An affair to remember

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

Perhaps the worst part about the Roger Clemens saga is the sheer volume of information. First, the American media insisted on telling us what he was doing with his ass. And now, we are forced to learn what he's been doing with his penis.

Whether or not Roger Clemens was a dirty, naughty, spank-worthy cheater probably has nothing to do with him being dirty, naughty and spank-worthy with a country music singer whose major contribution to the pop culture lexicon was a frightening ditty called "Guys Do It All the Time," in which she outlines gross behaviors often exhibited by men and laments the double standard to which women are held.

The first time I heard that song, I killed a man in fixated agony.

I won't deny flirting from time to time with the dark side -- country music, if you must call it that. During a particularly epic week in the Catskills with Richard VanLandingham, I granted his request to use Lynrd Skynrd as our soundtrack for a steamy Tuesday night. It was a moment of weakness, I suppose, as I had previously vowed only to make love to Slayer or other bands embraced by a committee of gothic gentlemen running the web site hellssoundtrack.com.

But for Roger to spend 10 years with country music makes me seriously question his candidacy for the Hall of Fame.

It also compels me to present my annual Wildly Speculative Sports Affairs, pairing A-List celebrities with A-List sports stars in lusty congress.

1. Joba Chamberlain and Paris Hilton. He is a johnny-come-lately who has been glorified by the media despite a limited base of accomplishments. She is a johnny-come-sleep-with-me who has been glorified by the media despite a limited base of accomplishments. They're like twins. Speaking of twins...


2. Tom Brady and the Olsen Twins. He is a pretty boy superstar quarterback who has already accomplished bedding the best in singular women. Time to up the ante.



3. Tony Romo and Cameron Diaz. He is a heartthrob quarterback with a list of blonds on his bucket list.




4. Ozzie Guillen and J.K. Rowling. He is the major league manager closest to sheer madness, and she is the author of a series of fantastical novels featuring wizards and various other unreal creatures. I feel the attraction should be immediate.


5. Michael Strahan and Heidi Klum. He is a goofy looking black man, and she obviously has a thing for that sort of substance. I wonder if Strahan can sing "Kiss From a Rose" with any level of harmony.



6. Pete Incaviglia and Agatha Moonfry. Come back to me Pete. I admit to my mistakes in my youth, latching on only because I thought you were going to be a superior baseball player with the Montreal Expos, then leaving you because I was stupid and petty as it turned out you were really not very good. Remember when we learned naughty French Canadian expressions together? Remember when you won the World Series in 1993 and we bathed in champagne before you swept me up in your wooly arms and carried me to your bedroom? Even if these things never happened, they nonethless fill my heart with joy.

I cast spells. Freaky ones.

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

Most people -- namely those insidious Cubs or Red Sox fans who bemoan their team's lack of success in the numerous irrelevant years before their own birth -- feel that curses have befallen their teams. But readers of Agatha Moonfry's weekly column in "Spellbinding Spells for the Amateur Witch" know well that the key to any good curse is a buried treasure of sorts.

Take, for example, any good haunting. Almost always related to a series of unmarked graves nearby. Furthermore, every documented satanic possession in American history is conjured in part because someone had the foresight to plant an unseen pentagram in the immediate environment. Objects unseen almost always correlate with the demonic. It's physics.

I've never met this construction worker who secretly planted a Red Sox jersey in the new Yankee Stadium, but I am eagerly pleased to meet him. He's obviously a fan of mine.

Sadly, the Yankees sniffed out his attempt at amateur witchcraft, which speaks to his inability to keep quiet about his flirtations with the dark side. As I mentioned, Red Sox fans like to jabber, and it will ultimately be dear Gino's undoing. But it is a valuable lesson at how seriously the world has begun to take witchcraft. Let's take a brief look at Agatha's history of casting sports curses:

1980: Barely two years old, I discovered an early passion for spell-casting when I took my Russian nesting dolls and buried them near the Olympics hockey arena in Lake Placid, New York. The Russian coach lost his mind, pulled his goaltender, and a "miracle" came thereafter. That was no miracle, Al Michaels. It was the rising star of young sorcery.

