi!

"Michael Clayton." This is a hell of a riches-to-rags story, about going from the first round of the NFL Draft and a great rookie season to NFL oblivion. Dog, every year I expect this fool to bounce back, and I take him in the late rounds of my fantasy draft, and every year he disappoints my ass. I'm sick of it! Also, I am not okay with George Clooney as the title character. Dog, did the casting directors of America go on strike, too? Two DeJuans.

"No Country For Old Men." So, this title is like all ironic and shit, since it's talking about Major League Baseball. It's this bad-ass insider's look at Roger Clemens and other old dudes who took steroids to stay in the game. Everyone's all like, "Roger is so old, but still so good," and then you see it's because he's getting his ass peppered with puncture wounds. Dog, baseball is for young people, and this movie proves it. Plus, Javier Bardem comes in and kills a bunch of dudes. Very powerful. Three-and-a-half DeJuans. I promise, you get my sexy half.

"There Will Be Blood." It is about damn time someone made a movie about the American Gladiators. Shit, did you see that episode where that crazy contestant lady hit her face on the Eliminator? Blood everywhere! Dog, that shit is as real as it gets, and you can throw in a bunch of scary sisters and brothers, plus the unbearably awesome Hellga, and it's like the perfect storm of cinematography. Thank god the movie has Daniel Day-Lewis instead of Hulk Hogan. Shit, you know I love the Hulk, but the man can't act. FIVE out of four DeJuans!

Eli's Cheesecake

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock

Charisma, baby!

LITTLE ELI is going to the Super Bowl, something I totally called the day he was drafted by the New York Giants! I turned to my friends and said, you know what? Look at that guy with that beaming smile. He's got it. I don't know what it is, but he's got it. It's charisma. He's going to the Super Bowl someday.

He proved EVERYONE WRONG, including his detractors, doubters, older brother Peyton, Tiki Barber, the Green Bay Packers, and ALL OF NEW YORK. Start spreading the news (Sinatra was even singing about New York when he sang that, haha!), that ELI MANNING IS GOING TO THE SUPER BOWL. I totally saw this coming, and I couldn't be prouder of my foresight.

While everyone was clamoring for Eli to be traded or demoted or whatever, I totally stood up and said, "that guy is going to be fine, he just needs some time." You could totally see him develop a rapport with Plaxico Burress, probably the best receiver in the NFL. And even though nobody was cheering for him at the end (cuz the game was in Green Bay, of course!), Eli has risen to the top of the heap.

Plus, he has Brandon Jacobs. BRANDON JACOBS KILLED A MAN YESTERDAY ON THE FIELD. I saw it. They kept it hush hush on the television, but he totally killed him. Broke him into pieces in the deep Wisconsin freeze. Chill out, I'm kidding!

The Giants are such a scary football team right now, a SERIOUS THREAT to the Patriots undefeated dynasty. I'm worried about it, being a devout Patriots fan myself, because Eli is playing better than ever before. San Diego traded him for Philip Rivers on draft day -- how CRAZY! That's the reason San Diego lost in the AFC title game, and the Giants are going to the Super Bowl. Bad trade.

I can't spell Osi Umenyora or whatever, but I like him too! THE GIANTS ARE MOTORING, and guess what? They're officially THE VISITING TEAM in the Super Bowl, and they are 10-1 on the road this year! It's going to be a barn-burner!

Final score: Patriots 42, Giants 16.

Oh, I'm THAT guy, baby

By Brandon Martin
Web dominator

Hey, do you ever wonder who the guy is that makes up all those trade rumors? Do you ever get mad at him? Do you wonder why he does it? Well, today’s your lucky day because “that guy” is me.

Yep, I’m THAT guy. I’m the guy with “sources in the front office.” I’m the guy that you can “believe or not believe.” I have many names. I might be “Scoops” or “SuperBrad” or “imb!”, but you know how to pick me out. I’m the guy that starts the threads that end up being 200 pages long. I’m also the guy that got you to turn on ESPN and watch the ticker for 25 minutes looking to see if your favorite team really did get Chad Cordero for two AA outfielders. I’m the guy that got you to go to five or six websites trying to find confirmation. I’m the guy that got you to listen to that jerk on sports radio hoping against hope that he’d have some breaking news. Guess what, I can save you the time. The trade isn’t happening. But you knew that and you wasted your time anyway. Just like you’ll know it’s not true the next time and you’ll do the same thing. Second verse, same as the first. You just got burned by me again, sucker.

You act as if you don’t like me. You groan. You make some stupid little eye-rolling smiley faces (what are you? a 13-year-old girl?) in your reply when you see another thread of mine. You immediately call it ridiculous. If you hate my trade rumors so much, then why do you spend the next four days thinking about it, dissecting it, debating it, and proposing new ones? Go ahead and make your pithy little comments. Because I know the dirty little secret is that you like when my “sources” share some top secret trade rumblings. You get off on it, actually. But, don’t worry, pal. Your secret’s safe with me. (wink, wink)

So, why do I do it? If you’d ever had something you made up on the crapper one day receive 200 pages of discussion on some team’s fanboy messageboard or heard some radio hack mention it on air or read an article in which some beleaguered GM had to address it for the 20th time in a 48 hour span to a bunch of sweaty reporters, then you wouldn’t ask that question. The rewards are obvious.

So, instead of pretending to hate me, just enjoy me, trolls. Because I’m not going away anytime soon.

OH, by the way, did you hear that the Braves just swooped in and literally blew Beane away with an offer for Joe Blanton AND Huston Street? It’s all very hush-hush right now, but the players involved are being contacted by their teams that they’ll more than likely be on the move within the next couple of days.

That one’s a freebie.

Sometimes, it’s just too easy.

The Jetsam 1.18.07

Hire Jim Essian has a fascinating article about a bloggers' luncheon with Cubs' GM Jim Hendry. It's not often we get to hear unfiltered comments from front-office people. Especially interesting is Hendry's comment that he "paid Mark Prior $7 million to sit in a hot tub for two years."

The Mitchell Report has taught us that nobody really knows which players are on steroids and which ones aren't. That's not stopping John Donovan from formulating an "All-Clean Team". These are guys that don't do steroids, I just know it in my heart. I felt that way about Fernando Vina, and boy is the egg ever on my face now.

We're with you, UmpBump.

Question asked by ESPN analyst Rob Parker about the Golfweek Magazine Cover that has everyone abuzz -- if you wanted to call attention to Jewish-American issues the same way the mag tried to call attention to African-American issues, would you put a gas chamber on the cover? At first uttered, my response: that's a ridiculous analogy. Then, I realized it's actually pretty accurate. Damn. Seldom do media outlets mea culpa so quickly.

Eli is off to Florida for some bloody weekend vacation, leaving me (JR) to update the glorious Jetsam. To celebrate the Cat Being Away, this mouse tried finding the most delicious piece of cheese to post, knowing that an infuriated Eli is probably reading in his 80-degree weather, and the steam rising from his head is blowing those Mickey Mouse ears right off. Mmmm...cheese.

I have carefully considered my opportunities, and now you must make a choice

By Murphy Kramer
Punters win championships

Coach Murphy Kramer is the head football coach at Plano Horizons High School in Plano, Ohio. His Fighting Broncos have a 16-68 mark in his nine seasons at the helm, including a 1-8 mark last season.

To my colleagues at Plano Horizons:

For nine years, I have breathed, sweat, and cried Bronco football for this fine institution of secondary learning. For nine Fridays as the leaves on the oak tree in the school's back lawn turned a bouquet of pastel colors, my charges have played with heart, determination and good-naturedness. It has truly been a pleasure.

I write to you because I want you to know that I have been offered a coaching position at nearby Laughlin Prep. As you may or may not know, Laughlin has had winning seasons in each of the last seven years, with five trips to the state quarterfinals and one special run to the Class AAA state title. The Bulldogs are good, with fine facilities, fervent community support and admirable student-athletes.

The position is interesting, but I want it to be clear that I love being at Plano Horizons. I'm taking a big cue from a person I admire here, Cowboys offensive coordinator Jason Garrett, and many other coaches who have had amazing new opportunities presented to them, only to stay where their heart lies. Even though my current position is somewhat smaller in stature than the one offered at Laughlin, the memories I have made here supersede any new opportunity.

I remember the time little Richie Watkins caught two touchdowns in one game, part of a tremendous season that led to a walk-on opportunity at a Division II college. I remember one year when we lost in the final two minutes, and narrowly missed a chance to finish with a .500 record. I remember that one year when we finally won our Homecoming game, a 3-0 defensive war. These memories have no price tag.

However, if you should feel so inclined to offer an increased salary package to retain my services at Plano Horizons, I would be deeply humbled and gratified by that opportunity. Please do not see this as me using my other job opportunity for leverage. Money is no object, compared to being the proud coach of Broncos football, but I would accept any salary advancements with open arms.

If the budget is tight this year, and additional financial offerings are unavailable, then naturally, I understand. Please know that I have loved my time here, and will always have a place for Plano in my heart. I look forward to my new opportunities with Laughlin, and will be grateful for the start I was given at Plano Horizons.

Sincerely,
Murphy Kramer (but you can call me Old Murph)

Philip Rivers is a meanieface

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old

I really hope Philip Rivers never, ever comes back for show and tell.

It's all stupid Cindy Devereaux's fault. I tried to kiss her hair once by the bus stop, and she tattled. Her daddy knew some important guy who worked for the San Diego Chargers, and he thought it would be good if Philip Rivers came to talk to my class. But it was very bad.

Everybody thought Philip Rivers was awesome, because he plays football and he gets on TV and he's really tall. But I didn't think he was so great. He played all-time quarterback at recess, and even though I was wide open, he never threw me the ball! I was wide open! Then, he finally threw me the ball when I wasn't looking and it hit me in the nose, and I started bleeding.

Mrs. Knapp, the fat recess lady, saw that and told Philip Rivers he couldn't play anymore. So he got really angry and took the ball with him to go sit in the woodchips. It wasn't even his ball! He was acting like the six-year-olds.

And then, when Caleb tried to get the ball back so we could keep playing, Philip Rivers got mad and threw the ball over the fence and across the street so no one could get it. I think Philip Rivers throws funny. He throws like Olivia Russell, that first-grader who doesn't have a thumb.

Haha, that picture makes him look like a stupidface. He is.

Then, at lunch, Philip Rivers stole my fruit snacks, and said, "It's a small price to pay for having an NFL quarterback come to lunch with you." I don't know what that means, but eating the fruit snacks is the best part of my day, even better than my morning pee. So I told my teacher, and she made him go back to class and sit with his head down on his desk. Philip Rivers started crying! I saw him.

After lunch, we worked on addition and instead of doing his worksheets, Philip Rivers just ate a whole thing of Elmer's Glue before Mrs. Sandoval saw him. It was gross. He had glue-breath and he kept burping and laughing a lot after he did it.

Many other bad things happened that day. Philip Rivers started shouting at the class hamster, Philip Rivers didn't want to wash his hands before snack time, and Philip Rivers went outside without asking permission. That last one is really crazy. Tanner did that once, and got detention for a week!

I do not like Philip Rivers.

Weekend predictions

Patriots 42, Chargers 7. Why is Philip Rivers so mean? Someone should teach him a lesson. Daddy says the Patriots are going to "bend Philip over." I think that means he gets a spanking.

Packers 24, Giants 16. I like snowball fights, and if I were in a snowball fight, I would want Brett Favre on my team.