1996: After a dynamite Atlantic Ocean sailboat tour with old boyfriend Brad -- featuring several intimate maneuvers deemed illegal on the mainland -- I took it upon myself to capture a small shark nursing in the coastal waters. After killing it, I buried fragments on each of seven holes at nearby Augusta National in Georgia, in an attempt to thwart Greg Norman's six-stroke lead heading into the final day of the Masters. He choked, of course, and fired 78. I had a thing for Nick Faldo at the time.

2003: Even though I spent years of my life and countless black market resources tormenting Brad after he left me for some blond bimbo, I wanted one last sucker punch against his beloved Cubs. I scoured high and low for a primate's ulnar collateral ligament, which I could bury at the Friendly Confines in hopes of damning starting pitchers Kerry Wood and Mark Prior. Unable to find what I wanted, I settled for a Niles Renegades Little League T-Shirt (similar to the one worn by this gentleman), which I buried just outside the outfield wall on Sheffield Avenue. Sadly, my spell had no bearing whatsoever on the outcome.

2007: Experimenting to discover the effects of elevation on the human orgasm, I found myself shackled in the mountains with Dr. Jens Tjaaden, a Dane with remarkable dexterity. He had become a Colorado Rockies fan since his days in Denver, and vowed to continue his research with me as long as the Rockies kept winning -- a circumstance that caused his undying arousal. I scrawled a series of ancient words on a baseball and buried it at the base of the Rocky Mountains, though I decided to let the spell expire after he became "too tired" following the NLCS. Nobody gets too tired for Agatha. Not if they want to keep themselves unharmed. Or ever have children.

Snip snip

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

We have entered the weeks of the bracket, when sports enthusiasts who have no interest in college basketball suddenly become ravenous fans, cheering for perennial heavyweights to exert their will on lesser, helpless programs in an effort to preserve their office pool and the $20 worth of potential reward.

It reminds me of fonder times, when I would trap chipmunks in the family garage with Marquis de Sade -- my dear, often under-fed 225-pound rottweiler. The value of this exercise was intrinsic, however, and not monetary.

But something new has come about that has tickled my fancy in this NCAA season. An Oregon urology clinic is encouraging men to use this time to recover from a vasectomy. You need 2-4 days to recover, apparently, which I find delicious. Oh, to be the happy housewife on days five through 10.

The article notes this clinic will deliver a recovery kit, including sports magazines and free pizza delivery. In other words, the clinic is looking to give men their American dream -- guilt-free sex, junk food, sports periodicals and four days of nothing but Greg Gumbel's curious mat of hair, split screen televisions and buzzer-beating baskets.

Men are so passive in their love of March Madness. I prefer to get involved, flying to substandard arenas across the country during Championship Week and storming the court with irresponsible college students, regardless of my cheering allegiance. With any luck, I will be seen on national television no fewer than three times, and will have no fewer than four random hook-ups, inspired by the alcohol intake and throes of ecstasy available shortly after an NCAA tourney berth.

If you are lucky enough to encounter the Moonfry during this electric time in history, be respectful. Otherwise, your vasectomy won't be accompanied by pizza and Sports Illustrated.

From the vault: Gone batty

Baseball is ready to renew us in this February void, and even though days remain before pitchers and catchers report, it's never too early to start thinking about the green grass of Spring Training. The crack of the bat, the snap of the leather, those annoying sounds that come out of John Rocker's mouth -- it's all within our grasp. Looks like Johnny got a head start.

Flotsam has never survived through a full baseball season (hell, it's because we're too busy watching baseball), but in preparation for what's ahead, we present the closest thing we have to a baseball post.


By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

Baseball bats have always had a special place in my cold, black heart. The video portraying Devil Rays uber-prospect Delmon Young throwing his bat at an umpire is delectable, perhaps one of the year's funniest moments -- though Young will get suspended despite throwing the bat such that it hit the umpire TWICE, once in the chest and then up in the face. I call this circumstance fantastic aim and I call Delmon Young a hero.

It reminds me of so many other times when a bat has brought me some form of glee.