The Jetsam 1.17.08

• Stupid children and their unwillingness to support the home team. Some kids don't want to drink milk with their meals, and yet parents force them. No restraining orders are getting filed over that one.
• Some guy got his 5-month-old baby in a picture with every presidential candidate. Once Hillary Clinton gets elected president and everyone hates her, too, that little girl is going to be pissed.
• Ewww. Nobody wants to be diagnosed with Baghdatis.
• Project Runway watch: Two-person teams leave the wrong people on the chopping block, and talented Kit gets the boot. Such bullshit, when people like Ricky still in the game. Heidi Klum: still hot.
• Kelly Dwyer of Yahoo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Sports has the real scoop on why Jamaal Tinsley was suspended by the Pacers.
• GoDaddy.com created an ad for the Super Bowl that featured Danic Patrick and repeatedly used the word "beaver." It was rejected.
  

Congratulations to Bobby Knight

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

Kudos to Bob Knight, who won his 900th game last night. The win was actually a big one for Texas Tech, as they knocked off Texas A & M, ranked No. 10 in the nation.

As I sat on my couch watching the end of the game, I felt pride swell up from my gut. That pride -- a warm, feathery dusting of feathers and warmth -- rumbled in my tummy and continued to swell as I watched Knight thank the crowd for their support after the game. After further rumblings, that pride manifested itself in a series of flatulent bursts that surely removed some of the plaid from my couch.

Too much cabbage, I imagine.

Aside from the cabbage, I also felt that swell of pride because I have a deep passion for arbitrary sports milestones. 300-game winners, 3,000 hits, 100 receptions and, now, 900 wins. For the person involved, the feeling of being one better than 2,999 or 899 must be incredible.

Perhaps most importantly, Bobby Knight has always been my kind of coach. I once dabbled in the coaching ranks, and I modeled my style after him. The year was 1974 and I volunteered to coach the local junior high boys basketball team in Ten Broeck, Kentucky. I came to my first practice armed with a spiral-bound playbook that weighed in at 274 pages, and my favorite zone trapping scheme. After 55 minutes of warm-up wind sprints, I allowed the boys to put their shorts back on and I told them we would now learn Coach Marv's airtight "32 Minutes of Hell" zone defense.

The defense was predicated on the idea that my players would be quick and could wreak havoc in the backcourt, causing the other team's guards to panic. The problem was that my entire team consisted of rangy white boys with freckles.

Many of them had bad haircuts and had cow shit on their basketball shoes. Most concerning was that they all possessed a similar running style that involved lots of head-bobbing and careless elbow flapping. The result was that they all ran like geriatric goats. But alas, I believe that any coach worth his whistle can take any group of players and make them fit any system. So I pressed onward with my defensive teachings.

As I explained the swarming technique, I used the analogy of sperm flocking to an egg. After my fifth use of the word "ejaculation" one of the players began softly weeping and he said he was going to call his dad. Confused and maybe angry, I ripped a phone from the gym wall with my bare hands and hurled it towards his chest. Amazingly, he caught it and, while I pondered how I could use this boy's soft hands to the team's benefit, he found another phone and called his dad.

Turns out that this boy's father was the school board president and I was immediately fired from my position and told to never again return to the town of Ten Broeck.

I'd like to think that Bob Knight would have been proud.

With all of that said, congratulations Bob. You're the kind of coach that I'd want any of my 12 or so estranged sons to play for. Keep doing what you're doing.

The Jetsam: 1.16.08

Everyone loves links. And not every Internet reader sees everything. So we've decided to occasionally post a few links that we've found interesting during our days mindlessly surfing the Web, from out remote Montana cabin.

It's not a revolutionary concept, but goddamnit, we can't re-invent the wheel for you people every day.

Click away.

- Bill Parcells' first big move as Dolphins' GM was to hire Tony Sparano. ESPN's Matt Mosley examines the question: Who the hell is Tony Sparano? [sidenote: how many Tony Soprano jokes will we have to endure?]

- Baseball Prospectus takes a look at breakout candidates for 2008. And yes, Dioner Navarro is included.

- CBS Sportsline's Mike Freeman says Philip Rivers is a little bitch. As one of Flotsam's least-favorite NFL players, we totally agree.

- The show must go on for Oscar. Will it ever match the hype and glamour of the ESPY's?

- A Las Vegas judge doubled OJ Simpson's bail. I just can't believe OJ Simpson is 60 years old.

- 11 signs that your new girlfriend is a restraining order waiting to happen.

Get your own name

By Pac-Man
Game Legend

This is bullshit.

Every couple months, my name gets dragged through the mud one more time, when Adam "Pacman" Jones pulls some stunt. Punching a woman in a strip club is just the latest of his transgressions.

The man is suspended from the NFL for a year, for doing dirty deeds in a strip club no less, and apparently that hasn't deterred his lifestyle. What a loser. And all the while, he is completely soiling the Pacman name.

Have you ever seen Office Space? Funny movie, and Jennifer Aniston is a nice-looking woman. Anyway, I was sitting down with Inky and Pinky the other night, and I feel exactly like that one guy, Michael Bolton. Everything was cool until the singer-songwriter by the same name comes along and suddenly gives his name a new connotation.

Pinky said, "why don't you just shorten your name, to Pac or something," so that I wouldn't be associated with Pacman Jones, and my response is exactly like Bolton's. Why should I change, HE's the one who sucks! Hell, I'm three years older than Adam Jones. I was here first, asshole.

Furthermore, where did he even get that nickname? Can he snap up seventy-some dots in a maze setting, all while getting chased by four ghosts? Can he obtain bonus points by catching up with some fleetly-moving fruit? I mean, what I do is fucking HARD. I don't even have any legs. I have EARNED my right to be Pac-Man, and Adam Jones has done nothing to be equated to my greatness. You need 10,000 bonus points to earn a second chance, and Adam Jones keeps rolling backward.

Once upon a time, Pac-Man meant a lot of great things to a lot of people. It didn't conjure up images of dreadlocks and drugs and public intoxication, like it does now. I mean, I used to be one of the world's greatest video game sensations, and now the name just brings about giggles and some sarcastic comment about "making it rain."

So Adam Jones, feel free to gallivant about, but quit soiling my good name. Get another nickname, like dickhead. Adam Dickhead Jones.

Scandal for the ages: Romo throws game for Simpson

By Donald Winchester
Private Eye

See, it was a snowy day – blizzard-snowy – because I remember calling my wife Cheryl to tell her I would have to spend the night in my office on the plush leather couch. Poor Cheryl. She’s a dear, and she worries about me. But I can take care of myself. I’ve been in some really sticky situations before – saltwater taffy-sticky – and I’ve never met my match. I’m Donald Winchester, Private Eye, and this is my story.

He came in through the door with a trenchcoat and his collar up. I couldn’t see his face – the room was far too dim for that – but I could tell by his posture that he was an older fella. Sixty, maybe seventy. Haggard. Worn down. Undead, maybe. I don’t like the undead, but something about this guy meant business – Rockefeller or Carnegie-type business – and I wanted to hear what the man had to say.

As he came closer, I knew I had met him before. Was it in the war, encamped in some barracks on the edge of civilization? Was it in the academy, or maybe some dusty bar in the dirty south, when I briefly checked “alligator farmer” next to my name on the annual tax return? I didn’t know at first, but when he shook my hand, it clicked into place.

It was Jerry Jones. The owner of the Dallas Cowboys. America’s Team. Lonestar Legends. How ‘bout them Cowboys?

But I didn’t ask about that. No sir. That would be weird – a 22-year old getting crazy for Hannah Montana-weird – and I had to keep it cool. I asked him straightforwardly and simply, not too eagerly but not with dismissal, “What can I do for you?”

He had a problem, see, and it was big – woolly mammoth-big. His quarterback, the man they called Tony Romeo, had run amok in Mexico, and he needed someone to go down there and make sure things didn’t get out of hand. He would pay me a handsome sum – Tom Brady-handsome – if I left that next day and headed for the border, where I would use my daring wit and broken Spanish to track down the Romeo and that pop-star tramp he was sight-seeing with.

I was honored – Mira Sorvino at the Academy Awards honored – that Jones had sought me out. I told him I could do what he asked. I was on the next plane to Los Cabos, dressed inconspicuously as an American tourist named DeShawn Martinez. Hawaiian shirt. Cool shades. Straw hat. English-Spanish dictionary. Penchant for flirty conversation.

I met a woman, her name was Rosalia, and she was beautiful. I took her back to my room and casually asked for information, all while seducing her. Cheryl would understand. It’s part of the job. She told me she had heard of a resort where the Romeo and his pop queen could be found. I mixed Rosalia a drink, a special concoction of rum, cola and tranquilizer. Rosalia was out cold – Amy Winehouse at a gin joint out cold – and I immediately opened up the phone book to track down the resort she had named.

Within days, I had spotted the Romeo. He was by the pool, with his lady nearby, and some body guards. One of them was named Marc Colombo. A hilarious pseudonym. I was tickled – Tickle-Me-Elmo-tickled – and maybe that’s why I lost focus.

I planted my cameras and audio equipment in Tony Romeo’s hotel room, and I heard and saw everything. I can’t give you all the details, folks, but the facts are these: there was some kissing, some champagne, and her saying he needed to wait for marriage before going any further. There was disappointment, a shrill rendition of “Irresistible,” and then, something else.

I heard her say she was working on a new album, and she would be leaving the Sunday after Dallas’ big game with New York. Headed for Europe, where she would be recording for weeks. If Tony was there for her on that last Sunday, she would bend the rules, lost in the passion of going-away rapture.

I needed some time to ponder the ramifications. I’m a smart man – not Albert Einstein smart, but maybe Robert Oppenheimer smart – and it all came together pretty quickly for me. Jessica’s special day was the same day as the NFC Championship game. And if Tony was going to be available that day … well, that meant he wouldn’t be playing that day, didn’t it? That meant the Cowboys had to lose to the Giants. But Romeo, the golden boy -- as golden as his temptress' locks -- would never intentionally do such a thing, would he?

Then, I spied Ms. Simpson leaving her resort room. She headed out near the floating pool bar. There, she met a man whose head was covered with a colorful hat. Real colorful, Richard Simmons colorful. Using my binoculars, I looked closer and saw that she was canoodling with Tom Coughlin, coach of the New York Giants. I heard some muffled words about how Romeo was willing to go along with "the plan."

I felt a knot in my stomach, and I reached for my cell phone to alert Jerry Jones to the plot. Mr. Moneybags would want to hear about the sabotage afoot, and what Romeo was about to do for this busty little tart with the pearly white teeth, and the old fuddy-duddy who looks bewildered after every official's ruling. He would be angry. Very angry. Maximus, as portrayed by Russell Crowe in "Gladiator" after they killed his wife and son-angry.

That's when I felt strong hands grab my shoulders. Romeo had sent his henchmen – Marc Colombo and Jason Witten. They hauled me away off the property.

Next thing I knew, I was waking up in my office, bruised, bloodied and broken. How could you do this to America's team, you blond harlot? I had failed you, Jerry Jones. I’m sorry. But Donald Winchester, Private Eye, will rise again. The Cowboys, however, are done. T-bone steak at Fred’s Bar and Grill-done.

Ashlee Simpson-done.

No blaze of glory

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

I remember when there was a strict order to my NBA universe.

There were the good teams (Los Angeles, Chicago, Boston, Detroit) and there were the bad teams (Milwaukee, the Clippers, Golden State). And then, of course, there was one team so coked out that they didn’t even know there were categories – the Portand Trail Blazers.

Once Clyde The Glyde (may he rest in peace) left, all hell broke loose in Portland. Rasheed Wallace and Damon Stoudamire demonstrated their preference for the Mary Jane, and let me tell you, those parties they threw were the only good thing Oregon had going. Ruben Patterson got with some woman who wasn’t in compliance. Bonzi Wells told Sports Illustrated how little the fans mattered. Zach Randolph and his Pillsbury convention of a midsection tried to kill Patterson in practice.

They were the Jail Blazers. And I loved them.