May 20, 1989: As a haunted eight-year-old in Ohio, my parents felt one potential way to make me play better with others was to start me in a softball league. In my first at-bat, I watched three pitches go by, all strikes, and started crying when the umpire told me I had to go back to the bench, where those nasty sluts that called themselves my teammates would make fun of me. In my distress, I swung the bat for the first time. The umpire needed three dental surgeries, but he's fine today.

August 2, 1997: High school boyfriend Zeke decided on this day that it would be advantageous to sleep with Marcy O'Brien, a blonde, disgusting cheerleader who drove a sports car to school. Though my days as a softball player were brief, I never forgot how to swing a bat, and I gave the car some new window treatments before giving Zeke's kneecap something to consider. God I am luscious when I'm maniacal.

September 25, 2000: Ah yes, Brad Stapleton, roach hotel on the outskirts, queen size bed with pale yellow sheets, and two nights that will never be matched. I believe a baseball bat was involved, but I can't be sure. There were many objects involved. Of course, when Brad strayed from me, I didn't use a baseball bat to break it off. I used arsenic. And bleach.

March 11, 2001: I purchased my first bat, Buster, from the local zoo. Since, Buster has grown fond of the upstairs attic in which I keep him, and he has become life partners with my second bat, Marguerite. They have two bat children, Puggsley and Wednesday. I love them like children.

August 14, 2005:A baseball bat was again the weapon of refuge when a stranger broke into my house. He had to go to intensive care after his battle with the Moonfry. Of course, by "stranger," I mean "man who cut me off on the interstate on-ramp" and by "broke into my house" I mean "opened the door to his own house while I eagerly waited inside."

The sports calendar's coldest month

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

Now is the winter of our discontent.

The intelligently dreary William Shakespeare wrote that once, and no fewer than three previous lovers have used that line to send gleeful chills down my spine. It's a morbid, yet beautiful fragment of verse, and it reminds me of all my fondest childhood memories.

This is February, my serpents, a dire time for us all. The Super Bowl has left us, and baseball remains a distant pursuit, as fans crazed for true sport allow their hearts to bleed all over the snow as they eagerly anticipate the arrival of pitchers and catchers.

They're arriving, all right. To do butterfly curls and wind sprints. That might be enough to satisfy a cheerleading enthusiast, but it's a far cry from baseball.

I didn't make the cheerleading team. It was then that I knew I was destined for a life of witchcraft.

Sports fans try to latch onto that national basketball atrocity, where large men with foreign names join forces with child-siring bling exhibitions, playing some variety of driveway defense, only to ultimately succumb to the Spurs, Lakers or Pistons.

These fans try to throw themselves into the manufactured underworld of college basketball as provided by ESPN, which tells us when "Rivalry Week" is upon us (really, a series of undercard matches leading up to a Duke-North Carolina game, during which Dick Vitale participates in a sequence of orgasms reminiscent of my experiments with Richard VanLandingham in 1997). They pretend that those silly regular season games mean something, with the only true substance of the season unavailable until March.

What is a sports fan to do? There are options.

1. When I'm down, I take a one-way flight to Los Angeles and picket with WGA strikers. If someone asks, I've written for several top television programs, including Heroes, the X-Files, Lost and How I Met My Mother. Also, this gives me excellent cause to shout obscenities at Deal or No Deal contestants. My god, you stupid people, don't you understand odds? Of course you don't, else you wouldn't be selected for that show. Here's a special surprise: there is no actual "banker."

2. In winter, I love to build snowmen, then strategically assemble props and pour cherry kool-aid over the scene, to make it appear as if the snowman has been stabbed to death.

3. Following National Signing Day is always fun. This will be my second year in the Recruit Corruption pool with some friends on the black magic message boards. We each choose one of ESPN's top 150, report to campus, pose as college students and do what we can to give them a first-rate "education." The first one to cause scholarship loss wins.

4. Oprah.

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.

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.

You told me I'm the only one; sweet little angel you should have run

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

The NFL Playoffs are drawing near, my serpents, leaving only a handful of teams to please me with their defensive schemes and heartthrob quarterbacks. Truly, the best quarterbacks in the league are akin to a good lead vocalist -- mysterious, talented, and always -- whether on the stage or in the bunking area of the tour bus, pressed tightly to the sinister curves of Agatha Moonfry -- in control.