They were basketball’s Oakland Raiders, a team of misfits, castoffs and crazed lunatics, reminding me of the Maynard County Penitentiary “Blue” team, for which I was a proud representative in 1969. I was the captain, and I was mean, and I was spectacular around the hoop. They called me Harvey McDunkin.

But now, everything has gone to hell. They’ve got some punk kid named Brandon Roy, pronounced “Wah” like the Montreal goalie, and he has made those assholes relevant again. How can you be the league’s rogue if you win all the time, and look good doing it? That’s not part of the plan. This is Portland! Oregon, not Maine.

It was all stacking up so nicely. Their offseason acquisitions included the phenoms James Jones and Steve Blake, the latter of whom is white, short, and somehow not playing middle infield for some minor league baseball team. Their No. 1 pick, Greg Oden, the only player in the NBA older than I am, was lost for the year. The gloom and doom of Jail-Blazing was completely on schedule.

But then, Wah. And some guy whose name means “The Marcus” in French. And nobodies like Channing Frye and Martell Webster and – oh my god, did you see this? Joel Przybilla is still in the League. Where are my pot-smokers, drug dealers and arsonists? Where are you taking this league, David Stern?

Wait, who the hell is Chris Paul?

Point-Counterpoint-Point: Who is the best Paul?

Chris Paul

I am the best Paul, clearly. I'm only 22 years old, and I'm on pace to have a historic season. No player in NBA history has ever averaged 20 points, 10 assists and 3 steals per game.

Well guess what? I am on pace to do that.

I have had a fast start to my career. I was drafted third in the 2005 NBA Draft, behind Andrew Bogut and Marvin Williams. Oops -- Milwaukee and Atlanta -- you screwed up. Last year, in my second NBA season, I averaged 17 points and nine assists. And this year, I'm even better.

You probably don't hear too much about me, because I play for the Hornets and we have the lowest attendance in the NBA, despite a 23-12 record and several good young players. And we also have, you know, the presence of me, one of the best players in the NBA.

I'm lightning quick, I make everyone around me better, I'm a good shooter and I create havoc in the passing lanes on the defensive end. On top of it all, I am also the No. 1-ranked fantasy player in Yahoo Sports. I rarely make stupid turnovers. I'm what you could call a "heady" player. I am physically attractive.

Did I mention that I'm only 22 years old?

And did you know I'm a versatile two-sport athlete? In addition to my success on the basketball court, I'm successful on the other kind of hardwood -- the bowling alley. Yup, that's right. An NBA superstar who once bowled a 256.

So if you get a chance, check me out on the court. I think you'll be impressed, no matter where the Hornets are moved to, whether that is Oklahoma City, Kansas City, San Francisco or Arvada, Colorado.

Les Paul

I don't think this debate should really be that hard. I have been around for more than 60 years, bringing joy to musical venues around the world. I have beautiful curves and a wide variety of shiny, bold finishes that will catch even the most discerning eye.

And my tone. Oh, my lush, rich tone. Whether you need me to play smooth jazz motifs, soaring solos or chunky, palm-muted power chords that will remove your face from your skull, I can do it. I can do it all.

I have been favored by Slash, Ace Frehley, Duane Allman, Jeff Beck, Jimmy Page and Zakk Wylde. Those are some illustrious groovers, wailers and shredders. And I was their vehicle.

I was chosen as the model guitar for Guitar Hero 3. You don't see a Fender Telecaster chosen for an honor like that. Nope -- they go with the best guitar in the history of musical instruments. Of course, guitars haven't been around all that long, but if Mozart had played electric guitar, he probably would have opted for a 1959 Cherry Sunburst Standard Model.

Combine me with a Marshall ten-stack and you get the most sexy, decadent tone imaginable. See my body gently hugging the waist of a band's sweaty frontman, and you'll feel a little movement inside your tattered jeans. Smell my hand-crafted maple and you'll probably collapse from sensory overload.

Damn. I am hot. Strap your hands around my flaming fretboard and stroke away.

That sounded kinda weird. But I am still the best.

Ron Paul

Shut up, all of you pinko commie faggots. Go back in the closet and burn in hell. I am the best Paul and if you don't believe me, I will shoot you (or a Jew) with one of my 19 firearms.

Jonny Dave hates racists

Jonny Dave Floyd
Southerner

Jonny Dave is a writer-slash-contributor for Flotsam Media. He’s white. He’s poor. He’s Southern. What else do you need to know?

I don’t know how many of y’all heard about that lady on the Golf Channel that tried to incite a buncha golfer boys to go out and lynch Tiger Woods. I’m guessin’ not too many of you, because dog fights still got more people watchin’ ‘em than the Golf Channel does.* Anyway, she apologized and everything’s supposed to be smoothed over, but Jonny Dave just can’t let it go, y’all. I gotta have my say.

Now, why can’t I let it go? Well, I’m a Southern white male from the lower class and you may be aware about the reputation of people like me. Apparently, we hate black people and strive to keep ‘em down.

I know that not everyone thinks that way. It’s mainly ignorant upper-class white people from the north that are afraid to leave the comfort of the city even though I guarantee they live in more segregated places than me that continue to perpetuate that stereotype. There ain’t no color barriers in lower-income housing or trailer parks, y’all.

Anyway, Jonny Dave is here to go on record as sayin’ that neither I, nor any of my family or friends, support the lynchin’ of Tiger Woods. Or anyone else for that matter. We’re all about love, y’all.

About this rich, white woman, though, I’d guess that she’s probably got some issues with people of color. This woman obviously doesn’t go on air without writin’ somethin’ or havin’ somebody write somethin’ for her, so she knew what she was sayin’.

That’s what’s so ridiculous about it all. I don’t know if this some sort of plan between her and her agent or producer or somethin’ to get her exposure and ratings or what. If it was, then they all need to fired and she needs a spankin’ from her momma. Besides, who in their right mind would wanna be known as the Golf Channel’s “Lynchin’ Lady”? That’s not the kind of exposure that’s good exposure.