I have seen and slept with numerous lead vocalists in my time, some scintillating and smoldering (Richard Patrick, Filter), and some so boring (Scott Stapp, Creed) that I had no choice but to inject them with diazepam so I could escape before being politely asked for coffee the next morning.

Several of football's quarterbacks remind me of rock stars past and present.

Tom Brady, Patriots (Chris Cornell). With penetrating eyes that leave me requiring further penetration, Cornell's looks are only matched by his talent, as the powerful siren at the front of Soundgarden. Despite Brady's tailored suits and empty supermodels, the man's ability is unquestioned. Cornell did, however, commit one of rock and roll's grandest errors when he took the reins of Audioslave. I can see a similar fall from grace in Brady's future.

Ben Roethlisberger, Steelers (Layne Staley). Shaggy, reclusive, riddled with drug problems, and genius -- the Alice In Chains lead singer was all of these things before his tragic passing. Roethlisberger has demonstrated a similar rugged style and also a similar inattentiveness to his own well-being. God that makes me hot.

Tony Romo, Cowboys (Freddy Mercury). Even the straightest of men must feel disarmed by Romo's smile, similar to the way Queen's lead singer lit up the stage with his beaming whites throughout the 1980s. Like Mercury, Romo is talented, commanding, and most certainly a homosexual.

Brett Favre, Packers (Ronnie Van Zant). Even I have a longing for Southern charm once in a while, and the defiant, classic rock of Brett Favre reminds me of a climax I shared with a middle-aged man at a Texas restaurant while "Sweet Home Alabama" played over the speaker system. Unconventional, but oh my God, so effective.

Peyton Manning, Colts (Rivers Cuomo). The nerdy brilliance of Cuomo as Weezer's frontman has been well-documented, though I was highly disappointed when he rejected my advances during a tour on the Blue Album, forcing me to climb through his bus window and threaten his drummer. Manning attends to every detail, which even the darkest of souls can appreciate.

Philip Rivers, Chargers (Pete Wentz). Whiny little bitches who will someday get their asses kicked (by me, most likely), the Fallout Boy mastermind and San Diego quarterback have a lot to learn. But if Philip is ready for his education, I'll put on my teacher's skirt. Bring an apple, Phil.

How do I get attention? Tell me who I have to kill.

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

When I was seven years old, I was privileged enough to have an “incident” named after me at Zigmund Elementary School back home. In an attempt to avenge the fruit snacks that had been stolen from me by one Marcy Bollingbeck – now deceased – I took it upon myself to cut off her pet hamster’s tail after show and tell on Valentine’s Day. I then neatly packaged the artifact into a square envelope and presented it to her when the time came to exchange valentines. To be fair, I also included a card asking her to “Be Mine,” but that was mostly bullshit.

The Agatha Incident was talked about for years as perhaps the most grotesque thing those bitches that called themselves teachers had ever seen. Even as I hit middle school, the Agatha Incident hung around my neck like a gold chain – until I started screwing one of the biology instructors. It was called a “scandal,” of course, and Mr. Hughes was fired immediately, but it didn’t have the same ring as “AgathaGate.” Still, despite my insistence on the matter, “AgathaGate” never made its way into the community vernacular. God, Hughes had great breath.

Dammit, what does a girl have to do to get a Gate?

A field goal by Phil Dawson happens to bounce funny, leading people to ask whether or not officials improperly used instant replay, and suddenly we’re hearing about Dawson-Gate, at least according to Sports Illustrated. Bill Belichick starts using his audio/visual capabilities to gain an edge, and he gets rewarded with SpyGate. Hell, the Green Bay Packers make some friendly wagers in the locker room, and I bet any money (if that pun isn’t intended, then I’m not the three-time champion in the Second Life “So You Think You Can Strip” competition) they’ll get a Gate before the season is over. I want a fucking Gate.

The problem is that people want sports controversies to be bigger and badder than they really are. Richard Nixon does one silly thing wrong (trust G. Gordon Liddy to do a woman’s work) and the name of a Washington hotel is suddenly associated with all things scandal. But not just any scandal gets the Gate tag -- you have to really be notorious to get the Gate. LewinskiGate gets the nod, but not Senator Craig in a bathroom stall, for example. Clinton had a higher profile, and his titillating misdeeds are thus given that sacred distinction.

So while I have done my best to equate the evil deeds of history’s finest infidels, all Phil Dawson does is get a strange bounce, and he gets a Gate. If Gate abuse continues in this manner, the exciting luster of the Gate moniker could be irreparably diminished, and all my naughty struggles will be in vain. Don’t let it happen, America.

Hollow weenies

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

As I was carefully unfurling the ritualistic costume for my annual Halloween festivities, I had an epiphany of epic proportions. With money being tight at the Moonfry household, given the alarming number of souls in today's modern economy unwilling to engage in a friendly tarot reading, I am often looking for ways to make some extra money.

The idea stems from my weeklong parade up and down the city streets of America's six largest major cities, adorned in the furry armaments of the Sinister Nurse. It was a disappointing year, to be sure, as the standard for good Halloween costume fare has plunged to an achingly low level, and I could see this sad reality in my travels. For the first time in years, I am considering using my two weeks of paid vacation for another occasion. Possibly the harvest moon.

A girl can only handle so many "Dick in a box" costumes before purging all over the city streets of Philadelphia or New York. Men without any sort of makeup, headgear or attire think they can get away with simply attaching a cardboard box to their nether regions and unceremoniously scribbling something in black magic marker across the side.

And so I shall solve two problems with one swing, by starting the Moonfry Sports Costume Line, for Halloween or other, more sexually-charged occasions during the course of the year. Some examples:

The Travis Henry: Broncos helmet, with cannabis decals fasted firmly to the side, and plenty of hemp accessories. Possibly carrying a sampling of snack foods, with some drops to make eyes nice and red. "World's best daddy" t-shirt a must, possibly with up to six baby dolls fastened to person. Evil baby dolls.

The Tony LaRussa: Long, fabulous hippy hair, with a grouchy disposition best conveyed by folded arms and short, snippy sentences. It's a reach, but must have worn out tennis shoes to signify constant walks to the mound. A magnifying glass to portray micromanagement. Also, subject must be drunk.

The Alex Rodriguez: A Yankees outfit made with wads of cash, and must have an angel on one shoulder (Derek Jeter) and a devil on the other (Scott Boras). Possibly made out of paper mache. Also, subject must be willing to beg for attention the moment it shifts away.

The Kobe Bryant: Simple Lakers jersey constructed out of money will do, though subject most hold two basketballs at all times and never, ever allow others to hold them.

The Jon Kitna: See link.

I hope your Halloween was as hallowed as mine, with plenty of candy, liquor, spooky fun and sex. Toodles.

Agatha being Manny

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

Baseball is a terrifying game.

There are no clocks in this establishment, meaning two teams could theoretically play forever if defenses are unable to record the requisite outs for a game's advancement. Imagine: a game that has infinity breathing down its neck. It reminds me of the Stephen King short story "The Jaunt," in which a young human boy's mind is exposed to eternity during a routine teleportation to Mars. He subsequently claws his eyes out.

If Manny Ramirez wants to say that "It's not like it's the end of the world" that Boston could be eliminated from the playoffs at the hands of the Cleveland Indians, then I tend to agree. Time after time, Ramirez exposes himself to this game without limits, and to be relieved from that dark reality must be a great relief. Especially given that the average Red Sox game on television lasts 5 1/2 hours, you can see how America's poster child for ADHD would feel threatened by this horrid playoff business. It's not the end of the world. In fact, getting out is akin to survival.

Besides, this is Boston. This team will be back in the playoffs next year and several hundred consecutive years after, probably without even trying. As an example, notice how Manny never tries and still succeeds, similar to the bubble-gum popularity and easily consumable nature of Metallica's post-Black Album catalog. Sinners.