She should try to be known as the Golf Channel’s “Black Man Lovin’ Lady”. She could have all kinds of videos showin’ herself just lovin’ on black dudes. All kinds of different black dudes. Shoot, there could be dudes of all different colors, for all I care. That there’s the good kind of exposure. It’d be better than her “lynch Tiger” video on YouTube. That’s for danged sure.

So, from now on, when y’all picture a racist in your head, don’t think of poor white dudes like me that talk with a drawl and drive pick-up trucks. Think about rich little white girls that probably say “like” every third word and were in a sorority at a really good college where they drank a lotta wine coolers, dated a lot of frat boys, and they only talked to black guys if they were on the basketball team and it was only to scare “Daddy” into noticin’ them.

Whoa, that got kinda mean in a hurry. Sorry, folks. You get my point, though. Rich people are the very worst people in the world. Never forget that. Wait, I don’t think that was my point, but it don’t even matter anymore. I’m done with my rantin’ and ravin’.

Y’all be good.

*Jonny Dave supports neither the watching of dog fights, nor the watching of the Golf Channel.

Hot pants!

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old

Daddy says pants make the person.

When daddy goes to a bar, he says the ladies wear pants that are too small, because they want to look good. I think that’s silly. When I got too big for my jammies, I didn’t wear them anymore, because they were tight and itchy! Why would people wear tight pants? Also, if pants really do make the person, then I must be aquamarine. That is my favorite color of pants.

Josh Brown must be a warm person, because he wants to wear pants that get warmer when he plays in freezy Green Bay on Saturday. I want hot pants! Daddy says there is more than one way to make his pants get warmer, so maybe he has a pair of these battery heater thingies that Josh Brown has. Or maybe he just means that he passes gas a lot. Smelly daddy.

Brrrrr! Green Bay is so cold – did you know they even have a giant ice bowl? That would make my Fruit Loops really cold. Maybe Josh Brown can sell his special brand of pants to the people there, since they probably have cold breakfast all the time. Daddy says the people in Green Bay stay warm during breakfast by drinking beers.

I have never had hot pants, but I once had a warm blanket, with a big lion on it. Raaaar! Just kidding, the Lions are bad. Anyway, it made me so warm that I peed my pants during the middle of the night. Oh no, what if Josh Brown pees his pants! That’s gross. Plus, then the Seahawks would lose. Maybe they’re not such a good idea after all, Josh Brown. Don’t wear hot pants.

Weekend predictions:

Packers over Seahawks. Who will kick the field goal if Josh Brown is in the potty? Packers 24, Seahawks 21

Cowboys over Giants. I have a friend named Eli at school, except he’s not my friend, he’s a dummyhead. Cowboys 31, Giants 16

Patriots over Jaguars. Maurice Jones-Drew is little, like me! I hope Randy Moss doesn’t eat him. Patriots 28, Jaguars 14

Chargers over Colts. Do-do-do-do-doo-doo! CHARGE! Do-do-do-do-doo-doo! CHARGE! Chargers 35, Colts 21

You call it: The BCS

By Brenda McDonald
High School Socialite

I have been Homecoming Queen each of the last three years.

I even won two years ago, when sophomores weren't eligible to win, but I still ran unopposed. I became an obvious choice so early, and nobody dared vote against me. Why would they? Like, everybody has a role in society, and mine is pretty obvious. I'm like the social chair of civilization. That Homecoming throne is where I belong. It's like, my destiny.

It kind of got old this year, walking down the track around the football field in the pouring rain the night before...ugh! Obviously, I made Bobby Sanderson loan me his coat and hold an umbrella for me, but still.

Anyway, the point of the story is that when you just, like, KNOW who's the best, why bother with a bunch of extras? If other people had been on the Homecoming Queen ballot, it like, would have been a real waste of paper to have an election and stuff, and I am so about saving the whales.

People are like, "There needs to be 16 teams to decide the national championship" and stuff like that. But that's ridiculous. At the end of the year, it's pretty clear who the best team is, and on top of it, they get a team to escort them around the track and loan them an umbrella and stuff. Enjoy your crowns, Ohio State! Don't forget to smile for pictures, and make SURE you go tanning.

---

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

I remember when the national champion was decided by far more accurate means than the damn BCS: people sitting around in a room with pencils and paper.

All this nonsense about computers telling me who the best two teams are makes my head spin. I can't even program a VCR, how am I supposed to know who my national champion is? Somewhere along the way, we forgot the values that make America great: opinions and subjective rankings systems.

Do you think if computers had been allowed to judge Torvill and Dean in their famous Olympic Ice Dance, that they would have gotten a perfect score? I'm sure the computer would have perceived some in-depth analytical flaw in Torvill's toe lift, knocking them down a fraction. Then, what would ice dance enthusiasts have to hold on to in the history of their sport?

What if computers had been allowed to weigh in on whether or not Franco Harris' Immaculate Reception was legal. You want science to interfere with faith? Nobody ever introduced the idea of computers choosing a field of 64 basketball teams. What the hell would Billy Packer and Dick Vitale complain about? I would lose my 20 favorite minutes in television each year if those two were just happy, having a picnic and sharing pictures of grandkids on selection Sunday, instead of bitching about the selection committee.

The national champion is clearly Georgia.

---

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

My absolute favorite thing in the world is survival of the fittest.

I bet Charles Darwin was handsome and entirely delicious. How else would he have arrived at such a charming concept? If, for example, you put a series of small rodents into an enclosed room with just a little bit of food, you find out about 10 days later which animal is strongest, occasionally peeking in through the small window on the back of the wooden shed to get updates. It's scientific, and it's edifying.

If you truly are the fittest, then your reward is endless gratification. Any man or woman can prove their superiority in a one-on-one challenge, no matter the stakes. But the real king of the jungle is the one who has conquered many assailants.

By turning its back on Charles Darwin, the BCS deserves scorn. And also, a mailing of those crazy comic-book leaflets handed out by the right-wing church.

---

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock

GEAUX GEAUX GEAUX TIGERS! Haha, it's French! IT'S A FRENCH REVOLUTION.

DeJuan Does Gladiators

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Bitches, I have been a lost soul since Bionic Woman was taken from me by those greedy writers and their wants, but the television world has bestowed to me a treat of epic bleeping proportions. It's fucking American Gladiators, bitches! I can't even breathe. Seriously, I think I need to go to the damn hospital.

Ever since Mike Adamle and Larry Czonka went off the air, along with Nitro and Gemini and the luscious, dynamite Blaze in seasons past, I have been forced to get my Gladiators fix through alternate means, like TBS and shit. And ESPN Classic. Dog, I can't afford expanded cable! I can't even afford the medical care to properly re-configure my nose after I asked the lovely Laila Ali if she wanted to show me some of those leg lifts at Chez C3P0.

Now, Laila Ali is on my TV. And Hulk Hogan! Dog, he ain't dead! I thought that whole WWF thing went extinct, like the stegosaurus and shit. Time to check it out.

8:02 p.m. Seriously, they got some Gladiator named Helga! Dog, I have seen some amazing breasts in my day, but those could kill a series of small zoo mammals. Don't get too close Hulk Hogan! You can't even name them individually, like Regina and Dr. Lovespankings. You'd have to name them collectively, after some sort of land feature.

8:07. Shit, I hate these heartfelt contestant features. Ain't nobody caring about your personal life and three kids and your damn motivation. I just want to see you get the shit kicked out of you by a bunch of finely-tuned super mamas with clever names. Whoops, looks like I spoke too soon, since Jessie got all beat up in Powerball. Dog, if you can't survive the games named after the lottery, you're probably not going to hit the jackpot. Shit, did you get that play on words! I'm like Tupac.

8:11. Awwww, Jessie Adams is okay, and she's all like "Mommy's tough, she's okay" into the camera, as if this wasn't getting shown like six months after it's taped. Mommy hasn't run head on into Helga yet. Then, Mommy gonna die.

8:13. Hulk was some damn tight dialog, saying to skater punk Chad, "You are obviously one of the coolest dudes I've ever seen. Those tattoos are awesome." It's like a Lenny Kravitz concert.

8:15. They got some Gladiator named Wolf, an honest to god werewolf! That shit is legit, way better than anything you'd find in the original. I am damn pleased that they are keeping at least one major tie to the original series: rampant, illicit steroid usage. Eat your heart out, Rocket Clemens!

8:17. Jessie Adams is dead! On crutches and shit, Laila Ali is all like, "You showed a lot of heart." I wish all I had to do was roll around and bitch about my ankle to get Laila Ali to tell me how much heart I had. Laila, get with DeJuan! They got some crazy physical therapist named Venus to take her place. I'm yo Venus! I'm yo fire, (Laila), your desire! Dog, American Gladiators has got me in a singing mood.

8:20. So when I tried out for this show, which I did four times in four different American cities, each time I reached like the second level of tryouts before they handed me this damn bio sheet where I had to fill out "contestant information." I don't know why it's so hard to understand -- I didn't sign up to be no damn contestant. I wanted to be a fucking Gladiator. Then, one time in Fort Worth, some British guy wanted me to sing instead of doing my fine ass tumbling demonstration. Dog, the process is flawed.

8:24. Yadda yadda, Joust, yadda yadda playing on some rings and shit. Dude, I did that damn action on the playground when I was 12. I'm bored. Whoa! Now one of the Gladiators got all hurt, and they've sent the Werewolf onto the rings instead of Galvatron or whatever his name was. What a bunch of pansies! Except Helga and her Icelandic jugs.

8:27. I don't remember this Earthquake shit, isn't that like a move by Montezuma from Hulk's playing days? It's a bunch of dancing on a giant frisbee. Hulk is like, "Venus what was it like when she had her legs wrapped around your neck?" The answer, of course, is "would have been better if my man Barry White was playing in the background."

8:33. That werewolf is everywhere, now he be playing this game where they're throwing around some giant ballsacks at your face. Dog, this is not my favorite part of the competition. That one dude Anthony has like a 32-2 lead on Chad.

8:39. Bitches, they are on The Aggro-Crag from Nickelodeon's Guts! Bunch of crazy women throwing contestants down the pyramid, and now Venus has a one point lead! On the dude side of the same event, there's Mayhem with his dreadlocks. He reminds me of me, except way less reliance on pyrotechnics.

8:48. It's eliminator time! I'm gonna say that every time I use the john.

8:49. They got to swim underneath fire! I can't believe I haven't thought about that shit before. Next tour, I'm definitely coming out on stage totally immersed in a lake of fire. Except a dunk tank instead of a lake. That's like King Arthur and shit!

8:51. Venus scores a comeback win on the Eliminator, prompting Hulk to spit some mad dialog again, chirping on about "the sun, the moon, the stars, and Venus was definitely in alignment." It's all like cosmic and shit, we get it, Hulk Hogan. Your old show sucked, but it had way better writers than this one. Dog, the WGA needs to get their shit together, cuz this could force humans back to books. Fucking books!

8:54. Harvey McGuffin just called and is hella, hella pissed that they didn't have no Assault, where they have like tennis balls and guns and shit. Harvey says it reminds him of the war or whatever. Dog, I'd listen to what he says, cuz I heard a rumor that he was a Gladiator back in the day. I think he was Malibu, dog, I really do.

8:58. Chad's making a comeback on the Eliminator, which is really stupid because Anthony kicked his ass all day. Anthony wins anyway. Yay. OH MY GOD THERE IS A SECOND HOUR OF THIS SHIT. Well, I am not prepared. That's all I got. There better me more Helga in this hour.

Flotsam: You tell us what to think

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Kenny is my kind of man

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

Kenny Williams is such a sweetheart.