When Manny Ramirez speaks, I listen. After all, he's just one nose ring, some English lessons and a giant furry top hat away from being the greatest lead singer of our generation, and I'm convinced he has an ear to the world's innermost secrets. His existentialism sets him apart from his peers, those who are foolishly driven to succeed in a game that permits failure seven out of 10 times.

Also, that hair makes me hot. If your current voodoo priestess winds up outside the MLB medical benefits network, feel free to give Moonfry Associates a call, Manny. I purr.

Batshit crazy

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

Baseball bats have always had a special place in my cold, black heart. The video portraying Devil Rays uber-prospect Delmon Young throwing his bat at an umpire is delectable, perhaps one of the year's funniest moments -- though Young will get suspended despite throwing the bat such that it hit the umpire TWICE, once in the chest and then up in the face. I call this circumstance fantastic aim and I call Delmon Young a hero.

It reminds me of so many other times when a bat has brought me some form of glee.

May 20, 1989: As a haunted eight-year-old in Ohio, my parents felt one potential way to make me play better with others was to start me in a softball league. In my first at-bat, I watched three pitches go by, all strikes, and started crying when the umpire told me I had to go back to the bench, where those nasty sluts that called themselves my teammates would make fun of me. In my distress, I swung the bat for the first time. The umpire needed three dental surgeries, but he's fine today.

August 2, 1997: High school boyfriend Zeke decided on this day that it would be advantageous to sleep with Marcy O'Brien, a blonde, disgusting cheerleader who drove a sports car to school. Though my days as a softball player were brief, I never forgot how to swing a bat, and I gave the car some new window treatments before giving Zeke's kneecap something to consider. God I am luscious when I'm maniacal.

September 25, 2000: Ah yes, Brad Stapleton, roach hotel on the outskirts, queen size bed with pale yellow sheets, and two nights that will never be matched. I believe a baseball bat was involved, but I can't be sure. There were many objects involved. Of course, when Brad strayed from me, I didn't use a baseball bat to break it off. I used arsenic. And bleach.

March 11, 2001: I purchased my first bat, Buster, from the local zoo. Since, Buster has grown fond of the upstairs attic in which I keep him, and he has become life partners with my second bat, Marguerite. They have two bat children, Puggsley and Wednesday. I love them like children.

August 14, 2005:A baseball bat was again the weapon of refuge when a stranger broke into my house. He had to go to intensive care after his battle with the Moonfry. Of course, by "stranger," I mean "man who cut me off on the interstate on-ramp" and by "broke into my house" I mean "opened the door to his own house while I eagerly waited inside."

I know you're out there, somewhere out there

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

Back in 2001, when we were all afraid of a military draft as a result of the War on Terror (which we’ll never win until American Idol is officially off the air), my boyfriend at the time asked me to move to Canada with him.

There were perks. Good health care, French-Canadian snobbery, greater rock music and better national parks in which sexual relations could be consummated, thanks to a less stringent police force. But there was one deep desire that made me stay in the States, and I bid adieu to Donovan in a steamy, epic night on his twin bed in the outskirts of town before he left the next morning.

That deep desire that kept me stateside, one that left me clinging to the idea of something greater, was that I knew American sports were far superior to anything I could find in Canada. While the Canucks were busy playing with hockey, curling and various forms of good naturedness, I knew I could count on the USA to bring me baseball, basketball and substances unavailable in the methadone-clinic world up north. With American sports, I could get a natural high. Not that I need it, with my more traditional high in place.

Donovan. If you’re reading … I’ve changed my mind.

I cannot bear to watch as folks named Adam Stern and Eric Cyr and Stubby Clapp (which could would be the perfect nickname for Brad, another former beau) crush the Americans in a sport that they claim as their pastime. We’ve been through this before –- the US National Basketball team, the Winter Olympics and now this, where the Americans were supposed to dominate but instead look like Sugar Ray in a world of Nickelback, Our Lady Peace, Finger Eleven and Avril Lavigne.

Instead of hearing about how the team coasted through pool play, paired against such useless nations as Mexico and South Africa, the USA must now actually CHEER for Canada if they want to move forward. Headlines such as “Whoa, Canada,” “Northern Exposure,” and “Maple Leaf It To Beaver” adorn American newspapers … it’s a national embarrassment.

I made up the last headline; I agree it doesn’t make sense. I was just feeling saucy.

There is nothing left to live for in this country. I have weathered the storm that made boy band pop and Latin-flavored music popular in this nation, and I have suffered through the reality television craze and that time when I was summoned for jury duty under my actual name, Agatha Matenopoulos. If the government can’t do anything about these problems, then really the only thing left to do is embrace the north and their sports dominion.

Donovan, I’ll be in Ontario by midnight if you’re reading. In a couple days, I’ll meet you in that special Quebec place we’ve always talked about. And yes, by “Quebec,” I think you know what I mean.

Love is but a song we sing, hear a way we die

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

It takes a man to admit he's wrong, although my venomous hatred of him will never dissolve. When Brad says he's just friends with that hideous Donna Birdsong from work, then admits he's had a ravenous affair with her and he's sorry, it shows a certain amount of poise. And poison for that matter, which I kindly delivered into his morning cereal.

Still, you have to respect the ACC for stepping up and saying, hey you know what? The refs blew it -- similar to the way Dick Vitale blows it in regards to Mike Kzryzewski every single week. I'm a lady and I didn't mean that.

The refs called a double technical in a Duke-Florida State game where just one technical should have been called -- one on Shelden Williams when he gave Florida State's Alexander Johnson a bump in the second half of the teams' game last week. Johnson was backing away, but the refs love to please those maniacal little demons from hell that call themselves the Cameron Crazies, and they decided to call a foul on both. Johnson fouls out with nearly 9:23 to go and Duke wins in overtime. Those stupid bitches.

It tickles me that a sports body, usually the most staunch of stubborn sluts, admits they're wrong. Still, there are many other socially-recognized mishaps that I demand an apology for:

1. Jefferson Starship. We built this city on Death and Despair. How can Grace Slick, perhaps the greatest woman ever to live since Mary Magdaline, allow something so vile and disgusting to happen to Jefferson Airplane? Go ask Alice. I know what Alice would say ... "That bitch sold out."

2. The St. Anger Album by Metallica. You can pretend you're just unleashing your uncensored new direction on the world, but I know the truth...you hit writer's block and thought you could make up for it by screaming incoherently. Rehab programs had something to do with this.

3. The de-legalization of mushrooms. I mean, marijuana.

4. The BCS. I don't think we can ever declare this country to be the finest in the land until our national college football champion is determined by playoff format. I know for a fact that is how they determine their champion in other countries. I've had a lot to drink today.

5. Televised Poker. Now that we've found a way to make the most sedentary of activities into a worldwide phenomonon, my new boyfriend Butch is determined to auction off everything he owns, and my entire collection of Alice Cooper-sponsored sex toys, to finance his new habit.

6. The movie "Vanilla Sky." I would have never gotten that idea to drive my car off a bridge with Brad trapped in the passenger seat if it weren't for that movie. And Tom Cruise was just terrible.

Until these wrongs can be accounted for, I accept the ACC's apology and look forward to the day that brings us fairly-called college basketball games, the return of Airplane and the revocation of Brad's restraining order.

Hook 'er, horny: The Vince Young debate

Skip Bayless called him the next Michael Jordan. Lee Corso shrieked that he's the greatest college quarterback of all-time. Chris Berman (who ain't dead yet, people) said that Reggie Bush is going to be nothing but, well, flotsam in the 2006 NFL draft. All riled up, our panel of columnists discuss the issue of whom the Houston Texans should select, as if it might affect their franchise in any meaningful way.


Bandwagon Burt
Do you know what I love about Vince Young? EVERYTHING. But also his attitude! Did you see the way he just marched into the end zone and totally blew USC out of the water? He just kinda stared into space saying, "Yeah, that’s right, I just scored the biggest touchdown in the history of college football!" HOOK 'EM HORNS! I want a guy like that on my NFL team, no doubt. I kind of want like a miracle, ya know, and have him fall to the Patriots but honestly, I'm gonna cheer for him no matter who drafts him. Go get Vince Young, Houston! The Texans are going to be a team to watch in 2006, you mark my words!