For years, I've had to listen to my husband talk about how he'll get to things “eventually.” Once he saves enough money, then we'll finally move out of this two-bedroom shit farm and get a house in the suburbs. Once we’re through the winter and icy weather, then he'll finally fix the shingles on the roof. Once he gets over the fact that his cat, Tewksbury, was run over by the lawn mower, then he'll finally try to lose weight and quit smoking.

Hopefully, in the meantime, he doesn't realize how capable I've become with the lawn mower, but that's another matter. The bottom line is that he's always got some sort of long term goal on his plate. I just want things done now. Then, there are men like Kenny Williams.

Baseball people have this strange obsession with their minor league system. I don't understand it myself – I mean, nobody watches the Chattanooga Lookouts or Lexington Legends games unless they’re really bored. If for some reason all other channels were broken and the only thing I could watch was baseball, it would either be a Major League game or I would leave to go shopping. I would probably leave to go shopping anyway, unless the Yankees were playing. Derek Jeter. My lord, those abs.

So who cares if you have a bunch of talented 17-year-olds in the minors if they're not going to play for three years? It's like the long term weather forecast on Channel 4. I don't give a care what they think the weather will be like next Tuesday when it's Friday, and all I care about is whether or not my kid's soccer tournament is getting rained out the next day. That forecast is for four days from now! And almost certainly wrong.

Williams obviously shares my views, trading three of his best prospects for Nick Swisher. Sure, he’s sweaty, smelly, can't hit above .262 and had a terrible year last year, but I'd take the guy with Major League experience over some 22-year old guy named after a Geo, some guy with four names and a hotshot outfielder who has yet to do squat in the Majors. They're just prospects. Who cares what happens two or three years from now? The baseball players might just start whining and go on strike again, anyway, like those terrible screen writers. Enjoy today while you can.

I am so sick of hearing about a longterm plan. If things could just get done now, then the longterm plan would be unending happiness. The sooner we all realize this, the better.

Jonny Dave tells it

Jonny Dave Floyd
Southerner

Jonny Dave Floyd is a NASCAR/sports columnist for Flotsam Media. He is currently single, but not desperate. He likes girls with moisturized skin, big teeth, and a little bit of a mustache.

Hey, y’all. I’m back. I haven’t written in a while because Momma took my computer away as punishment for trackin’ peanut butter all through the house, like it’s my fault that her precious little dog didn’t lick it all off. How am I ‘sposed to see the bottom of my feet? Anyway, I thought that I’d just get some things off my chest about the happenin’s in the sports world.

Bobby Petrino: I truly do feel real bad for all them millionaires who lost a coach better suited to the college game and who they didn’t like anyways.

Momma says they were all just upset and hurt because Petrino leavin’ further perpetuated the cycle of them bein’ left by male authority figures when the goin’ got tough. Since a lot of those fellas are black, I’m a little scared that might be a racist way of lookin’ at it. I’m not even sure anymore, but, if you’re white, poor, and from the South, it’s always better to assume what you’re sayin’ is racist.

I warned Momma about her racism and she said she was basin’ her assessment on the fact that I, myself, was left by my daddy and my reaction when my night manager at Wendy’s quit to further pursue his associate’s degree in hotel management at the local community college. I don’t know what she’s talkin’ about. I think that cryin’ for three days straight and campin’ outside his house until his dad calls the cops on ya is a perfectly reasonable reaction to being abandoned by the guy that was supposed to teach how to be a MAN workin’ in Wendy’s. I HATE YOU, CRAIG!

Mitchell Report: So, why am I supposed to care if some of those players took steroids? I like seein’ homers. They’re excitin’. I don’t wanna see no pitcher’s duel; I wanna see some scorin’. And I don’t care about the health risks, either. Their shrinkin’ nutsacks ain’t no worry of mine, y’all. They all made plenty of money. They can pay somebody to get hard-ons. I say put ‘em all on the juice -- hitters, pitchers, umpires. Max out those performances. Give the people what they wanna see. I’d rather see a bunch of players with small balls hittin’ the long ball than players with big balls playin’ small ball. Maybe it’d cut down on all the crotch-grabbin’, too. It’s gotten so bad that I’m scared to let Momma watch games anymore because she gets all weird when it’s over.

16-0: As far as I’m concerned, there ain’t nothing more that needs to be said about this story. I don’t like or trust the “Patriots” anyway. As ironic as it may be, they seem a little un-American, as far as I’m concerned. With all their talk of teamwork and sharin’ the responsibility, they sound like a buncha commies.

Instead, I think I’ll take this time to share with y’all a cautionary tale of overindulgence. It starts at the Georgia State Fair (’94, if I recall correctly). My love all things pertainin’ to state fairs and corn dogs is well-documented and I proceeded to polish off 19 corn dogs with ketchup and cheese, thereby establishin’ a new (and still standin’) Floyd family, state fair, corn dog-eatin’ record.

Momma was actually proud of me that day and I was happier than a guy that just got out of prison and doesn’t have to shower with dudes anymore or do any of that “other stuff” that my uncle won’t talk about that happened to him while he was incarcerated for writin’ too many bad checks. What I did not count on was the amount of impurities that had collected on those 19 corn dogs from the suspect cleanliness of the carnies, whether through their dirty carnie hands, cookin’ devices, or corn dog storage bins. Well, to make a long story a less long one, the task of breakin’ down those impurity-infected corn dogs was, apparently, too much for ol’ Jonny Dave’s bowels and, therefore, rendered me unable to produce a dry fart for the better part of a month. To this day, all of my underwear has skid marks, people call me “Mud Butt”, and I still check my pants after a fart (it’s a 'lil embarrassin’ bein’ seen in public with your hand down the back of your pants).

So, let that be a lesson, y’all. You ain’t gotta avoid all food at the state fair; ya just gotta avoid the cross-eyed carnie that you just saw leavin’ the port-a-john. There ain’t no faucet in that corn dog trailer!

Well, that’s all from me for now. Happy New Year, y’all! NASCAR season’s just around the corner.