Agatha Moonfry
Like the way Screaming Trees never quite made a name for themselves despite being the most artistically savvy band of the early 1990s grunge movement, or the way Sugar Ray never quite translated onto rock radio after one ill-placed single gave fans the wrong idea, or the way Blind Mellon entirely lost the momentum of their early work once Shannon Hoon went to the big coke party in the sky, Vince Young is a passing fancy, my serpents. He has some skills, but so do The Killers, and we all know perfectly well that The Killers will be dead in a few years. I'll see to it. How one game can make the entire population of that sticky, arid southern state want him over a potential Hall of Famer escapes me. As Reznor once sang, "I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel," the Texans should not continue this masochistic exercise of dabbling in suck. They need to go with the initial instinct and take Reggie Bush.


Curtis Woodward
You loyal, lovely readers out there know that I just love football. I watch it all the time, because there's just soo much testosterone and pent-up tension from these men on the field, and I'm always thinking of ways to relieve tension (winks!). But it has been a long, long time since I've seen as sexy of a football player as Reggie Bush. He's like Clark Kent, only when Clark Kent is turned into Superman. He's always leaping and dancing and prancing into the end zone! Ohhhhh, it's amazing! Texans, you must draft him. Because while Vince Young may be a tall piece of lean beef himself capable of sending me into the occasional conniption, that doesn't change the fact that he also throws like me.


Dakota Brezinski
Yesterday, I really wanted the banana fruit snacks Mommy packed in my lunch. I have had them for many days in a row, and they are soooooo good, and probably the best part of my day, except for the time when we get to sing songs for the Holiday Program in Mrs. Washington's class (she yells at us if we call it "Christmas" because she says the hair-ticks don't want Jesus in the classroom). Before I could eat my fruit snacks, McKenna Mitchell said she would give me her glass of chocolate milk if I gave her my snacks. This was a dilemma. Sometimes, when I have to think about an important decision, I go to the bathroom, because Daddy says he does his best thinking on the throne. But I had to choose right away, because McKenna had a better offer from Jordan Mulroney, who had a can of PEPSI! So I rushed the decision and made the trade, and boy was I sad. Afterward, I cried, because I did not have the lingering flavor of banana on my tongue. Instead, I had chocolate milk, which had little chunks of powder not stirred good. Vince Young is like the uneven chocolate milk and Reggie Bush is the banana snacks. Why would you go for something that looks good and rush your decision and not use your throne properly, when you could have the reliable banana fruit snacks? It's one of life's great mysteries. I have to pee.


Marv Blackstone
I've got a shotgun shell ready for the next bastard who says that Reggie Bush is Sam Bowie. With Portland being the closest NBA team to my home, I tend to rise and fall with the success of the team. And Portland's selection of Bowie sent me into a six-year tailspin of heavier-than-normal-drinking, bank robbing, bar fights, drug use, arson, indecent exposure, tax fraud, mail fraud, embezzlement, cannibalism, conspiracy, manslaughter, grand theft auto, vehicular assault, stalking and criminal use of a firearm. The man only averaged 10 points per game in college. That's it. Reggie Bush set the world on fire in college, so we're not talking about Sam Bowie here. And one good game by Vince Young doesn't change who Reggie Bush is. Think logically and rationally here. Cause if you don't, I'll shoot you in your damn face.


Bandwagon Burt
Look, you know, I've been thinking about it, and Houston would be CRAZY to draft Vince Young. I mean, yeah, he was good and all that, but REGGIE BUSH is like the next OJ SIMPSON or WALTER PAYTON. Everyone says so, even the guys on SportsCenter. So I have to think Houston will not beat around the Bush (haha!) and go for Reg-gie Reg-gie Reg-gie with the first overall pick in the draft. People say I impersonate the commissioner David Tagliabue really well. "With the first overall pick in the NFL draft, the Houston Texans select ... REGGIE BUSH from sunny Soooo-Cal!" Awww yeah. This is gonna be the Texans' year, I can feel it!